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chair gratefully. “Thank
you, Mrs. Brockville. You are very kind. I am just overcome by exertion and—and
emotional trial. I’ve left Windemere just now, and Mr. Hamilton. I shall be
returning to London as soon as it can be arranged.”
    Mrs. Brockville received this news with
rare aplomb. She patted Clara’s hand, a secretive look in her bright eyes. “Not
another word. Come into the sitting room where we can talk in private. The
servants do love to gossip in the market square. Come. I’ll ring for tea.”
    The sitting room was a bright, pretty place
of white and gold, furnished with small tables and a long floral divan. The
high windows looked out over the expansive garden. Mrs. Brockville sat her on
the divan and rang for tea. Clara was suddenly conscious of the shabbiness of
her cloak trimmed with last year’s lace and her hands stuffed into a muff that
had seen better days. What a desperate picture she must make to the inhabitants
of this elegant, civilized house.
    “We are not to be disturbed,” the lady
instructed her maid. “Inform Colonel Brockville and Captain Strachan we will
see them at dinner and not before.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    As soon as they were alone again, Mrs.
Brockville turned to Clara. “Now, what is this about? You must tell me
everything. I am not one of that crowd in London who are given to gossip for
gossip’s sake. You can trust me with your confidences as you would your own mother.”
    Clara patted her eyes of tears at this
kindness even as she was determined to lie to the woman. “The marriage was
unsuccessful. I have left Mr. Hamilton and shall be returning to London by the
next carriage.” She coloured deeply and could not meet Mrs. Brockville’s steady
gaze.
    “Oh my dear girl! What is the conflict?
Perhaps we can mediate a truce of some sort to prevent this rash step. We’ve
only just discovered you and now you’re planning to leave us! Why, in a
fortnight we’ll be hosting a shooting party, an intimate gathering of dear friends
and neighbours, and I had my heart set on you and Mr. Hamilton joining the
party. All the local families will be in attendance; everyone wants to meet the
new mistress of Windemere.”
    “I’m sorry, I am truly sorry, Mrs.
Brockville, but I cannot be the mistress of Windemere.” Clara stopped herself
from revealing more. “Mr. Hamilton was not honest with me when he made his
proposal. He harbours resentments toward my father that are insupportable.”
    Hills entered with the tea and while their
cups were being filled, Mrs. Brockville made polite remarks to deflect
curiosity. Once the housemaid had left the room, she resumed their discussion. “What
do you mean he was not honest? Do you mean to say he married you under false
pretenses? I cannot credit it,” the lady said. “I never saw a man as much in
love as Branson Hamilton.”
    “He is a very good actor. He ought to go on
the stage. Branson Hamilton tricked me into coming to Windemere for the sole
purpose of revenging himself on my father. There is no love in his heart.”
    “My dear! That is a serious allegation.
What on earth would cause Mr. Hamilton to go to such lengths?”
    Clara remembered the madwoman in the chapel
and the insinuations she’d made. If prodded and poked, her words came near to
resurrecting a long-buried memory.

 

Chapter Four

 
    CLARA SQUEEZED her eyes shut, pressing the memory down. Her
tea cup clattered against the saucer.
    “I-I don’t know,” she said when she could
speak. “I don’t know the cause of Branson’s rage, only the desired outcome—my
father’s ruin.”
    “What of your mother? How could she allow
you to fall under his power?”
    “My mother has taken to her room and
laudanum. She was indisposed at the time of my betrothal.”
    There was silence in the room save the
ticking of the mantle clock. A fire burned on the hearth but Clara felt a
chill. The story was shameful; her family’s embarrassment could not be avoided.
    She set