CLARA LAY ON HER BACK, her gaze fixed on the ornate ceiling above her. The faint flicker of the candelabra threw soft shadows across the room, dancing upon gilded edges and heavy draperies. She exhaled again, long and weary, her chest rising and falling with each sigh. Hunger murmured faintly in her stomach—she had eaten little earlier, and even that had been out of courtesy, not appetite.
This must have been the tenth time she sighed that morning, and all for the same reason. She was bored. Utterly, painfully bored.
Was this what it meant to be a lady?
To be confined to four walls, dressed in silk and lace, waiting for time to pass?
Her fingers traced the embroidered coverlet absentmindedly. She had thought, rather foolishly perhaps, that a noblewoman's life must be filled with elegance and charm—fine carriages, laughter, the rustle of gowns in candlelight. But here she was, shut away like a bird in a gilded cage, with no purpose but to exist prettily.
If only she might step beyond the manor walls for an hour—just to breathe the fresh morning air, to wander through the gardens, to feel the earth beneath her shoes. Or better still, to help the maids with their chores, anything that might make her feel alive again.
Her thoughts, as though unwilling to remain idle, drifted toward her mother.
Lady Evelina had promised to care for her—to send for the best physicians, to ensure her health. But had she truly done so? Promises from noble lips were often light as air. Clara's heart ached with longing to know the truth. Yet how could she find out without rousing suspicion? Every move she made was watched. Every word weighed.
She closed her eyes, trying not to think of it, when a gentle rap sounded at the door. The sound startled her.
"My lady?" came a woman's voice, soft and deferential.
Clara sat up at once, smoothing the folds of her gown and composing herself. "Come in," she called, her voice low but steady, carefully measured, as she had been taught to sound refined.
The door opened with a soft creak. Three servants entered, each carrying a tray laden with dishes. The aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet preserves filled the air. Clara's brows drew together in surprise.
They bowed in unison. "My lady," they murmured respectfully.
"What's all this?" she asked, her tone uncertain, eyes moving from one face to another.
The eldest maid—a matronly woman with kind eyes and a timid manner—stepped forward and bowed again. "His Grace, the Duke, has ordered that breakfast be served in your chambers."
"His Grace?" Clara echoed softly. Adrian? How surprising. How had he known she hadn't eaten much at breakfast?
"Oh. I see. Thank you," she murmured, though her mind still puzzled over it.
The maids set the trays upon the table before her, and the sight made her blink in astonishment. There was far too much—eggs and pastries, fresh fruit, even a pot of chocolate.
"This is so much," she said quietly. "I doubt I shall finish half."
"You may eat what you wish, my lady," the older maid replied. "We'll see that the rest is sent back to the kitchens."
Clara shook her head almost instinctively. "No. We mustn't waste it."
Her mother's voice echoed in her mind—Never waste food, Clara. Every crumb matters to someone.
Her gaze fell upon the maid again. "Would you like some?" she asked gently, holding out a small plate.
The maid froze, color draining from her face. "Oh—no, my lady. I wouldn't dare."
"Come now," Clara urged softly. "Take it. Please. I cannot eat it all." She pressed the plate into the woman's hand with quiet insistence.
The maid hesitated, then accepted it shyly, eyes glistening with gratitude. "Thank you, my lady."
Clara smiled faintly. "You're welcome."
For a moment, the air felt lighter—almost companionable. As the maid stared at her, Clara asked, "What is your name?"
The maid hesitated again, as though even that were dangerous knowledge. "Adeline, my lady."
"Adeline," Clara repeated with a nod. "A beautiful name."
The maid smiled, just barely, before seeming to remember something. She reached into the pocket of her apron and produced a folded envelope. "My lady, there is a letter for you."
Clara's heart gave a sudden, startled leap. "A letter?"
She took it quickly, recognizing the delicate scent of rose that clung to the paper. Lady Evelina's perfume. Her pulse quickened. "Thank you, Adeline."
"You're welcome, my lady."
"You may go now," Clara said softly, unable to take her eyes from the envelope.
When they had curtsied and departed, she remained still for a moment, alone again in the quiet chamber. Her fingers trembled as she broke the seal.
The delicate handwriting met her eyes:
Dear Clara,
It is I, Lady Evelina Harcourt. As I promised, I have written to you. I hope you are well and that you continue to keep our secret safe. I heard of the wedding and must commend your loyalty in fulfilling your part of the bargain. In return, I have sent your mother to the best physician in London, where she now receives treatment. I will not write often, for our safety depends on discretion. Continue to play your part as I play mine. Destroy this letter once you've read it.
With love,
Lady Evelina Harcourt
Clara's vision blurred before she realized she was crying. The ink smudged beneath her tears.
Her mother… was safe. Treated. Alive.
A sob caught in her throat—half relief, half sorrow. The ache of longing pressed heavy in her chest. She had missed her mother's gentle hands, her laughter, the warmth of home. And now, surrounded by silks and luxury, she felt more like a stranger than ever.
Living beneath another woman's name had been harder than she imagined. Every gesture, every word had to be borrowed. She no longer knew which part of her was real.
She read the letter once more, then again, until her tears soaked the page.