Outwardly, Clara’s return to London had been peculiarly ordinary.
Haverhall continued to operate as it always had, which meant that the routine of Clara’s life remained unchanged for the time being. The only difference being that all financial transactions and communications were handled through a solicitor. Harland had secured an investor, though he was tight-lipped about his identity, citing his desire to remain anonymous. It had been enough to clear them from debt and see the remaining ships refitted and crewed.
They had also received a letter from Boston, written by the captain of one of their missing ships, stating that both had taken damage on the way there, but that the damage had been minor, the cargo unharmed, and that they would be departing for England within a fortnight. They were expected back before the winter weather set in. The ships were too late to keep Strathmore Shipping intact, but Clara knew she should be thankful for small mercies.
The last days of summer had faded into fall, and Clara had started the term as she always had, Haverhall full of young London ladies anxious to partake in the usual curriculum. She was determined to enjoy whatever time she had left and make the most of it. She wasn’t entirely sure what she would do when the year was over, but the success of this year’s summer program was still fresh in her mind. Perhaps Haverhall would simply become a summer program, the classes small but the students still unique.
But despite her determination to stay positive and not wallow, she recognized that she had been different since she returned from Dover. The things that she used to find joy in seemed grayer, as if the color had been leached from them. She wasn’t sure if that was because the future was more uncertain or because she was missing August with an intensity so great it hurt. Missing turning to him to share something. Missing his conversation, his laughter, his touch. Missing everything about him. She had thought she had been prepared to relegate their time together to memory. As she had the waltz they had once shared in their youth.
Except it hadn’t been that easy.
She had visited the museum since her return and had stood in front of the relief of the Lapith and centaur, lost in her memories and her thoughts. Stood for so long, in fact, that one of the attendants had approached her and asked if she was unwell. She had startled, her cheeks flushing, wondering if perhaps she was. August hadn’t called at Haverhall, nor had their paths crossed anywhere in London. Distance was easier, she supposed, in some respects. It would be infinitely harder to have him close and untouchable. And it would make the regrets that continued to linger even harder to ignore.
So when the message from the Holloway residence had arrived, Clara’s reaction had been instantaneous and intense, turmoil reigning supreme. The butterflies stormed back, banging against the inside of her rib cage. Longing pooled hard and fast, deep within her, even as her mind intoned caution and curbed hope. She opened the neatly sealed missive and realized her hands were shaking. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeling foolish.
The note was clear and concise, just as she imagined all correspondence from the Duke of Holloway to be. It asked her to attend him at her earliest convenience. There was no hint as to what he wished to see her about. No statements that he missed her, no declarations of affection. No suggestions that anyone could ever misconstrue as anything other than cool and impersonal. But it didn’t matter.
Because the regrets that lingered had told her everything that she needed to know. Those festering regrets had made it clear that she had fallen utterly in love with the Duke of Holloway. She should have told him that in Dover. She shouldn’t have said goodbye without telling him how she really felt. She should have told him everything.
And now, it would seem, she had the perfect opportunity to rid herself of those regrets. She didn’t know what it would bring, but she was done hiding behind excuses.
* * *
The Holloway residence was a town house located in an older, established neighborhood, a location still distinguished and elegant, if not new. It would seem the duke had bypassed the more popular addresses, the wildly expensive squares where prices reflected nothing except the novelty of the residences. Clara almost caught herself smiling. August Faulkner would pay for realized luxury but he would not pay for affected vanity. How very like him.
The interior of his home was exactly as she had expected as well. The finishings were fine but practical. The furniture was well made but not extravagant. The entire place exuded wealth but not excess. Clara was shown not into a drawing room but into a cavernous study by a quietly efficient butler. Tall bookshelves lined all the walls except the one that boasted a lit hearth, the fire lending light and a welcome warmth to the room. A heavy, masculine-looking desk sat just to the right of the hearth, its surface covered with papers. The entire room, in fact, had a very masculine feel to it, except, oddly enough, the second desk that sat just to the left. This desk looked new, and it was made of carved rosewood. It was something that, despite its practical, functional construction, looked as if it would be more at home in a lady’s morning room.
Clara wandered over to it, taking in the neat piles of ledgers, an assortment of what looked like receipts, a small collection of writing tools, and lists in a familiar feminine handwriting. Anne’s desk, then, by all appearances. Clara wondered if it had always been here. Or perhaps August had given Anne back her sense of purpose. Either way, Clara was intrigued.
There was no sign of the duke, or Anne for that matter, and Clara wandered over toward the hearth and August’s desk. She knew she should return to the long sofa on which the butler had indicated she should wait. But the emotion and restless energy humming through her made it impossible to sit still. She didn’t know what August had summoned her for. Didn’t know what he wanted from her. But she was trying to remain composed. Trying not to hope.
She stood near the side of his desk, staring at the glowing coals. A loud crash somewhere outside the study made her jump and whirl, her hip knocking a long, rolled sheaf of papers off the side of the desk. Clara put a hand to her chest, feeling foolish at the nervous tension that had her strung so tight. A maid hurried by the open door in the direction of the disturbance, a broom and pail in her hand, and Clara bent to retrieve the roll of paper from the floor. As she did, her eyes fell on the top corner, a word written in ink that had bled through to the back of the top sheet, easily distinguishable. Haverhall.
She stood, the heavy roll still in her hand, and gently placed it back on the desk as if it were a viper. The rolled sheets were huge, the sort that architects and shipbuilders used. Clara poked at them, even as something in her mind was screaming at her to turn around and leave. To turn around and walk away and not look at what was in front of her. Once she saw what was there, it would be impossible to unsee it. But it was already too late.
She took a deep breath and flicked the edge with her fingers, and the paper rolled out with a soft thump as it reached the end of his desk.
“Haverhall” was written in small letters along the bottom of the paper, followed by “Wilds and Busby, Brighton. July, 1819.” She understood exactly what she was looking at even as she understood that it seemed August had solicited the services of architects and planners long before he had ever ridden for Dover. She swallowed with difficulty, her throat suddenly constricted and a feeling of sick certainty rising in her stomach. She smoothed the wide documents flat with her palm.
Across the paper she saw a drawing of the property that she knew like the back of her hand. The building that housed the school, the old carriage house and mews. The gardens that spilled out from behind her office and the pond near the northwest corner where the land dipped and the oaks grew plentiful and tall. The drive that curved graciously in front of the school and straightened toward the road, lined with majestic beeches.
Clara pushed the top sheet away, and underneath she found another drawing of Haverhall. Only this one she didn’t recognize. Where the school now was, rows of town houses swept gracefully over the space, forming perfectly ordered squares. The carriage house and mews had also vanished, replaced with a central garden that was beautifully symmetrical and soothing, walking paths surrounding what looked like a fountain. The pond was gone too, more town houses wrapping around another paved square, a wide avenue marching across the center. It was a stunning plan, a work of art rich in detail and elegance. And it shattered her heart into a million pieces.
Clara didn’t need to be an architect or a banker to understand that the development staring at her in stark lines and neat measurements would be worth a king’s ransom. Perhaps not now, perhaps not even in five years, but soon. The stench of money fairly bled from the very lines of the drawings, and even as gutted as she felt, she could recognize the brilliance of the plan. Developing Haverhall would make August richer than God.
There is no amount of money that will ever make my brother feel worthy. Or safe.
She heard Anne’s words echo in her mind, though Clara had not truly heard her then. But with the proof staring her in the face, she heard her clearly now. She had wanted so badly to believe in him. He had been forced into honesty about his intentions toward Strathmore Shipping, but given the choice, he hadn’t been honest about this. And he had known what Haverhall meant to her. But in the end it hadn’t mattered. She hadn’t mattered. Not enough.
She would never be enough for a man like him.
“Clara?” It was his voice from the doorway. “What are you doing in here?”
Looking at the truth of us, she wanted to say.
“Just taking a look at the plans for Haverhall,” she managed, and the steadiness of her voice surprised her. Because if there was ever a time that she might wish to act like a hysterical, weepy female, now would be it. “Imagine my surprise to discover that you are the owner of a school.” She heard his boots on the floor as he crossed the room, though she didn’t turn around. “I received your summons,” she continued. “Was it this that you wanted me to see?”
“No.”
“What does your sister think of these plans?”
He came to a stop behind her. “Anne doesn’t know.”
“Ah. You really are good at subterfuge, Your Grace. Have you considered a career as a spy? The navy, I’m sure, would be happy to have you.”
“Clara—”
“Does anyone know?” Not that it mattered, really. Eventually everyone would. Legacies died, priorities shifted, and progress ruled. The rational part of her knew that if August hadn’t bought this land, it would have been bought by another who would have eventually seen what August had. But another hadn’t kissed her on a stone fence with a sunset at their backs. Another hadn’t danced with her in a studio before he made love to her. Another hadn’t made her believe that she might have what she had long ago thought lost to her.
She became aware that August had moved and was now standing in front of the desk beside her, staring down at the drawings.
“You weren’t meant to see these,” he said.
“Why not?” She would not cry. “They are remarkable.”
“I had these ordered long before…us.”
“Us.” Clara made a rude noise, unable to help herself. “There was no us, Your Grace. There was, however, what you would probably call unexpected benefits from good business.”
“No.” He said it harshly. “The idea of Haverhall’s potential came up long before I…before we…” He stopped. “What happened with us, what we are, what we have become, has nothing to do with any of this.”
Clara blew out a shaky breath. “I think I’ve already heard that line before.” She needed to leave. Get out of here, away from him, and recover her composure before she did or said something that she would regret. That she wouldn’t be able to find an excuse for. Because they hadn’t become anything. Not anything lasting, anyway, which was exactly what could be said for her school. All good things must come to an end at some point, and this was simply one of them.
“When will you start?” she asked, still feeling numb. “Developing the land?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know if I…Not until you…”
“Until I what? Find a position as a governess in a wealthy house?” She flinched, knowing she sounded bitter and petty. And she was better than that. “That’s why you gave me a year’s grace, isn’t it?”
“A governess?” August made a rude noise. “You are a brilliant teacher, Clara. There are many schools that would be lucky to have you,” he growled. “Your brother has somehow managed to set Strathmore Shipping to rights with no help from me. The fortune that your father lost will soon be recovered and then some. You will be able to do anything.”
He was right, she knew. Even if it felt like a betrayal now, she needed to keep it in perspective. She needed to think like August. Needed to believe that it was an opportunity, not a loss. The only loss here was that of her heart.
“I wish you had told me about this,” she whispered.
“I tried,” he said. “I tried to tell you.”
“For a man known for his ruthlessness and determination, you didn’t try very hard, then.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He raked a hand through his hair. “Because then you would have looked at me the way you’re looking at me right now. I would have been only the man who had stolen your legacy from you.”
“Perhaps,” Clara said sadly. “But I would like to think I would have respected you for it. I would have liked to have believed that you trusted me—that you believed in me enough to know that I would have understood why you were doing what you did.”
“Yet you wouldn’t trust me with the truth,” he said quietly. “You didn’t trust me enough to ask for help.”
“I suppose I didn’t,” Clara whispered sadly. “And now I can’t say that I was wrong. I thought that I might have been worth at least something. That we were worth at least something, but you’ve made it very clear that you will never put anyone before your need to have more.”
“That’s not true. Clara, I don’t want to lose you,” he said.
“You can’t lose something that you never had. I am not something else to be acquired.”
“Clara, I want us to—”
“There isn’t an us, August. Us implies that we would have faced the difficult things together the same as we would have faced the things that were easy. There was a you, doing what you thought was right for yourself and your family, and there was a me, who did what I thought was right for my family.” Clara took a shuddering breath and rolled the drawings up neatly. She stared down at them for a minute before she turned. “I wish you well, August. I know that this will be beautiful when it’s done.”
He was looking at her, those intense blue eyes conflicted. “Don’t go. Not like this.”
“Goodbye, Your Grace,” Clara said, hanging on to her composure by the tiniest of threads. And then she fled.