Barbara nodded solemnly.
“Do you at least know who your betrothed is to be?” she asked.
Clara nodded, sighing again.
“I know him very well,” she said. “And that’s the trouble. It is Julian Hawthorne.”
Barbara raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“The marquess of Silverstone?” she asked. “I thought the two of you were friends.”
Clara nodded.
“Precisely,” she said. “Friends. There will never be a connection of love between us. If that were possible, it would have happened already.”
Barbara nodded, understanding dawning on her face.
“I see how this must trouble you,” she said. “If I may, perhaps, you will find that you’re wrong. Love can develop over the years, and it can be deeper and richer than any new love ever could be.”
Clara shook her head slowly, lifting her arms so that her lady’s maid could help her out of her nightgown and into her green dress.
“Not with Julian,” she said. “He might as well be my second brother.”
Barbara gave her another warm smile.
“Try to see something positive in all this,” she said. “You mustn’t worry about a thing until it happens. Or doesn’t, in this case. This is a happy time of year, and I hate seeing you so sad. Keep your chin up and have faith in the future.”
Clara nodded, giving her lady’s maid a small smile. She didn’t think she could do any such thing. But brooding certainly wasn’t helping her.
“I will try,” she said.
But as Barbara finished helping her dress and styling her hair into a modest bun, her heart fell back into its previous state of despair. Her ability to choose her own path in life had been taken from her. Sure, she was to marry a man who used to be a good friend. But one thing that had always been important to her was marrying for love if she were ever to marry at all. What if Julian didn’t like being married to her? Or what if he put a stop to the charitable efforts that meant so much to her?
She tugged at the collar of her high-necked gown, feeling stifled by the fabric and her circumstances. The mansion seemed more like a gilded cage than ever before. It wasn’t the marriage she dreaded if she was being honest with herself. It was the loss of choice, the loss of freedom, that bothered her most. She felt betrayed that her father could make such a decision without at least speaking with her about it first. Why was he in such a rush to see her married that he would refuse to let her find her love in her own time?
Shaking away the thoughts, Clara clutched her shawl tightly around her shoulders and ventured outside. The crisp winter air grazed her cheeks, shaking her briskly from her thoughts. She was headed to the vicarage, a place where she felt free from the troubles of the world. Mary Harris, her dearest friend, and the vicar’s vibrant daughter had asked for her assistance.
They, along with Mary’s mother, Hannah, were to craft ribbons for the charity baskets they would be making to hand out during the Christmastide season for the less fortunate, especially the poor children at the orphanage at the village. It was something to which Clara always looked forward, as she was delighted that it would bring joy to people who needed it more than she did. That year, however, she was seeking just as much solace from the gesture as she would be giving.
The winter breeze bit at Clara, her shawl acting like the thinnest barrier between her and the cold. Crisp snow crunched beneath her boots as she was treading the familiar path to the vicarage. As the wind rustled the bare branches overhead, her thoughts were consumed by the chaos that had become of her emotions. Julian’s image danced before her eyes—a man she barely knew any longer yet was promised to in matrimony. The uncertainty of their future together filled her with dread, the icy fear gripping her heart more firmly than the winter’s cold wind grabbed at her flesh.
What if our union is as cold as this winter landscape?she wondered, biting her lip. It wasn’t a far stretch, she knew. The last time she had spoken to Julian, he had been as dry and barren as the trees that hung above her on the path she walked. What if he, unlike the foliage, never returned to his once warm, vibrant self?
Reaching the vicarage, Clara found Mary and Hannah seated at a large wooden table, surrounded by spools of ribbons and baskets waiting to be decorated. Mary looked up, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her friend.
“Clara,” she said, rushing over to pull her into an embrace. “We were beginning to think the cold had kept you away.”
Clara offered a weak smile.
“No, Mary,” she said. “The cold has never bothered me. I apologise for my lateness.”
Mary, noticing her friend’s brooding demeanor, moved even closer in order to understand what was causing it.
“What troubles you, darling?” she asked. “I’ve never seen you so distant, especially not during Christmastide.”
Hannah gave the two younger women a knowing smile. She rose from her seat, giving Clara a brief embrace and a kiss on the cheek.
“I shall go fetch us some tea and cakes before we begin our projects for today,” she said.
