you?”
Mr. Ravensdale whispered something in the boy’s ear, his eyes set on Mrs. Gibbs the entire time, hard and unrelenting. There was nothing soft about Clara’s new employer, seemingly nothing kind either. The pair set off, leaving the rest of the circus standing outside the tavern, watching a tattooed man and a pirate ride an unbroken horse through the busy village streets.
“Oh,” Mrs. Gibbs muttered, tears clouding her beady brown eyes. “The poor dear. He’s never going to forgive me.” She fussed with the cap pinned to her bushy silver and blond hair. “Perhaps I can call on you at the house tomorrow?”
The poor dear? She called him a poor dear? He was hardly a child. “It’s not for me to say, Mrs. Gibbs. Good day.”
“Of course.” It was difficult to ignore the quiver in her answer. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen him or been in the service of that family. No matter what the gossip is, that man is full of heart. I’m sure you understand.”
Clara did not understand at all. In fact, where the Ravensdales were concerned, she never did.
“Come along, Minnie,” Mr. Barnes called out, holding his hands out to the girl. She ran with enthusiasm and effectively ended the strange conversation. Grace squirmed to be put down and pulled hard on Clara’s hair. With another hard tug, Clara felt a pin slip and something much sharper ring through her head. A fiery pain surged over her skull and she winced, feeling the phantom slice of the broken bottle rip through her scalp once more.
“Miss Dawson?” She focused her eyes on Mr. Barnes, who hoisted Grace up with Minnie on the donkey. “Shall we?” He bent forward and extended his arm toward the retreating figure of Mr. Ravensdale.
“Yes,” she said, still flustered as flashes of that night danced before her. The nervous taste entered her mouth. “Yes,” she said more firmly, pushing aside the image of Mr. Shaw’s rage-filled eyes. She bobbed an awkward goodbye to Mrs. Gibbs and shuffled after Mr. Barnes and the children.
It was only as they were out of the village that Clara relaxed enough to feel the warm trickle running down her neck. She was not surprised when she discovered it was crimson red. She was entirely embarrassed, though. She pulled the remaining pins from her hair in an effort to hide evidence of the reopened wound, mindful that it was improper to have her hair down, though she must wear it as such. The others might not care, but she did. Years of suffering scolding from her teachers about her fine hair slipping its pins and bows left her aware it was another chance to present herself as a proper lady. Without manner, without etiquette, Clara was nothing more than that bastard her grandparents kept hidden away in the attic.
*
All was not well. Certainly not as Mr. Barnes shoved her into a rickety chair by the kitchen stove. Candles were scattered around the kitchen, most stuck into empty bottles, with sides covered in thick layers of melted tallow. The flames threw strange shadows across the walls, and once again, Clara felt as though she were being spied upon from the darkness that clung to the deep corners of the kitchen.
“Remove your hands from me,” she said, wrenching away and moving her weight to the opposite side of the chair. One of the legs wobbled as if it would give, so she fell back, back into Mr. Ravensdale’s touch as he searched for the source of her blood-soaked hair.
“Hold still,” he ordered.
“Holy hell. What happened?” Mr. Barnes barked, peering at her upside down. He poked and prodded her as if she were a science experiment.
“I fell,” Clara answered rather shortly. Mr. Ravensdale tugged once more and another stab of pain rushed over her scalp and shook down her spine. “Please, leave it be.”
“You fell?” Mr. Barnes asked.
She shut her eyes, dragging in a deep inhale to steady her nerves. It was no use. Mr. Shaw stood before her, yelling nasty threats as if she were back
Mr. Ravensdale whispered something in the boy’s ear, his eyes set on Mrs. Gibbs the entire time, hard and unrelenting. There was nothing soft about Clara’s new employer, seemingly nothing kind either. The pair set off, leaving the rest of the circus standing outside the tavern, watching a tattooed man and a pirate ride an unbroken horse through the busy village streets.
“Oh,” Mrs. Gibbs muttered, tears clouding her beady brown eyes. “The poor dear. He’s never going to forgive me.” She fussed with the cap pinned to her bushy silver and blond hair. “Perhaps I can call on you at the house tomorrow?”
The poor dear? She called him a poor dear? He was hardly a child. “It’s not for me to say, Mrs. Gibbs. Good day.”
“Of course.” It was difficult to ignore the quiver in her answer. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen him or been in the service of that family. No matter what the gossip is, that man is full of heart. I’m sure you understand.”
Clara did not understand at all. In fact, where the Ravensdales were concerned, she never did.
“Come along, Minnie,” Mr. Barnes called out, holding his hands out to the girl. She ran with enthusiasm and effectively ended the strange conversation. Grace squirmed to be put down and pulled hard on Clara’s hair. With another hard tug, Clara felt a pin slip and something much sharper ring through her head. A fiery pain surged over her skull and she winced, feeling the phantom slice of the broken bottle rip through her scalp once more.
“Miss Dawson?” She focused her eyes on Mr. Barnes, who hoisted Grace up with Minnie on the donkey. “Shall we?” He bent forward and extended his arm toward the retreating figure of Mr. Ravensdale.
“Yes,” she said, still flustered as flashes of that night danced before her. The nervous taste entered her mouth. “Yes,” she said more firmly, pushing aside the image of Mr. Shaw’s rage-filled eyes. She bobbed an awkward goodbye to Mrs. Gibbs and shuffled after Mr. Barnes and the children.
It was only as they were out of the village that Clara relaxed enough to feel the warm trickle running down her neck. She was not surprised when she discovered it was crimson red. She was entirely embarrassed, though. She pulled the remaining pins from her hair in an effort to hide evidence of the reopened wound, mindful that it was improper to have her hair down, though she must wear it as such. The others might not care, but she did. Years of suffering scolding from her teachers about her fine hair slipping its pins and bows left her aware it was another chance to present herself as a proper lady. Without manner, without etiquette, Clara was nothing more than that bastard her grandparents kept hidden away in the attic.
*
All was not well. Certainly not as Mr. Barnes shoved her into a rickety chair by the kitchen stove. Candles were scattered around the kitchen, most stuck into empty bottles, with sides covered in thick layers of melted tallow. The flames threw strange shadows across the walls, and once again, Clara felt as though she were being spied upon from the darkness that clung to the deep corners of the kitchen.
“Remove your hands from me,” she said, wrenching away and moving her weight to the opposite side of the chair. One of the legs wobbled as if it would give, so she fell back, back into Mr. Ravensdale’s touch as he searched for the source of her blood-soaked hair.
“Hold still,” he ordered.
“Holy hell. What happened?” Mr. Barnes barked, peering at her upside down. He poked and prodded her as if she were a science experiment.
“I fell,” Clara answered rather shortly. Mr. Ravensdale tugged once more and another stab of pain rushed over her scalp and shook down her spine. “Please, leave it be.”
“You fell?” Mr. Barnes asked.
She shut her eyes, dragging in a deep inhale to steady her nerves. It was no use. Mr. Shaw stood before her, yelling nasty threats as if she were back
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