The ships are missing.”
As the weeks had passed, Clara had known she had to be prepared for the very real possibility, but that hadn’t made it easier to hear. Her brother was sitting in one of the embroidered library chairs, his head in his hands and utter exhaustion etched into his face. The rays from the setting sun were slanting through the windows and spilling across the fine rugs, their golden color seemingly mocking in its splendor.
Rose got up from where she had been sitting and went to a tall window to run her hand down the edge of the velvet curtain, staring out onto the sun-washed grounds. “How do you know that?”
Harland reached into his coat and pulled out a crinkled, folded paper. He read it again, as though he hoped to discover something different within, before he tossed it on the small table beside him. It missed and fluttered to the floor, and he made no effort to pick it up. “There are reports from other vessels that have come in of unusually stormy weather. Our ships could be a thousand miles off course or at the bottom of the Atlantic for all we know. We need to make a decision.”
“I think we’re past that,” Rose said quietly. “We all knew it might come to this. We need more money, and there’s no more to be had. We’re out of options.”
“I might be able to—” Harland stopped.
“To do what?” Clara prompted.
Her brother shook his head. “Never mind. Yes, we’re out of options. Save one, of course. Sell a share of Strathmore Shipping.”
Clara took a deep breath. “That’s not true.”
Harland pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “You have a buried treasure stashed somewhere nearby that you didn’t tell us about?” His attempt at humor echoed hollowly.
“I could ask His Grace for a loan.”
Rose turned from the window, and Harland’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?” her brother said into the silence.
“I could ask Holloway for a loan.” She held up her hand at Harland’s expression. “Just a loan. Not a share in the company, but a short-term loan until our ships return.”
“At what price?” Harland demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“The Duke of Holloway is not known for his charity,” he said darkly. “You might as well sell him the entire company right now. If we offer a share of the company to someone looking for a simple investment, but who is not interested in swallowing the entire business whole, we will still retain control. We will still have the ability to make our own decisions, control our future. If Holloway covers our debt, he will take away that control. Maybe not at the beginning, but eventually. The second we lose a load of cargo to bad weather or bad luck, the second we default on a loan payment, we’ve lost. The duke will annex Strathmore Shipping into his own empire without even blinking. He’s made his desire to do so very clear already.”
Clara winced. “But maybe he would consider—”
“If you think he’d be more forgiving based on sentimental reasons, or because he has a soft spot for you because you were his sister’s headmistress, think again. Better yet, ask Walter Merrill, who lost the Silver Swan to him.”
“You make him sound so…mercenary,” Clara said.
“Because he is. Because he’s had to be,” Harland replied wearily. “If he thought there was even a chance that he could take advantage of our circumstances, he would do so with no hesitation. Not because he is cruel, but because he is a shrewd businessman and the interests of his family will always take precedence over the interests of anyone else. No matter what.”
Deep down Clara knew that Harland was right. It didn’t mean that she didn’t hate it.
“Promise me you will not talk of this with Holloway,” Harland said. “Promise me that you will keep him out of this.”
“I promise,” Clara mumbled. She stared sightlessly at the rows of books towering silently around and above her. The sacrifice of Haverhall hadn’t been enough in the end, and it made her want to scream with frustration and unhappiness. “I should never have sold it,” she mumbled.
“What?” Harland asked.
“I should never have sold Haverhall. Because it was for nothing.”
“Not nothing,” Harland said fiercely. “Without that money we wouldn’t have a ship at sea, let alone two. We would have had no chance at all of fixing this.” He suddenly reached into his coat and pulled out a second letter. “This was also waiting with the post.”
“What is it?” Clara asked despondently.
“A notice from the solicitor that the new owner of Haverhall has expressed his willingness to allow the school to operate as per usual for a full year. You will not be required to vacate the premises unless, of course, you wish to.”
Clara stared at him. “Why would he do that?”
Harland shrugged. “Probably because you are already a convenient tenant he can collect a rent from? Or because it suits his purposes to have the buildings occupied?”
Rose had come to stand closer to Harland. “But if that’s the case, the fall term’s tuition—”
“Still won’t be enough,” Harland told them heavily.
A dismal silence fell.
“We’ll fix this,” Harland said into the silence. “Together. Haywards always find a way.”
Clara nodded. Harland was right. No one had died. Her family was still together, safe and healthy. They were not destitute, nor would they be forced onto the streets. They would be able to afford rooms, food to eat, coal to keep them warm.
“Whom will you ask?” It was Rose’s question. “To invest?”
Harland looked away. “Leave that to me. The Duke of Holloway is not the only wealthy man in London who might be counted on for discretion. I had hoped never to have to do this, but we no longer have a choice.”
* * *
It had been her hair that had first caught his attention.
It whipped behind her in the wind, and the sinking sun set fire to it, sending flames of dark red streaming behind her. August had been on his way home from Dover, along the worn road that skirted past the castle, when he’d seen Clara trudging up the incline toward the small church that sat in its shadow. He hesitated before he reined his mare toward her, urging the horse into a canter as it surged up the hill.
The church grounds were deserted at this time of evening, and August dismounted, leaving his horse grazing in the long light. She hadn’t gone into the church but was standing against the ancient Roman lighthouse that flanked it, staring out in the direction of the sea. She had her arms wrapped around herself, her expression distant and drawn.
He knew why.
He’d been in Dover to collect his correspondence, including a letter from London that the Strathmore ships still hadn’t come in. Harland Hayward had finally been backed into a corner, and August had already shown him the perfect way out. He would approach the baron again once they were back in London. August’s purchase of Strathmore Shipping—or, at the very least, a significant share of it—would get him what he wanted and also ensure that Clara and her family would be taken care of.
He should have felt exceedingly pleased. Euphoric even, because this was what he lived for. The culmination of diligence, logic, timing, patience, and a little bit of luck. Yet this victory was strangely hollow.
August covered the rest of the distance with feet that felt heavy and sluggish. He came to stand beside her, gazing out in the same direction. Clara didn’t look at him, didn’t give him any indication that she was even aware of his company. Presently she pushed herself off the wall and circled the lighthouse, then slipped inside it through a darkened entry. August followed, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light.
“Why do you think they built this?” she asked.
“Who?”
“The Romans.” She gestured to the walls around her. “Why did they spend centuries fighting? Why invest so much blood and effort to build something that, in the end, they simply abandoned?” Clara didn’t move but stayed as she was, leaning back against the rough wall, her head tipped up to the clouds far above, visible through the round opening at the top.
August looked up at the swirl of scarlet-and-tangerine clouds reflecting the setting sun against a darkening sky. For a moment he could almost imagine the light was from the flame that would have burned centuries ago, guiding sailors home safely.
“I would suggest that the men who built this lighthouse had no intention of abandoning it.” He scuffed his boot in the dirt scattered across the floor, scattering a small collection of stubborn, light-starved weeds. “I suspect that they knew they were building something greater than themselves. Something that would survive long after they were gone.”
The wind was whistling through the openings set above their heads in the circular structure, and it tugged at the hem of Clara’s skirts and the curl that was forever escaping. She shoved it back behind her ear. “Do you think greed was Rome’s ultimate downfall?” she asked. “If they had stopped sooner in their quest to take over every corner of the world and had been happy with what they’d already conquered, would they still be here?”
“Perhaps greed is the wrong word. Ambition, maybe. Men will always want more,” August said, his voice echoing against the circular wall. “More land, more wealth, more control, more security.”
“I think my father would have said the same thing.” She sounded bitter. “Both of you would have made good Romans.”
“How so?”
“Enough is never enough. You told me that once. My father, I think, believed that too. I just…” She shook her head. “I just hope that…ambition ends better for you than it did for the Romans.” And my father, he heard her add silently. Because August knew she was speaking of her father’s failed ambitions and the mess he’d landed his children in.
“Clara…” He stopped, unsure what he wanted to say. The guilt was starting to overwhelm his resolve. He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t tell her that he had bought the legacy that her mother had left to her and, after this year, would raze it to the ground. He couldn’t tell her that that purchase had been what had led him to pry into her life and then take very deliberate steps to capitalize on her family’s misfortune. He couldn’t tell her any of that without losing her forever.
In his old life, such steps had made him clever and pragmatic. Yet standing here, in an ancient lighthouse with a woman who had illuminated his world, he didn’t feel clever and pragmatic. He felt utterly wretched. His moment of triumph had somehow become a moment of failure.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said. He couldn’t tell her what he had already done. But he could undo this, maybe, without losing her. Without risking her ever discovering what he had done. “I can help.”
She shook her head. “No, you can’t.”
“I can. Is it money that you need?” The words tumbled from him in a desperate rush. “Because whatever you need is yours.”
Clara had gone completely still, her eyes narrowed. “No,” she said after a long minute. “I can’t…We can’t…”
August wanted to shake her. He couldn’t reveal what he’d known all along without exposing his hand. He needed her to tell him the truth. He needed her to ask him for help.
He needed her to trust him.
“There’s nothing you can do,” she said.
Frustration skewered all the foreign emotions that were making it hard for him to think straight. “Horseshit,” he said loudly, his voice bouncing around him. “You won’t accept my help. Why?”
“Because this is a family matter and doesn’t concern you,” she said. “And you are not family.”
That hurt more than it ever should have. “Then what am I?” he demanded. “A friend? A lover? A mere distraction?”
“You were never a mere distraction.”
“Yet you keep me at a distance. You won’t let me in. Just like everyone else.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why are you still alone?” he demanded.
“Because being alone gives me my freedom. My independence.”
He took two steps closer to her. “Independence and freedom don’t mean you have to do everything by yourself. They don’t mean you have to do everything alone. True freedom and independence allow you to recognize when you need help. And give you the ability to ask for it. Know when to ask for help, Clara.”
She looked away. “You’re speaking of your father.”
“No. I’m speaking of you. You think I am the only man in the world who sees you and admires you for who you really are? You think I am the only man who would never take away that freedom and independence you speak of should he find himself lucky enough to have you? You, Clara Hayward, have become very good at using all the rules of society, the very rules you profess to despise, to keep yourself apart. And I can’t figure out why.”
She was staring at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “You can’t figure out why?” she said in a strangled voice. “Why don’t we start with your friends? The ones who dared you to dance with me. What did they call me that night?”
“They were never my friends, and you know it,” August snapped. “They were the companions of a man who didn’t know enough to call himself such. Who erroneously thought that he could regain what status his family had lost in society by gaining their approval.”
“You never answered my question.”
“Because their words don’t bear repeating.”
“How about if I do it for you? Unnatural. Bluestocking. Queer. Wallflower.” She stopped. “How am I doing so far? Because even if those weren’t the adjectives your friends used that night, I’d heard them all before. Many times.”
“Clara—”
“How about Mathias Stilton, then?” she said, her voice ragged. “A man I had actually believed to be a friend, someone who had not weighed the value of my dowry against my intellect. But he too reminded me that no one wanted me then, and no one wants me now.”
“I want you,” he snarled.
“But not forever,” she replied sadly.
August could feel his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms. He’d never considered forever. But now that the word was out there, shimmering just beyond him, it was enough to make him reel.
“I’m tired of it all, August,” she said, and her voice was barely a whisper. “Maybe I grew tired of it long ago, if truth be told. It is far easier just to keep myself apart. Where there are no motivations to evaluate, no disappointments to endure. I have the freedom to seek my own happiness without depending on anyone else. Experience has taught me I am better served expecting the worst.”
“That doesn’t sound like the woman who once spoke of changing the world.”
Clara smiled sadly. “I didn’t say I would ever stop hoping for the best.”
August reached out and smoothed her hair back from her face. “Don’t ever stop. You deserve to be happy, Clara.”
“I am happy,” she said. “With you.”
* * *
August made a muffled noise, and then he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him, crushing his mouth to hers. Clara melted into him instantly, wanting to lose herself in him. Wanting to lose herself in everything that was this man. She let him kiss her, let him set the pace, let him wipe her mind clean of everything that was not August Faulkner.
He swept his tongue across the seam of her lips, and she opened willingly, letting him plunder what had always been his. This kiss, more than any of their kisses, tasted bittersweet. Tasted of what-ifs and lost opportunities and desire realized too late. Standing in a ruined lighthouse, the sky blazing above their heads, it tasted of goodbye.
“Tell me what I am to you, Clara,” August whispered against her mouth.
Everything, she wanted to cry. Everything that she had always dreamed of from the very first second he had taken her hand in a reckless waltz. And maybe that was why she had never entertained another man seriously. Maybe, somewhere deep down, she had given her heart away on a dance floor long ago.
But she didn’t think, for one second, that she was his everything. She knew better than that. There had been no professions of love, no declarations of undying devotion. She had his respect and his admiration, to be sure, but not his heart.
She closed her eyes. “A friend. A lover.” He had never pretended to be anything more.
“Yes. Always.” August traced the outline of her lips with his thumb. “And that is not good enough to let me in?”
Clara opened her eyes. Not for this. Not if there was ever a hope of their remaining friends or, even more unlikely, lovers when they returned to London. Not if she was to keep her promise to Harland and keep the Duke of Holloway out of the Strathmore family’s affairs.
“I want us to stay friends,” she said. “So please don’t ask me again.”
August’s hand fell to his side, and for the briefest of moments, he looked utterly bereft. “I need to tell you…” He stopped again, anguished frustration stamped all over his face. “I can’t…” The words died on his lips.
Clara went up on her toes and pressed her lips to his. “Tomorrow I return to London with my students. And I understand that everything will change. But know this, August Faulkner. No matter what happens tomorrow, or a year from now, or another decade from now, I will always treasure the friendship that exists between us. I will always treasure what we were to each other here.” Her throat had thickened, and it was all she could do to keep her voice steady. “And if you are ever dared to dance with me again, I promise I will always say yes.”