Page 24 of Frankly, My Dear Clara (London Dreams #1)

H ugh arrived late to the townhome, hoping that he would have another evening of reprieve from his new friends. For the past several nights, Marmaduke had been unavailable or Ambrose had gone out early or both and he’d been left to his work.

He was hoping for one more such evening.

His hopes were not to be, though.

The butler directed him to the library instead of the billiard room and he walked in to find Duke and Ambrose sitting at a table playing piquet.

“You do not appear to be in need of a third.” Perhaps Hugh could still get out of socializing this evening.

Ambrose scooped the cards into a pile and began to straighten the deck. “I was losing anyway. We’ll switch to loo.”

As it was one Hugh knew and he didn’t think either man would believe him if he claimed otherwise, Hugh settled into the chair.

They’d played only one round of cards when there was a knock at the door.

All three men looked up to find Clara standing in the doorway. They stood as she stepped into the room, eyes darting from one man to the other until they stopped on Hugh.

“Hu—um, Mr. Lockhart. I didn’t realize you would be in here.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot.

“I can leave if you’ve a private matter.” He stepped away from the table, but Ambrose held up a hand to stop him.

“Stay, Hugh. It should take her less than five minutes to become so disgusted with the sight of me that she departs the room herself.”

“Ambrose, that isn’t fair.” Clara’s mouth flattened into a tight line.

Hugh looked back and forth between the cousins. Granted, his knowledge of this family was limited—though far greater than he would have ever imagined it to become—but the biting derision in Ambrose’s tone didn’t seem normal for them.

Duke’s groan seemed to indicate that as well. “Are the two of you going to fight again? Because if so, I’m leaving with Hugh.”

Clara took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “I actually came to apologize.”

Ambrose gathered the just-dealt cards and shuffled them from hand to hand. “Is that so?”

She folded her hands in front of her. “Yes. You were simply showing that you cared. I shouldn’t have held that against you.”

“Does that mean you’ve decided to tell us why you were upset this morning?”

She’d been upset that morning? Hugh stared at her, willing her thoughts to become known to him. Had she been upset or merely thoughtful? Because he had barely slept a wink for all the thoughts racing through his head. He’d had to redo two balance plates at the shop because of his distraction.

“No.” She studiously avoided meeting Hugh's searching gaze. “My secrets are still mine to keep, but that doesn’t mean I should have attacked yours.”

Ambrose set down the cards and picked up his glass of scotch. He swirled the liquid around and looked into the depths. “I didn’t realize you needed provocation.” He looked over at her. “I shall accept your apology, such as it is.”

The timidity left her face. “Such as it is?”

“Well,” he said with a shrug, “seeing as you’ll likely be berating me for something else by tomorrow, my sense of relief is limited.”

Marmaduke sighed. “Must you two always be like this? Why can’t we all be friends like when we were children?” He scooped up the cards. “Come, let’s play a game of Commerce.”

Clara stepped further into the room and gingerly sat in the last chair at the table. The gentlemen all sat as well, but Hugh was having great difficulty focusing on the game. To his right sat Clara, looking like a skittish horse seeking a reason to bolt from the stables, and to his left was Ambrose, a man who seemed able to switch from charmingly distant to mysteriously tortured in the space of a breath.

Duke dealt out the cards and the hand played out in near silence. Only the bids and occasional remarks on the play order were uttered.

When Ambrose won the last trick, his grin was nearly boyish. “I believe the day is mine.”

Clara groaned. “Only because I am out of practice. I’ve had no one to play with these past few years, and I’ve forgotten my strategies.”

“We can try again. I have no issue with winning twice in a row.” Ambrose sat back in his chair.

Marmaduke gathered up the cards. “You might want to remember that there are two other challengers at this table as well.”

The smile Clara sent Hugh’s direction made him lose any thought of joining Duke’s playful outrage. “I don’t believe Hugh is much of a threat.”

His lips twisted. He never had been good at the game and if his inept playing made her smile, he’d consider that a win.

The thought made him glad he was sitting down as his knees went weak. Had a single kiss really sent him that far sideways? He was thinking about ways to make her smile instead of ways to grow his business. He was praying she would stay in this room a little longer instead of praying his chronometer would be the most accurate yet created.

He was caught up in his own thoughts instead of realizing that both of his new friends were now staring at him, and Clara’s cheeks were red as cherries.

Ambrose quirked up an eyebrow. “Hugh, is it?”

She had called him by his first name.

“I, um . . .” Hugh cleared his throat. “I’m certain it’s because the two of you have been using it as well.”

“Is it?” Duke’s smile was speculative but also . . . happy? Did he want Hugh and his sister to have such a close relationship?

“What have you been up to, dear Clara?” Ambrose asked.

She stuck her nose in the air. “I have been up to nothing. Yes, I have had a few conversations with Hugh, and he gave me permission to use his name. It seemed only natural, as you have granted him permission to use yours.”

“Friendly intimacy over a game of billiards is rather different, don’t you think?” Ambrose leaned forward. “One might say your behavior was even scandalous.”

It was Hugh’s turn to be embarrassed because the truth was, it would be scandalous if people knew about their late-night discussions in the back drawing room.

“Anything I’ve done couldn’t even hold a candle to your indiscretions, so I do believe I’ll wait to be concerned.”

Hugh snapped his head in Clara’s direction. Had she truly just said that to her cousin? The way Marmaduke and Ambrose were reacting, it wasn’t the first time.

“Ah, there it is.” Ambrose lifted his glass in a toast in her direction.

Clara sighed. “I don’t mean to attack you, Ambrose. I just . . .”

“Wish I would be better, I know. Sadly, your expectations are higher than my ability to climb.”

Clara crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s nonsense.”

“No, it’s not.” It was impossible to say who was more surprised that Hugh had broken into the conversation, but he had and now he had everyone’s attention.

“Do you even know what you are condoning?” Clara’s voice was soft, pleading. “Just because he has stepped into your business venture—”

“That has nothing to do with it.” Hugh kept his voice calm, trying to sound like the uncle he’d heard placate many an irate parishioner. “It’s just that people aren’t capable of always doing the right thing. So if your standard is perfection, he’s going to fall short.”

“My standard is not perfection. No one is perfect.”

“Except for Jesus.” Ambrose pointed at Clara. “You see? I did listen to those sermons.”

Hugh could almost feel Clara vibrating in the chair. He’d spent enough time with Ambrose to know that, for now at least, church was merely another social obligation to the man. There wasn’t any personal connection to Jesus driving him to godly obedience. He might be battling with some form of regret or conviction, but he hadn’t turned those over to God yet.

And Clara couldn’t make him.

She stood up. “I will not be mocked like this.”

“Which do you want, Clara?” Ambrose deliberately leaned back in his chair, making a show of not standing with her. “I do the wrong things and I am depraved. I say the right things and I’m a mocker. Do tell me which you prefer.”

Two tears spilled from her eyes, and she ran from the room. Part of Hugh wanted to run after her, but Marmaduke was already up, and he had a feeling there was a more pressing need right here in this room. It wasn’t one he’d have noticed before or felt a need to take care of, but now Clara had opened his eyes to it and he couldn’t ignore it.

He sat quietly while Ambrose stared at the empty chair.

Eventually, the man spoke. “Are you a Christian, Hugh?”

“Yes.” He kept the answer short and simple, waiting to see where this was leading.

“What sort of a Christian are you?”

Hugh’s eyebrows lifted. “What are my options?”

“Whatever you want, I suppose. I see people in the pews on Sunday, saying their prayers and singing their hymns. Then I see them in the clubs on Monday. They’re at the gaming tables with me on Tuesday.” He waved a hand at Clara's vacated chair. “And then there’s Clara. I’m sure there are other people like her as well, saying censorious things about my behavior.” He gave a dry laugh. “If only they knew.”

“I suppose, then,” Hugh said thoughtfully, “I am the type of Christian that tries to live in God’s ways but mostly minds my own business.”

Ambrose nodded solemnly. “That's a good type to be.”

Hugh winced. “I don’t know that it is. I mean, you look more than a little bothered at the moment. If I don’t tell you that God can help with that, I’d be a terrible friend.”

Ambrose shook his head. “God can’t help. No one can help.” He picked up his glass and looked into the liquid again. “Did you know I tried to fix things? No, of course you don’t, because you don’t know what I did. But when Clara first came, the first time she lectured me like Uncle Paul used to do, I decided to try. What if I could right a past wrong?”

He shook his head. “It failed. I knew it would. There was only so much I could do, after all. A note. I sent a note because I didn’t know what else to do.”

Hugh prayed, knowing that whatever he said next needed to be God’s words and not his own. “Nothing you do can undo what has already been done.”

Ambrose frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you pick up a quill, there’s nothing you can write that will remove ink that has already been placed on the page.” Hugh pressed on when Ambrose appeared to be listening. “That’s why Jesus offers forgiveness.”

“Ah, there’s the catch. To accept it, I have to believe myself a man worth forgiving.”

“And you don’t believe you are?”

Ambrose said nothing and Hugh had a suspicion that the conversational door he’d never thought to try to open was soon going to close, and it was important he got a few more words in before it did.

“There isn’t a person alive that God isn’t offering salvation and reconciliation to. You have to accept it for yourself, though. It isn’t a set of behaviors that make someone else happy.”

“Perhaps therein lies the problem. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.” Then he lifted the glass and tossed the liquid smoothly down his throat, set the glass on the table, and left the room.

It was several minutes before Hugh departed as well.

Clara had been asked twice by Eleanor to help at the church since that first day she’d offered her services, but she’d never been happier to receive such an invitation as she was the next morning.

She hadn’t seen Ambrose since their latest fight in the library. Marmaduke had run after her and asked why she felt it necessary to constantly push Ambrose. Clara had responded by asking why Marmaduke was constantly willing to endorse their cousin’s bad behavior.

Her brother had chosen to avoid her after that as well.

With such turmoil in the house, she was more than happy to borrow the carriage and escape to St. Anne’s, where she could do something that seemed right.

Eleanor took her to a room where they spent an hour sorting foodstuffs and other items into baskets to be delivered to families suffering from illness in the parish.

“I think I gathered a few too many flowers.” Eleanor looked at the table still strewn with enough blooms for two arrangements and then at the baskets, all decorated with so many flowers one could barely make out the contents.

“We won’t let them go to waste.” Clara scooped up an armful. “There are vases in the porch. Let’s go fill them.”

“What a wonderful idea.” Eleanor gathered up the rest and led the way to the entrance area.

They’d finished one arrangement and had started on the next when the door opened and Hugh walked in.

He stopped short when he saw them. After several moments, he gave them a short bow. “Good afternoon.”

Eleanor’s head swiveled back and forth as she looked from Hugh to Clara. “Who wants to tell me what’s going on?”

Clara certainly didn’t. What would she even tell Eleanor? They'd kissed? She’d been sneaking down to his workroom to have some of the more interesting conversations of her life? He’d taken Ambrose’s side instead of hers, and she feared that might be the final encouragement her cousin needed to lose his soul completely?

Hugh cleared his throat. “I believe it is a simple matter of different perspectives.”

“Perspectives on what?” Eleanor asked.

Clara would like to know what he was referring to as well.

Hugh shrugged. “Ministry, I suppose.”

So he was assuming she was upset over Ambrose. It was a reasonable guess. Anything else would have her blushing instead of scowling.

“Do you need to . . . talk?” Eleanor shoved a few more flowers into a vase.

If Clara wanted to keep her friendship or whatever one wanted to call the relationship she had with Hugh, this was going to have to be addressed at some point. It might as well be now.

“I won’t say what you do isn’t necessary.” She indicated his toolbox with a nod. “But perhaps you’ve forgotten that people must make changes in order to repent.”

Hugh nodded and pulled a small hammer from his box. He examined it as he spoke. “Perhaps you have forgotten that the change doesn’t start with the actions. You can’t beat someone into loving Jesus.”

“You act like I’m delivering sermons in the dining room.”

“Are you? I confess I’m not there enough to truly know, but when I’ve seen you with your cousin, it’s not a far stretch.” Hugh took a few steps toward the doors to the nave. “Do you think he hasn’t sat through hundreds of services? Ministry isn’t just hymns and sermons.”

“You think I don’t know that? I’ve been here for an hour making baskets for people.”

“Why?”

The question brought Clara’s righteous indignation to a stop. “What do you mean, why?”

“Why are you making baskets for people?”

Clara was at a loss for words. No one had ever asked why. It was just understood that the church provided for those who could not provide for themselves. They were the hands and feet of God. “I don’t . . .”

He leaned to the right to look past Clara’s shoulder. “Eleanor, you can help her. I know Uncle Patrick has said it to you often enough.”

“People have to know we care before they care what we know.” Eleanor fiddled with the flowers. “If they think we don’t care about them, they won’t believe us when we tell them God does either.”

“I know that.” Clara turned to Eleanor. “Well, not in those words, though they are very good ones. But I know the idea.”

Hugh nodded, giving Clara a considering look that had her dreading whatever he was going to say next. She had a feeling it wasn’t going to be comfortable.

She was right.

“Perhaps,” Hugh said, “your cousin needs a little of your care before receiving your correction.”

Eleanor’s breath blew out in a loud burst.

Clara stuck her nose in the air. “Perhaps if more of his friends wouldn’t indulge his behavior, he’d feel the need to realign his life.”

Eleanor sucked her breath in through her teeth.

Clara only had eyes for Hugh though. He stood for several minutes, watching her, saying nothing. She was silent as well, a tiny part of her knowing that there was some merit to what he said but also feeling certain that she was correct as well.

Of course, her time in London was proving she might not be the greatest judge of right and wrong. Finally, he moved up the stairs to take care of the clock.

Part of Clara wanted to follow him, but what would she say?

First, she’d been disillusioned by the character of a future leader of the church and now she’d been corrected by the tradesman she’d always thought had misguided priorities about life.

Clara picked up a flower with a broken stem and rolled it between her fingers. It wasn’t lost on her that the betrayal of Mr. Pitt wasn’t hurting her as much as the admonishment from Hugh.

Now if only she knew what to do about either.