Archive of Our Own ^beta

Clarke is seven years old when she first announces that she intends to marry Wells.

The way she sees it, that’s an obvious declaration to make. Not because she does intend to marry him - nothing so very simple. But because she intends to marry no one, not ever, and she’s quite certain that’s not allowed. So with all the wisdom of a precocious seven-year-old she concludes that this ruse is the best way of maintaining her freedom, of keeping other suitors and meddling relatives at bay.

She really does hate the thought of marriage. As far as she can tell, all marriage-minded ladies are miserable - the unmarried youngsters because they are desperate to find a husband, and the married matrons because they are petrified that their husband will grow tired of them.

Her mother is perhaps not entirely like that. She does seem somewhat confident in her relationship with Clarke’s father. But she’s only the exception which proves the rule - Clarke is confident of that much.

She’s a very confident seven-year-old in general, as it happens. Clever, and bold, and secure in her opinions.

That’s why she makes the announcement, loud and clear, when her Auntie Simone starts asking impertinent questions.

“How do you like your new neighbour Mr Shaw, then, Clarke? What do you make of him, hmm? A fine strapping young man, isn’t he? Just think, if you come out at seventeen he’ll be eight and twenty by then - just the age to be in want of a wife.”

Clarke wants Auntie Simone to shut up. She wants her to mind her own business and take her meddling and matchmaking elsewhere. Really - as if Clarke would have an opinion about an eighteen-year-old man she has seen all of twice, from the far side of the garden hedge. She’d much rather be upstairs in the nursery with her watercolours, frankly.

That’s why she does it. That’s why she begins her clever scheme.

“I’m sure he’s a lovely gentleman, Auntie, but I intend to marry Wells.” She says, carefully light, as she picks indifferently at her embroidery. She really is most mediocre with a needle. Why must young ladies sit in a drawing room with sewing and not a paintbrush? Would that be so very improper?

“Wells?” Auntie Simone asks sharply. “The Jaha heir? Dear me, Abby - is that true?” She asks, turning now to invoke Clarke’s mother.

She’s mediocre at embroidery too. Clarke knows that, always considers it a sort of special secret to hold close to herself. On these rare occasions, when she is invited down to the drawing room to sit with the adults, she does take a certain confidence from the fact that she knows her mother hates sitting around and sewing as well.

“I’m sure it’s far too early to say for certain.” Her mother offers, equally light. “But perhaps it will happen. You and Wells are very good friends, aren’t you, Clarke?”

“He’s my best friend.” She proclaims proudly. He lives next door - on the other side from this new Mr Shaw - and he likes to play chess and go on outings to the park.

There’s more than that to Wells, though. He’s very kind, too. She’s met a few other children around her age - mostly girls whose parents are friends with hers - and frankly she doesn’t think much of them. They all seem sharp and bitter, somehow, as if they’re already practising for a future where they’ll have to fight over desirable husbands.

Wells isn’t like that. Maybe it’s easy for him not to be like that, since he’ll never have to fight over a man’s notice. But all the same, she likes him very much.

Meanwhile, in the drawing room, silence sits. It sits still and heavy like snow, and Clarke tries her best to match it. She tries her best to be quiet and dignified, to wrestle neatly with her needlework, to make no fuss and cause no trouble.

But she’s not made for silence, for sewing or for inoffensiveness. She can hear her paintbrushes upstairs, calling to her.

She’s just starting to fidget when her Auntie Simone speaks up again.

“Clarke!”

“Sorry, Auntie.” She says on instinct, jumping to attention. Truly, she must have been fidgeting worse than she thought.

“Whatever for? You’ve done very well.” Auntie Simone says in a slightly frightening voice. “You’re a good girl, really, Clarke. I only meant to congratulate you. This is truly good news if you’ve caught the interest of the Jaha boy - the heir to a dukedom, no less!”

Clarke nods carefully. She understands that a dukedom is something important and Wells is to have one, some day, in the future. She’s not at all clear on what a dukedom actually is - she wonders whether maybe it’s a particular type of silver plate, or something of the kind - but adults all seem to think they’re terribly fabulous and worth coveting.

“I think that’s a little premature, Simone.” Clarke’s mother says now. “They’re still children - who can say whether they will marry when they’re older? I hardly think we should be ordering Clarke’s wedding gown or calling her duchess.”

Clarke shifts a little more in her seat, hears the hard leather beneath her give an undignified squeak. She really must get better at sitting in a state of composure, if she’s to be a proper lady one day.

She sighs. Today is not that day.

“May I go upstairs and attend to my painting, Mama?” She asks, taking great pains to be polite. Manners are important in this world - she has already learnt that.

“Of course you may, Clarke. Thank you for asking so prettily.”

“And then you must run along and play with your friend Wells.” Auntie Simone says, although no one asked for her opinion. Sometimes Clarke thinks that she forgets she is not the mother in this home, when she visits.

Maybe all countesses are like that. She’s not sure. She supposes she will meet more countesses one day, and then she’ll be able to form an opinion.

But today is not the day for that, either. Today is for making a curtsey, and running upstairs, and getting back to her painting.

Today is for putting off the future, and telling herself it’s still a very long way away.

…….

The future draws closer, slowly, slowly.

She keeps telling people she plans to marry Wells one day. He’s fine with that - more than fine with it. He’s positively keen to do her a favour. He’s a wonderful friend like that.

It’s a good thing she has such a firm friend as Wells, she finds herself thinking, as she reaches the ripe old age of eleven. She still doesn’t seem to have many other friends. She seems to struggle with friendships in general, in fact, because the girls she meets are all bitter and the boys are already worried about marriage.

It’s a real pickle. That’s what she finds herself thinking. The whole of high society seems obsessed with fear and wedding bells.

That’s why she keeps telling the world that Wells is the man for her. It’s the only way to live a quiet life and escape those damn bells chiming.

…….

It’s not until she’s fifteen that she realises she might have, perhaps, made a very slight error of judgement.

She’s sitting in the garden with Wells. That’s a thing they often do, now - sitting in the garden, on a bench, admiring the flowers. Clarke practises wearing a bonnet and holding a parasol, and Wells practises offering her his arm to walk between the bench and the back door of the house.

Really, it’s all phenomenally silly. She remembers the good old days when they were younger, when they would run around the park together or even occasionally climb a small tree. And yet now they are confined to sitting prim and still? To learning the strange, stilted rituals of adult behaviour?

The world is a very odd place, in Clarke’s not-so-humble opinion.

And then it gets odder still, when Wells clears his throat and speaks.

“Clarke - may I ask you something? It’s about all this - ah - engagement business.”

“What engagement business?” She asks, idly, squinting at a small tear in her parasol. How did that get there? Her mother will be so annoyed. This lacework was expensive, apparently.

“You know. Our engagement.” He prompts her.

She laughs a little. He’s being silly, referring to it as an engagement. They both know it’s only a ruse, a trick, a shared joke against the world.

All the same, she nods, gestures for him to continue.

“It’s just that - well - I find myself wondering whether you’d like to make it real.” Wells tries haltingly. “Whether you would truly like to marry me.”

She frowns, taken aback. “When have I ever given you that impression?”

“No! No, it’s not that. You haven’t. It’s not - I am not saying that you have given me any impression.” He swallows loudly. “Rather, I suppose I am asking you to consider the idea. Would you like to become engaged to me in truth, rather than this deception? I think we are remarkably well-suited.”

She gapes at him. She’s stunned, shaken, shocked to her core. Wells wants to marry her? Wells wants her to marry at all, when he knows she is dead-set against the idea?

“You know I don’t wish to marry.” She starts there, because that seems safer than telling him that she doesn’t wish to marry him.

“I know you don’t wish for it now. But that’s why marrying me could be advantageous - we could have a very long engagement. And then after our marriage, I would allow you to live life as you please. That has to be better than being a spinster, surely? And you have no brothers or sisters, so you cannot even become a maiden aunt. Who will look after you when your parents pass away?”

She swallows down sudden tears. She’s not normally a tearful sort, but Wells has given her a nasty shock this afternoon, and now he’s going and talking about her parents’ dying one day, and she doesn’t like it.

She doesn’t like feeling caught out, either. He’s right - she will be a spinster one day if she keeps refusing to marry. And she supposes she never really thought before now about what that actually means. With all the naive optimism of a child, she’s been stuck on the fact that she is due to inherit a little money in her own right from her parents, rather than worrying about all the other inconveniences a single lady faces.

That must be why she does it. That’s her only excuse. She’s so overwrought that she goes and says something quite unforgivable.

“In any case, I certainly don’t wish to marry you.”

She hears the words burst from her lips, sudden and hurtful. She hears the silence which follows, heavy and sad.

She scrambles to fix her mistake.

“Wells - I’m sorry - I didn’t mean -”

“You did mean it. You meant that you have no tender feelings for me at all. I could try to argue - to point out, perhaps, that your parents are best friends above all, even more than they are lovers - but where would be the use in that? Your mind is quite made up.”

Too late, she realises her error. He’s right, isn’t he? Pragmatically speaking, she must marry someone, one day. So marrying her best friend far in the future seems like a sound idea.

But now she’s gone and hurt him. Now he won’t want to play along with her ruse any more, and he certainly won’t want to be engaged to her in truth. She’s suddenly certain, from the way he’s speaking and looking at her, that his tender feelings are engaged. That somehow, somewhere along the line, her best friend feels the first flush of youthful love for her.

Damn it. She really does hate growing up.

“I’m ever so sorry.” She tries again, reaches for his hand. “I spoke too hastily. I’m not in love with you - I’m hardly old enough to know what love is, I believe. But you are a fine man and would make a wonderful husband. You’re quite right - I must marry one day, and I find myself convinced that you would be a good match. Shall we consider ourselves truly engaged, then?”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No. I can’t do this, Clarke.” He sighs, tears his hand from her grasp and rubs it across his eyes. “I can’t marry you just because you think I’m good enough. Just because you’re trying to escape spinsterhood or a more undesirable marriage. I have spent my entire childhood trailing around in your wake - I won’t condemn myself to an adult life just as pathetic.”

With that he’s gone. He’s on his feet, striding away from her, bolting through the garden gate back to his home.

She’s left sitting and looking at the roses, a parasol twirling uselessly in her hands.

She supposes she had better stay here. A young lady doesn’t run, she’s quite certain of that much.

She heaves a sigh, lets her head fall heavily against the wall behind her. She’s made such a mess of this. Wells is a good person, and she’s hurt him. She’s been unkind to him, when he’s always shown her nothing but kindness. She’s so furious with herself for letting her shocked emotions get the better of her, there.

That’s the last time that will ever happen. She makes a vow to herself, here and now, as she worries at her torn parasol with her fingers.

From now on, she will not act rashly. She will be cool and calm, in control of every decision she makes.

And she will never ever hurt Wells Jaha again.

…….

She goes to see him the next day. She takes a package of his favourite cinnamon biscuits, dares to give him a hug, and says nothing at all about marriage.

And so it is that their friendship continues much as it ever did - but with one rather large elephant lingering in every room.

…….

Aunt Simone wants Clarke to come out at seventeen.

Clarke doesn’t want to come out at seventeen.

She’s learnt to keep control of her emotions since that farce at fifteen, of course. She's sticking to her vow to remain impassive. So it is that she calmly recites some well-prepared arguments to her mother and her aunt.

“I believe that I should be a little older and wiser before my come-out.” She says, carefully demure. “As I am a considerable heiress - or at least, as any son I should have will inherit all my father’s estates - I fear I might be the target of unscrupulous fortune-hunters who might compromise me to gain control of such riches. Better to wait until I am more able to defend myself from such cads.”

Her mother nods slowly. Aunt Simone looks unimpressed.

Clarke presses on. “Furthermore, since I am implicitly engaged to Wells, there is no rush to find me a husband. My coming out is really just to honour the family name. And I firmly believe I will do us more honour as a more mature and sophisticated debutante.”

Even Aunt Simone looks mildly interested in that point. She does like a good bit of family honour.

Emboldened, Clarke reaches for what she hopes will clinch it. “Finally, it must be said that I am not the most beautiful woman in the ton, nor the most accomplished. Another year or two to work on my accomplishments can only serve me well. And perhaps I will grow into better looks - perhaps I will lose a little of my puppy fat, or even grow taller.”

That has to win the day, doesn’t it? Aunt Simone is always despising Clarke’s figure - too short and buxom for fashion. So maybe if she dangles the prospect of a more willowy niece in two years’ time before her, that might work?

Can Clarke wish herself willowy? She’s not at all sure. She thinks if it were as easy as that, she’d have achieved it by now.

Clarke dares to raise her eyes. But she finds that, to her dismay, Aunt Simone is shaking her head. This final argument has not won her over at all.

“No, Clarke. Absolute poppycock. Your only asset is youth - in another year or two you won’t have even that. And I no more believe you will lose that puppy fat than you will marry the Prince Regent himself. Girls like you only get stouter.”

Clarke swallows hard. She’s not upset, of course, because she never lets her emotions get the better of her. But she is perhaps a very little bit displeased that her aunt is talking to her in such a way - and in her own home, no less.

But then a miracle occurs. Then her mother stands from her chair, eyes blazing, and actually dares to look down on Aunt Simone.

“That’s quite enough, Simone. I’ll not have you saying such things to Clarke. You may be family, but that gives you no right to abuse the poor girl - and you’ll not be invited here as family if you continue in such absurd opinions. The matter of Clarke’s coming out is one for me and Jake to decide, in consultation with her. You will have no further part in it. Good day.”

Clarke blinks at her, stunned. Did that really just happen? Did her mother just tell Aunt Simone to keep her nose out of family business?

It seems so. Aunt Simone is standing stiffly, shuffling towards the door with bad grace. She’s walking out into the hall, disappearing out of sight, grumbling to the footman as she goes.

She never stops by the Griffin family drawing room again after that day, in the end.

And somehow, strangely, nothing more is said about Clarke coming out at seventeen.

…….

She doesn’t come out at eighteen, either.

She doesn’t come out at eighteen because her father goes and dies, just a fortnight short of her birthday, just as her mother was starting to tentatively raise the question of a court gown.

It’s the stupidest death for such a wise man. He drowns in a boating accident. He’s out shooting waterfowl with Wells’ father when the boat overturns.

Thelonius blames himself for the death. Clarke blames him too, honestly, because she needs to blame someone. Blame is clean - a nice efficient way of putting the disaster out of mind. If she doesn’t blame someone, she’s quite sure she’ll go mad, getting wrapped up in emotions she can’t allow herself to feel, ranting and raving and imagining the air leaving her father’s lungs.

That’s the worst part. The nightmares. The horrific, vivid snapshots of his final moments. She’s convinced it was quite a frightening way to go, sinking away from the light, struggling for air.

She didn’t ought to be stuck on such useless, maudlin thoughts, of course. There are practical matters to take care of. The death of the master of the household is always a big change. As a sensible young woman she ought to help make arrangements and so on.

But she doesn’t. She can’t. She can’t do or think or feel anything, since she won’t permit herself to feel grief.

Her mother takes care of everything. She even manages to convince the Prince Regent that she and Clarke ought to be allowed to stay on in the Griffin properties as trustees, until such time as Clarke should have a son. Because Clarke is engaged to the Jaha heir, of course, so naturally a son will be forthcoming shortly.

Clarke’s rather in awe of the apparent ease with which her mother manages all that. Apparently a woman can be both competent and married.

It rather puts her to shame, she decides, when all she can think of is the air leaving her father’s lungs.

…….

Her father has been dead three months when, at last, she manages to have an important and long-overdue conversation with her future husband.

“I understand the Prince Regent believes we are to get married and have sons.” She says, voice carefully level. There’s no lace parasol in her hands today, but rather a heavy black umbrella. Mourning in November will do that to a girl.

“Yes. Your mother discussed this with me already.” Wells says, tone perhaps a little clipped and cautious. “I gave her my permission to put forth that story. I think it’s the best way of ensuring you and your mother have somewhere to live.”

Clarke nods. That makes sense. That’s the sort of kind thing Wells would agree to.

All the same, she has to know.

“So - are we? Are we getting married?” They haven’t discussed it outright since that disaster when they were fifteen, for all that the rumour has continued to circulate - and she has promoted it herself, even, on more than one occasion.

“I hardly know.” Wells says, and he sounds tired. He doesn’t sound like a man in love, she frets.

Well, then. Perhaps it is time for her to set this right. Perhaps she can repay every favour she owes him for a lifetime of friendship, bring a little happiness and certainty into both their lives.

She takes a deep breath, and tries her hardest to get it right.

“I would like to.” She starts there, because that seems like the most important point to make. “In fact, I would like it very much. I know that you always dreamed of a romance like the ones we see in these modern novels - perhaps you would rescue me from a haunted castle, or I would swoon at your feet. But I’m not like that. I - I don’t think I’m capable of loving like that. But please, Wells, never doubt that I do love you. You are my closest friend in the world, and the kindest person I know, and I am certain that you will make a wonderful husband. I think that - that losing my father has brought me a different viewpoint on family life, perhaps. It has shown me what is important in a family. So - if this is enough for you, let’s marry one day. If I am enough for you, indifferent at love though I am.”

He sighs a long, loud sigh. Damn it. That’s not the response she was hoping for, to her sensible yet also heartfelt arguments.

“Wells?”

“I don’t believe you.” He says, and he sounds more tired than ever. “I don’t believe this is all the love you’re capable of. I believe that you deserve a love which turns your world on its head - and I’m worried that if I take that from you, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“I don’t want a love that turns my world on its head. I’ve had enough of my life turned upside down. I want a warm hearth and a happy home with my closest friend.” She protests, and she means it. She hopes he can hear the conviction in her voice.

He can. He must do. That must be it - that must be the change that makes him reach out for her hand.

“Very well.” He says, and now he does manage half a smile. “If you’re determined. If this is truly what you want - heaven knows it’s what I want, as long as you’re truly happy too. Let’s get married.”

She smiles at him, warm and relieved, then throws her arms around him for a hug.

“A long engagement?” Wells asks, muffled somewhere near her ear.

“A long engagement.” She agrees easily.

She loves him hugely - she meant it, when she insisted upon that just now. But she doesn’t love him in such a way she wants to take to the marriage bed with him, not quite yet.

…….

She’s twenty years old by the time she comes out, in the end, and the whole experience feels rather pointless.

She’s finally finished mourning her father - or at least, finished officially mourning him. Frankly she thinks she’ll be grieving him privately for the rest of her life. And she’s already engaged to the heir to a dukedom - she knows that’s a title rather than a platter, these days - so really, what’s the point in donning an ostentatious gown and curtseying to the Queen?

She’s suddenly obliged to go to all the events of the Season, as well, and she hates it. She feels out of place, not fluent at dancing or light conversation because she missed out on the formative years when she should have learnt these skills. Other girls were learning these steps when she was learning how to repress tears.

So - here she is. She’s hovering by a potted palm in a crowded, sweaty ballroom. She has fewer friends than ever, because the girls she occasionally saw whilst growing up have all married and left her behind, now. The only reason she’s here is to dance two sets with Wells, then plead a headache and go home.

She wonders if there has ever been a debutante this unhappy before now. She knows that they are often nervous, yes, but are they often this dismayed? Thoroughly beaten down by life and death and high society?

She picks up her fan, wafts it indifferently before her face. Better to do that than to weep.

She doesn’t weep. She doesn’t get overwhelmed, doesn’t make a public show of her emotions.

She stands, calm and impassive, next to potted palms.

That’s it. That’s literally all she does, every evening without fail.

…….

The mornings are better than the evenings, at least. She’s been painting more than ever since her father died. It helps her - a way of sorting through her feelings without ever quite feeling them, somehow. Without letting them show on her face, or making a scene in public. So it's a way of keeping that old vow whilst still surviving the loss of her father and of her childhood, more or less.

Her mother told her last week that she seems to paint a lot of lonely art. Clarke’s not sure what to make of that. She supposes there’s a truth to it - she does love a desolate landscape, a single dying bloom, a vast, cloudless sky.

She’s become something of an expert in living a solitary life, for all that she’s engaged to a duke-in-waiting.

It’s not that Wells or her mother don’t care about her. They’re good, solid, loving family members. But she thinks that perhaps she’s beginning to understand what Wells meant, when he said he’d like her to fall in love for real one day. She can see that there might be happiness in a thing like that.

She shakes herself, takes her attention back to her painting. She needs to get this finished. She’s actually set to exhibit some of her work next month. That’s been the brightest spot on her horizon for some time, now - a small gallery on the other side of town which wants a young gentlewoman’s art on a theme of isolation.

She hasn’t yet decided whether to exhibit under her own name or anonymously.

She knows what the answer is meant to be. She’s not supposed to stick her head above the parapet, to be known for who she is and what she does. Her name should be forgotten, a footnote to the man she is to marry.

But - she wants it. She wants so badly to claim this talent for herself.

She bites her lip, pulls her face together into her usual impassive frown, and keeps painting.

…….

She finds a sort of compromise, in the end. She does exhibit her work under her own name, but she doesn’t make a scene when she visits on opening day and sees her paintings hanging on the wall for the first time. Quite the opposite - she goes as a rather anonymous individual, dressed in her plainest clothes, with the family carriage hiding around the corner and her mother nowhere in sight.

Sometimes, she thinks, it’s more curse than blessing that her parents have always been so liberal with her and allowed her such freedom. That’s why she always craves more independence, more liberty to do as she pleases.

She’s beyond proud to see her paintings on public display like this. She’s not arrogant or vain - she wouldn’t claim it’s the best work she’s ever seen. But she does think it’s quite an achievement for a young lady from a high-society family to create quality work and then display it under her own name.

There seems to be quite a crowd of people in agreement with her, too. The turnout on this opening day is far better than she was expecting, and she keeps hearing complimentary whispers. That’s the advantage of coming here quietly, not making a show of her own presence - she gets to hear what people really think of her work.

“It’s remarkable.” She hears the young woman standing behind her say now. “Really - spectacular. I find it quite heroic that a young gentlewoman is exhibiting these pieces under her own name.”

“I think it would be more heroic if she weren’t some toff engaged to a duke who has everything served to her on a silver platter.”

She whirls around to face the man who spoke those words - not out of emotion, of course, but out of righteous indignation.

“He’s not a duke yet.” She informs the rude fellow.

But all the same, she can’t help but crack half a smile, too. She remembers the good old days when she thought a dukedom was a kind of silver platter. When she thought that perhaps happiness could come served on a silver platter, too, as long as she kept painting and avoided marriage.

Hmm. She knows better, now.

“I beg your pardon?” This stranger seems affronted, somehow, that she would dare to speak to him.

“Wells is the heir to a dukedom, and his father is in very good health. Thank you for your candid opinions about my station in life - although, I must own, I would rather have heard some constructive criticism about the actual quality of my work.”

“You are Miss Griffin?” His eyes have gone quite wide. It’s a rather comical expression, honestly.

“The very same. And you are?”

“Miss Octavia Blake, and this is my brother, Bellamy.” The girl steps forward into a curtsey. “Forgive the informality of the introduction - and forgive my big brother for putting his foot in his mouth. We’re newly arrived in town and are still finding our manners.”

“O - you shouldn’t invite people to criticise.” This Mr Blake protests.

“And you probably shouldn’t criticise people without invitation.” Clarke points out smartly. “And yet here we all find ourselves. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Blake.” She returns the curtsey, and pointedly does not express any pleasure in meeting the rude elder brother.

A gruff noise. Mr Blake is apparently clearing his throat.

“I meant no offence.” He says now, a sort of low growl.

“I disagree.” Clarke says lightly. “I am quite certain you did mean to be offensive - why else would you speak of me in such terms? But I’m accustomed to it. To be insulted is a woman’s lot in life, I rather think - especially if she should dare to be engaged to a nobleman and exhibit her paintings at the same time.”

“They are remarkably good paintings. And - ah - yes, I must own it is rather brave of you to exhibit them under your own name.” Mr Blake tries now.

Quite against her better judgement, she finds herself warming to the odd fellow. In her experience, if a man is caught on the back foot, he normally fights. He becomes defensive and unpleasant, and lashes out at the weakest target he can see - typically poking fun at some lady.

But this Mr Blake is not like that. He’s been overheard being pointlessly rude about her, and now he’s actually trying to put it right.

Clarke decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. She’s feeling generous today - because she’s so happy to see her work on the walls, she thinks, and not because a handsome young man is bumbling his way through an odd, implicit apology to her.

“Thank you. I’m grateful for your encouragement.” She tells him, carefully polite. “I decided it was only right to put my name to them, since I suppose I am trying to make a statement with them. I wanted to show that the traditionally ladylike medium of watercolours can be used for the sort of strongly emotional scenes we more often associate with men working in oils.”

Mr Blake is nodding at her, now, and wearing an impressed look in his eyes.

“Don’t let him fool you.” Miss Blake hisses, as if they are old friends. “He knows nothing about painting. He has no understanding at all of anything you say. He’s just trying to win your favour.”

A pause. A beat of silence. And then a good deal of embarrassed, warm laughter on all fronts.

“You really know nothing about painting?” Clarke asks, surprised. He did an awfully good job of appearing to listen and understand her, there.

“Nothing at all. Sorry.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I was intrigued by a young lady painter.” Miss Blake offers. “And Bellamy is a doting brother, so he agreed to bring me here.”

“Aha - so do you paint?”

“Not at all.” More laughter. “I should like to. But as I said - we are new in town, and I have had a terribly unfashionable and rustic upbringing. No painting masters for me.”

“I could teach you.” Clarke offers at once.

Then she hears herself, tries to steer her impulsive offer in a more sensible direction. Tries not to think too hard about the fact she just made an impulsive offer at all, when she has considered herself immune to impulse for some years now.

“I don’t mean to sound presumptuous or patronising.” She clarifies, with a careful smile. “I’ve never taught anyone before - perhaps I would be hopeless at it. But I do love painting, so if you’d like to learn but - ah - don’t have the resources to employ a paid master…?”

“You have judged our situation about right.” Miss Blake agrees.

“O -”

“What, Bell? What good will come from pretending to be wealthy when Miss Griffin is offering me a kindness? I will not cut off my nose to spite my face.” Miss Blake hisses.

Clarke bites her lip. She senses there is a story, here, that she is not privy to. That these two siblings have come to town by a somewhat troubled route.

“You won’t hear me gossiping about your situation.” She says, in what she hopes is a reassuring tone. “I hardly have enough friends to gossip with anyone - going public as an artist has seen off the last of my respectability.” She tries, and she’s not entirely joking.

Mr Blake looks uncomfortable. Miss Blake looks thrilled. Clarke wonders how she looks - impassive as always, as if she were standing next to one of her potted palms, or perhaps a very little bit livelier?

At last, Mr Blake heaves a world-weary sigh. Clarke gets the impression he always capitulates to his sister, when push comes to shove.

“Very well. If you are both set on this scheme I suppose there is nothing to be done. We ought to make arrangements for some painting lessons.” He says, with a tight, tense sort of smile.

Clarke wonders what’s wrong with him. Why does he look so unhappy with the world? Does she look like that, too? When she thinks she is holding it together, is she instead publicly falling apart?

Or is it just her who can see it? One lost, lonely soul seeing another? His sister seems to think there is nothing amiss in his face as she hugs him eagerly in her gratitude.

Hmm. One thing is for certain. Clarke wouldn’t mind getting to know these Blake siblings better.

…….

Two days later, she arrives at the appointed time, and at the address the Blakes gave her. It’s a rented townhouse, modest in size, not the most fashionable part of town. But all the same, it’s perfectly respectable.

And so the plot thickens, Clarke rather thinks. So the mystery deepens. Who are these unfashionably forthright siblings who hover on the edge of respectability?

She knocks at the door. A manservant shows her into a small sitting room. With an expert eye, brought up amongst society, she takes stock of the situation. One all-purpose manservant. One all-purpose sitting room. It’s that kind of household. She doesn’t judge them for it - it’s just good to know what she’s dealing with. She wouldn’t want to put her foot in it, horrendously miscalculate their situation and make some accidentally crass remark.

“O will be down shortly.” Mr Blake informs her, strolling into the room.

She starts a little, quite taken aback by his informality. “I beg your pardon?”

“She’s still upstairs. Or rather - she’s upstairs again. She came down in her best day dress so I sent her back to change. Really - to wear her best day dress for a painting lesson.” He frowns hard. “I think she’s trying to impress you.” He says, in a warning sort of tone.

“Any friend who would be impressed by a fine dress is not a friend worth having.” Clarke says easily. “But consider this - perhaps she was not trying to impress me, so much as looking forward to having a fellow young lady to discuss fashions with. I believe you have not long been in town - has she perhaps not been wearing town fashions for long, either?” She dares to ask.

Mr Blake is still frowning, but now he looks more thoughtful than annoyed.

She gives him time. A moment or two to absorb her idea, to decide how to respond.

“You might be right.” He concedes at length. “I hadn’t thought of it like that. She hasn’t really made the acquaintance of any other young ladies here yet. I hardly know how to introduce her to anyone. And of course our mother is still at home - not that she knows much about the latest fashions.”

Clarke nods, patient and encouraging, hoping he will keep speaking.

He doesn’t.

She takes a deep breath, tries to decide where to steer them next. It’s fascinating - he’s said quite a number of words today, more than she heard him utter at the gallery by a long shot. And yet he’s still said absolutely nothing of substance. She still has no idea why he looks like he wears the weight of the world on his shoulders, why he can be so gruff and sour, or why he and his sister are in town at all.

Perhaps it’s best just to address the issue head on. These Blakes are forthright people - she noticed that from the very beginning. They don’t have that polish that people in high society call manners, and all the rest of the world calls deception. And in all honesty, she gets the impression that Mr Blake might benefit from a frank conversation with a benevolent near-stranger.

She gets that impression, because she has sometimes found herself in want of such a thing, too.

She takes a deep breath and gives it a try. “Perhaps I might be better able to support your sister if I understood more about your situation and what brings you to town. I don’t just mean painting lessons - perhaps I might even be of use in introducing her to some suitable people.” She doesn’t much rate her chances of helping Miss Blake to make friends, seeing as she has so few herself. But she does have plenty of cordial acquaintances - that’s what happens, when one is engaged to a future duke.

Mr Blake snorts, an unimpressed sort of noise. “What brings any young lady to town? We’re trying to find her a husband.”

Clarke waits patiently. There is evidently more to the story than that.

And now, for the first time, Mr Blake does voluntarily keep speaking.

“My stepfather has a respectable - but modest - estate near Arkadia. He has stayed there to keep managing the place, with my mother whose health does not allow her to travel easily. But my sister needs a husband, so here I am chaperoning her around town. But it’s not so easy as that, is it? We can’t simply walk into an art gallery and find a husband waiting to be engaged.”

She nods. That’s a sound point. But there’s something else, something much earlier in his tale, which has caught more of her interest.

“Your stepfather?”

Mr Blake tenses his shoulders a little, as if trying to shrug away something painful. “Yes. My stepfather. What of it?”

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I was simply wondering what your situation and prospects are. This stepfather - pardon me - he’s Miss Blake’s father?” She hardly dares ask the question - in fact, she’s quite certain she wouldn’t ask anyone else of her acquaintance - but suddenly it’s rather important to her to know this crucial piece of the puzzle.

“He’s my sister’s father and not mine.” Mr Blake agrees brusquely.

Well, then. Clarke thinks she has it now. She’s made sense of it at last. A modest rural family, sending their only daughter to town for the season, in desperate hopes that she might find a husband. Presumably that’s important for the inheritance of the family estate - Clarke’s familiar with such clauses.

And meanwhile her long-suffering half-brother is forgotten about by everyone. It looks like he’s even trying to forget about himself, honestly.

“That must be difficult for you.” She says, carefully level, trying not to embarrass him with a big gesture of sympathy.

He frowns. “Difficult for her, you mean.”

“I suppose it must not be easy for her. Finding a husband - and having your life revolve around finding a husband - is never easy for a young lady. But it must be even harder for you to watch and wait and do nothing for yourself.”

He nods, just once. Just a short, sharp motion with his head. Then he stands there, and stares at the fireplace, and says nothing at all for several long moments.

That’s fine. Clarke can cope with that. She’s here to paint with his sister, not converse at length with him.

But then suddenly he speaks up once again. Just a few words, but saying more than she’s ever heard him say at once before, she thinks.

“I expect to be a tailor when all this is through - when my sister has found her husband. Or at least, I hope to be a tailor. I must find a trade, and I have a little skill in that area.”

Her turn to nod, as she takes that in. That’s not easy, she muses - to have to lead his sister round a society where they both feel ill-at-ease, always knowing throughout it all that the best case scenario for him is to end up making coats for her future husband, one day.

Silence sits. Clarke lets it. She has nothing else much to say to this odd, tragic stranger. Out in the hallway, she can hear the manservant pacing, and she’s glad of it. These Blakes may have informal manners, but she’s due to marry a future duke, and she can’t be unchaperoned with a man.

She’s sure Miss Blake will be down shortly. It takes a while for a lady to change and dress, yes, but not forever. Maybe she ought to unpack the painting things she brought with her, or take a seat, or -

“Should I ring for tea?” Mr Blake asks, sudden, with a crooked smile. “That’s what you town families do in these circumstances, isn’t it? We’re supposed to sip tea and talk about the weather?”

Clarke laughs. Mr Blake can be quite upbeat and almost witty when he puts his mind to it, apparently.

“No need, sir. Thank you - but I am not at all thirsty and I always find a conversation of substance more interesting.”

He lets out a chuckle, shaky, halfway to a sigh. “Thank the Lord. I have no idea how people can honestly have a conversation about the weather. What is there to say? It’s either fine or not. Do people actually discuss the details about wind speed and the like? Why would wealthy folks in town care a whit about the exact air temperature? They are hardly spending their time out in the fields.”

“No. It’s not like that. It’s not about the details - more about one’s own personal impressions of the weather. We could practise, if you like?”

“Practise?”

“Yes. We could practise chatting lightly about the weather so you can feel at home in town - just as I am helping your sister feel at home by practising her accomplishments.”

“I see. So we are your latest charity case.”

She’s horrified. Even though she doesn’t permit herself to be emotional, she’s devastated. Is that really how this looks to him? She’s earnestly trying to help. For the first time in all her life she’s found two people who actually seem to appreciate her friendship, who need her in some way, and now -

“Miss Griffin? I’m sorry. I was teasing. I - ah - appear to have misjudged my joke.”

She nods, scrambles for a smile. “Quite so. No harm done.” She says, although she’s not altogether sure that’s true.

“So come on - teach me how to say trivial things about the weather. I’m eager for my first lesson.” He tells her, with that crooked grin.

This is better. Her horror has quite fled, now.

“I think the weather is very fine today. I enjoyed the warm sun as I walked from the carriage.” She says carefully, with a pointed look. “How do you feel about it?”

“As you say, it’s warm.” He echoes, with an unimpressed sort of look which strongly suggests he can’t believe anyone would think this conversation worth having.

“Yes, indeed. But how does the fine weather affect you personally? Did you enjoy a morning ride? Are you concerned for the state of the roads?”

“How could fine weather ruin the roads?” He asks, incredulous.

“No - it couldn’t, of course. That’s one to use when it’s raining heavily. Especially as a gentleman, it’s important that you fret about the state of the roads at every possible opportunity.”

“I see.” He says, serious and solemn - or perhaps mock-serious, conspiring in this shared joke with her. “So what ought a gentleman say about fine weather?”

“That depends on his interests. He might comment on how it will affect his ride, or perhaps the conditions for the horses at the next race day. He might worry that his wife’s cheeks will catch too much sun. If he is master of an estate, he might comment on how it will affect the crops.”

Too late, she realises she’s given him nothing useful there. As an impoverished half-brother who will make his living through trade, he most likely knows nothing of horses or racing or crops. And he clearly doesn’t have a wife.

But all the same, it seems he’s a good sport, ready to have a go. He’s willing to join in this strange game they have ended up playing. He’s nodding, frowning a little, looking out of the window.

“In that case, please allow me to observe that I do enjoy fine weather - but that I am worried it will be too hot by the time my sister and I take our walk in the park this afternoon. Very hot weather always feels more oppressive in town than in the country, don’t you think?”

“Very well said, sir.” She actually makes a little show of applauding him, raising her hands to clap quietly.

He laughs, grins at her, then turns away. She glances down at the carpet, then back at his face, then -

Then Miss Blake is striding through the door, and the moment is lost.

…….

Clarke goes to the Blakes’ rented townhouse rather often in the days which follow.

After all, she did say she would teach Miss Blake to paint, and that’s a duty she intends to take seriously. She strikes up a firm friendship with the girl as well, quickly finding herself on first-name terms with her, and doing her best to introduce her to high society.

In fact, as Octavia makes the acquaintance of half a dozen new gentlemen at a musical soiree, Clarke finds herself rather grateful that she will be a duchess one day. That’s the kind of thing which makes it easy to charm people into an introduction with her new friend - they all hope there is something to gain from the acquaintance.

Clarke only wishes she could find someone who wants to meet Octavia for herself, not for her friendship with a duchess-in-waiting.

She tells Octavia’s brother as much, tonight, as the two of them stand by the refreshment table and watch their charge chat quietly with a tall, broad young man.

“I fear I am doing her a disservice.” Clarke mutters quietly. “The sort of gentleman who wants an introduction to her because she is the friend of a future duchess is not the sort of gentleman she should marry.”

“It’s better than nothing, and we’re grateful for your help.” Mr Blake says, almost rude in his forthright honesty as ever. “If she meets enough men, surely at least one of them will be a good and genuine fellow.”

“Hmm. I do hope so.” Clarke agrees quietly. But honestly, she’s not at all sure Mr Blake has it correct. She’s lived amongst these people all her life, and Wells is the only kind and honest man she has ever met - and she didn’t meet him through a formal introduction at a soiree, but through genuine childhood friendship.

Only - perhaps she ought to add Mr Blake to that list too. Yes, he can be brusque, but he cares deeply about his sister and she’s quite certain he’s a dependable sort of man.

No. It doesn’t count. She met him at an art gallery because he was rude about her, not at a formal society introduction.

She’s in danger of becoming lost in such introspection when the man himself jostles her lightly with his elbow.

“Come, Miss Griffin. Enough of that melancholy for one night. You are doing your best - that’s all you could ever do, and you have our thanks for it. Now enjoy some of this fine champagne. I must say it’s very refreshing when the weather is so warm.” He says pointedly.

She laughs, rewards him with a little smile. Because that’s the other reason she quite often finds herself at the Blakes’ townhouse, these days - not just for Octavia’s painting lessons, but also for Mr Blake’s weather lessons. Or rather, his lessons on polite society, and light conversation, and -

She goes there to talk to him. There. Is that so very wrong?

“I don’t find it so warm as it was yesterday.” She tells him, playing along with a light grin. “In fact, yesterday I could hardly bear to sit in the carriage in the hottest part of the day - a great inconvenience, since my mother took me out when she made her morning calls.”

“I daresay you’re right - the day has not been so warm. But it is almost stuffy in here, isn’t it?”

She splutters out a laugh, covers her mouth politely with her hand. “Take care, Mr Blake. We don’t tell the hosts their music room is stuffy. That’s not the done thing.”

“I don’t know. I might tell them that just to spite them.” He dares to suggest. “That Lord Wallace was definitely looking down his nose at me when we were introduced. No - in fact - here’s a better scheme for revenge. I hope he has a most unpleasant night’s sleep in this unbearably stuffy house. There! I will wish him a trivial bit of ill-fortune for my revenge.”

She’s laughing loudly and earnestly now - too loud and earnest for a public soiree, probably. But she can’t help it. Conversations with Mr Blake are often like this, in her experience - serious commentary on the state of the world and their troubles, coupled with silliness about the weather and jokes about the absurd snobbishness of those around them.

She’s rather taken aback when she feels someone wrap a hand around her arm. She whirls around to see what’s going on, although naturally it can only be one man. There’s only one person in the world who would dare to take her arm like that.

“Wells!” She exclaims - delighted to see him, as always, but perhaps a very little bit flustered that he has appeared just in time to see her laugh with another man. “I didn’t know you would be here. You weren’t here for the first half.”

“I thought it better to appear in the interval than never show my face at all.” He says, with that easy-going warmth which characterises him - and which Clarke has always envied, honestly. There is nothing easy-going or warm about her at all, she often fears.

She smiles at him, perhaps a little too carefully. She gathers herself, makes the necessary introductions.

“This is Mr Blake. You recall I have been spending a great deal of time with his sister? Mr Blake, this is Wells - or I should say, Lord Jaha.”

“You should not say Lord Jaha.” Wells corrects her firmly, as he always does. “I go by Jaha if you can’t bring yourself to call me Wells.” He says affably, stretching out a hand in Mr Blake’s direction.

“I go by Bellamy at home.” Mr Blake says in return, reaching out to shake his hand. “But here in town everything feels so formal. Miss Griffin has been calling at our house almost every day this last week and still she calls me Mr Blake.” He says, as if the very thought of it is funny.

“That’s because you are a gentleman and I am a lady, sir.” She points out primly.

“I quite hear you, Bellamy.” Wells says, utterly undermining her point. “You’re correct - all this formality is foolish. I can see we will be firm friends. Clarke has already told me so much about you and your sister.”

Clarke shakes her head. She has definitely lost here, one way or another. She didn’t even realise she was playing a game. But somehow, her future husband and her new best friend seem to have conspired against her. They’re suddenly close chums, on first name terms, while she’s still stuck calling Bellamy Mr Blake like a good, demure debutante.

Sorry - not her new best friend. Her new best friend’s brother, obviously.

Dear Lord - what a silly mistake to make. She must be feeling quite tired in this stuffy ballroom.

Or perhaps all this fine, refreshing champagne is going straight to her head.

…….

She tries something the next morning. It’s silly, probably. But when she arrives at the Blakes’ home and finds only Mr Blake sitting in the drawing room, she seizes her chance.

“Good morning, Bellamy. What do you make of the weather today?”

He pauses for scarcely a second. Just one heartbeat, perhaps, in which he blinks at her and takes a moment to catch up with her use of his Christian name.

And then it’s fine. Then he manages it, arrives in place as if cresting a very small hill. He’s overcome his struggle, and decided this is perfectly acceptable - she can see it in his eyes.

“It’s very humid - I’m afraid we might have a thunderstorm later. And a very wise lady once told me it’s the duty of any gentleman to fret over the state of the roads in heavy rain.”

“She sounds very wise indeed.” She chimes in with his teasing.

“Yes - quite so. Only we keep no carriage of our own, and I have no horse, so I can’t see how it will concern me if the roads do turn to mud. All the same, I do hate to neglect my duty. So you see - I am quite conflicted here, Clarke.”

She laughs. She is supposed to, surely? And yet what started out as quite a teasing conversation seems to have become suddenly serious, in the last few minutes. By the time he said her name she could swear there was a certain heaviness to his tone.

Has she missed something? Is there a different duty he is struggling with? Is he feeling conflicted about something else besides the weather?

Or did he adopt that solemn tone simply to say her name?

No. She can’t pursue that train of thought. There are just some things a lady may not investigate. She’s going to be a duchess one day, and it wouldn’t be proper to encourage her new friend’s brother to take a particular tone when calling her by name. That way lies danger, she’s quite sure of it.

“I had better go and encourage Octavia to hurry up. If we’re to take our sketching to the park before the thunderstorm hits we’ll have to leave soon.”

It’s a lie. They both know it’s a lie. He was speculating vaguely that there might be a storm this afternoon - no one is suggesting the heavens are due to open in the next two hours.

But all the same, she dashes up the stairs.

…….

Clarke remembers to take Wells with her next time she spends an evening out in society.

No - that’s a silly way of putting it. She could never forget Wells. A woman doesn’t forget her closest friend. But she’s particularly mindful of him, tonight, as they head to the Sidney ball. She’s very deliberate about walking with her hand on his arm, making a point of staying by his side as his future wife.

It’s not that she forgot about him, last week, at that soiree where he walked into the middle of her laughing with Bellamy. But she thinks it must have felt a little odd for him to show up to a social event and find his future wife laughing with a stranger. He hasn’t said anything, but all the same, it doesn’t strike her as a very comfortable sort of occurrence. She hopes it wasn't too uncomfortable - she did make that vow, five years ago, never to hurt him again, and she intends to stick to it. So she’s determined to be the perfect companion to Wells, tonight.

She gets off to a good start. She dances the first set with him. And she does enjoy dancing with him, as it happens. She likes dancing in general, but tends to sit out a fair few sets since she is not the most popular partner. That’s how it is, when a lady has an unfashionable figure and is already engaged. And dancing with Wells is even better than those pity sets she dances with Mr Green or Mr Jordan. Wells is her best friend, after all, so they share good conversations when they dance.

She hopes all their married life will be like that. Sort of lively, and warm, and entirely comfortable - whether they’re at the chess board or in a ballroom.

But then, as their first set draws to a close, Wells rather interferes with her plan for the evening.

“I believe I see Bellamy. You should dance the next with him.”

“Bellamy?”

“You know - Mr Blake. Our new friend. You should dance with him, since I can hardly do it. We must show we approve of him and his sister. Perhaps I’ll dance with Miss Blake.”

Clarke is deeply reluctant about this idea, for reasons she doesn’t care to investigate too closely.

“I thought you and I might dance two sets together to begin the evening.” She protests mildly.

Wells only smiles at her. “We have the whole of the rest of our lives to dance together, Clarke. Come - let’s show our new friends a warm welcome and get them noticed. Unless - do you mean to say you don’t wish to dance with Bellamy? Has he said something boorish without my notice? I thought him a kind fellow.”

“Yes! That is to say - no, he’s done nothing wrong. You’re right - he and his sister are good people and we should do our part to get them noticed.”

It’s fine. She can handle this. She does dance with gentlemen who are not Wells sometimes, and he often dances with other ladies. It’s not that she’s averse to the idea.

It’s just that she’s never before danced with a man who was quite so forthright, so genuinely talkative with her, or so annoyingly handsome in a formal coat. Mr Jordan is a pale, slender sort of man who makes polite conversation about her mother’s health - that Clarke can cope with. That doesn’t make her ask difficult questions, or think dangerous thoughts.

That doesn’t make her wonder whether marrying Wells is the right choice.

No. She’s being silly. It’s her only choice. She must marry, and Wells is a good man, and Bellamy’s broad shoulders have nothing to do with the matter.

She lifts her chin and strides across the ballroom with her head held high.

She greets Octavia first. Octavia is her close friend, after all, and it’s for her sake that Clarke is about to dance with her elder brother.

Then she turns to Bellamy.

“If you wanted to be noticed for the right reasons, you might ask me to dance.” She says pointedly.

He frowns. “Why should I want to be noticed? It’s my sister who is looking for a match.”

Clarke actually rolls her eyes at him. “Because your standing reflects on her too, sir. And who knows? Maybe one day people will remember your name and buy one of your coats.”

He laughs, a little stiffly, but at least it’s a laugh. “You think so? You think they will remember that I once danced with a woman who will be a duchess by then, and that will sway them to patronise my business?”

“It’s worth a try.”

He shakes his head. “It’s just as well that I expect to enjoy dancing with you for its own sake, because I don’t believe for a moment it will improve my business prospects. Shall we do it, then? Shall we take to the floor?”

“Yes. And Octavia - where did she go? Wells was going to dance with her.”

Clarke turns around, puzzled. Octavia was here just now. How did she slip away while Clarke was talking to Bellamy? Was her attention really so absorbed in the conversation that she managed to miss a thing like that?

“She already has this set spoken for. That fellow she met at the soiree - Mr Lincoln. He called yesterday and she won’t stop talking about him.” Bellamy says, in a long-suffering sort of voice.

Clarke isn’t fooled. She knows he’s delighted that his sister has taken a liking to someone, even if he’s feeling protective and a little exasperated, too.

“Come on, then. Dance with me and tell me more about Mr Lincoln.” Clarke suggests, as they take to the floor.

That’s a sensible strategy, she thinks. As long as they’re talking about Octavia’s suitor they can’t laugh too loudly together, can’t smile at each other too long. As long as they stick firmly to the topic of someone else’s romance, they can’t possibly get side-tracked by each other’s hearts.

She can feel Wells’ eyes on her the whole time she dances with Bellamy. And that’s only natural, of course - he’s not dancing with anyone, since Octavia is otherwise engaged, so it’s to be expected that he might stare at his intended.

But all the same, she notices.

All the same, she wonders what he sees.

…….

Another afternoon sitting in the garden, and another difficult question from Wells. But she handles this one far better than she managed that shocking question back when they were fifteen - she’s learned a thing or two about sense and circumspection, in the intervening years.

“When exactly do we intend to marry?” He asks, but in a relaxed sort of tone, his face lifted to the sun. “Now that you are out in society I thought perhaps we should do it soon. This year or next?”

“Next year, I think.” Clarke says calmly.

She has sensible reasons for suggesting next year. Really, she does. She’s still feeling a little hollow about her father’s loss - she’ll be be a better wife by next year, more warm and full-spirited. And her courses have become rather irregular since she came out, along with all the stress that entails - they’re far more likely to have an immediate heir on the way if they wait another year for her body and soul to settle down.

So it’s for sensible reasons like those that she asks him to delay. Entirely logical, rational considerations.

It’s not about Bellamy. It’s not because she’s recently made a friend who chases away that hollow feeling, who has her laughing louder than ever.

Bellamy Blake’s broad shoulders have nothing to do with this matter, in short - just as they have nothing to do with any other matter, just as they have no place in her life whatsoever.

Shoulders? What shoulders?

She scarcely even noticed he had shoulders.

…….

Sometimes Clarke does go to the Blakes’ rented townhouse and actually paint with Octavia. Once in a while, that’s all she does - if Bellamy is out or absent or attending to some business.

Today is one of those days. Clarke is sitting with Octavia, working quietly at their watercolours together. Clarke started by showing her a couple of technical points, and now they are each quietly at their own work.

Clarke is being less attentive than she would like. She has her ears pricked up like a watchful dog, keeps raising her head to check Bellamy hasn’t walked into the room while she wasn’t looking.

She’s being silly, of course. And silliness is a quality she despises - it’s a thoroughly useless and emotional sort of approach. So she ought to pull it together, concentrate on her paintbrush, and stop wondering whether her friend’s big brother will stop by.

She’s engaged to the heir to a dukedom. Behaviour like this is not befitting. And apart from anything else, she did swear she would never hurt Wells.

There. That’s better. That shames her into concentration - or something like it. She’s working on a new scene today - strong summer light on parched fields. Again, it’s an attempt to push watercolour painting beyond its traditional boundaries and reach for something more.

She actually manages to absorb herself deeply enough in her work that she doesn’t notice, at first, when Octavia leaves her own painting to lean in and watch Clarke.

“That’s very striking.” Octavia says, in an admiring tone.

Clarke jumps a little, but doesn’t smudge her work. “Striking - do you mean that as a compliment?”

“Yes. It’s unusual, but I like it.”

Clarke nods, accepts the compliment, frowns in consideration at her painting for a moment.

Octavia speaks up again. “On the subject of choices which are unusual but likable…?”

Clarke splutters out a laugh. “That link was tenuous at best, Octavia. Go ahead - say whatever you wish to say.”

Octavia’s laughing too. But she looks tense, as well, and her laughter doesn’t quite sound right.

And then, all at once, it makes sense.

“I think I wish to marry Mr Lincoln.” She rushes through the words. “I know - that’s not what my stepfather was hoping for, when he sent me here. Mr Lincoln’s family are from trade, not gentry. But - but he doesn’t care that my manners are rustic or that we’re not so very wealthy. He earnestly likes me. So - I suppose - I am asking you what you think of the idea.” Octavia concludes, brows drawn.

“I think you’re doing the right thing by giving it careful consideration and asking for the thoughts of your trusted friend.” Clarke says, because that’s true. The blunt, impetuous Octavia she met a couple of months ago would not have had the maturity to do that. “But I do think you’re acting quite quickly here, Octavia. You’ve scarcely known him a few weeks. There is no rush to make a decision quite yet.”

“But - I want to. I don’t particularly enjoy the season. My family could make better use of the money spent on my come-out elsewhere. And - and I do miss my mother. So surely it would be an advantage to decide quickly, if I am sure I am making the right choice?”

Clarke frowns, considers that for a moment. Isn’t it essentially what she did? Jump to secure the first acceptable husband she found? The difference is, she’s known Wells all her life, and Octavia has only known Mr Lincoln a few weeks. But apart from that, the situations truly are similar.

“I think you must talk to your brother.” She says in the end, even though it feels a little like she is evading the question. “He will have a better idea of your family’s expectations and finances. For my part, my only advice is to make sure that you truly will be happy with this man. Be certain that you love him - and will keep loving him all your life - before you enter an engagement.”

“Like you did with Wells?” Octavia asks.

There’s something in her voice - something Clarke does not like. Something cheeky, impertinent, as if calling her out for her hypocritical advice.

“Wells is a good man and I will love him for as long as I live.” Clarke says, firmly and truthfully.

“Yes - but you’ll never be in love with him. He knows that, and you know that, and I rather think the entire town knows that.”

“That’s enough, Octavia. You asked for my advice - I didn’t ask for yours.”

Yet even as she says it, she thinks perhaps she did need it. But it’s too little, too late, isn’t it?

For the first time it occurs to her. For the first time in all her life, a dangerous thought rears its head.

She wishes she hadn’t done it. She wishes she hadn’t become so soundly engaged to Wells so young. She doesn’t regret it, as such - she certainly won’t go back on it now. She’s as determined as ever to make him a good, faithful wife. She won't hurt him, won't jilt him, since the die is already cast.

It’s just that, now, if she were a child or younger woman again, she would rather not have done it. She’d rather be free, and single, and have more paths open to her. And that’s not entirely because of Bellamy - she’s not foolish enough to kid herself that the fluttery, silly attraction she feels for him is a marriage-making or marriage-breaking sort of love.

But perhaps meeting him has at least opened her eyes to the possibility that there is more to the world, and more to love, than she realised when she was seven years old.

…….

Octavia is often late to her painting lessons.

It’s a pattern Clarke gave little thought to, at first. She thought that perhaps her impulsive young friend was just too disorganised to be on time, or else was indecisive about which dress to wear, after that first morning.

But now she has her suspicions. She thinks something else might be afoot. Ever since that pointed comment about the imperfections of Clarke’s engagement, she thinks this might be a deliberate ploy to leave her standing around and talking to Bellamy.

She ought to be annoyed about that. It’s certainly not good manners to attempt to break up a long-standing engagement, if that is what Octavia is seeking to do. But it’s just the kind of well-meaning but misjudged thing she might attempt, Clarke fears. She probably hasn’t realised that this is a serious sort of situation with the power to hurt people and ruin reputations.

In short, her younger friend still has a certain naivety about her, and Clarke thinks she has no business getting engaged quite yet. She knows all too well, after all, what happens when an engagement is entered naively.

So today is another day when Clarke is left to sit in the drawing room with Bellamy. He’s got better at this, over the months of their friendship - he has even called for tea, this morning.

“Who is supposed to pour this?” He asks her, frowning at the pot. “Do I pour because it is my home? Do you pour because pouring is usually a task for a lady? I’m quite at a loss.” He admits, chuckling stiffly at himself.

“I hardly think it matters. Our friendship is not so formal. Pour it yourself or pass me the pot, as you like.”

He pours it, in the end. He pours her a cup and puts it right into her hands, brushing clumsily against her fingers as he goes.

She doesn’t mention it. No need to make him feel self-conscious. No need to discourage him from brushing her fingers again, in the future, if the moment should arise.

She relaxes back into her seat, cradling her tea, and sets out with her favourite shared joke.

“Tell me - what do you think of the weather today?” She asks.

He grins. “I think it will rain heavily, and I’m grateful for it. A good shower of rain might put Mr Lincoln off proposing to my sister. I am after all the delaying tactics I can find - I don’t want to have to say no to the fellow, since he does seem a good match for her, but she’s plainly too young and naive to agree to it just yet.”

She nods. “Yes - I do see your point. But perhaps rather than wishing a soaking upon him, you might just insist on a long engagement?”

“I don’t see that a long engagement is so much better than a young wedding. A long engagement still ties her to him. A long engagement is still nigh-on impossible to break, if she realises when she is older that she entered into it too hastily.” He says, and he sounds sour.

Too sour, she thinks. She knows he feels strongly about his sister’s health and happiness, but does he really feel that strongly? Is he perhaps making some veiled comment about long engagements interfering with his own happiness instead?

No. She’s being foolish. He cares deeply about his sister - he was honestly only talking about the point at hand.

“A long engagement has its strengths.” She says, because she supposes she really ought to defend the practice. “It gives a couple plenty of time to get to know each other and grow in maturity, whilst having the comfort of knowing that their future is assured.”

He snorts. “And meanwhile, some of us have no idea what the future holds.”

“That’s not true. You know you have a future ahead of you.” She says bracingly. “You’ll be an excellent tailor, and you’ll make the most of all these connections you have made in town to secure good business. And you’ll have a duke and duchess amongst your customers.”

She sighs. That’s what it always comes down to, isn’t it?

Bellamy will be a tailor. And one day, next year, she’ll marry Wells. And so it is that Bellamy will have a duke and duchess on his books.

…….

Mr Lincoln does propose to Octavia later that week, wet weather notwithstanding. And Bellamy consents to the match on his stepfather’s behalf, on the condition that it must be a long engagement.

Clarke finds all this out from Octavia, not from Bellamy. He hasn’t taken tea with her since that morning, and Octavia has started attending her painting lessons on time. She’s not at all sure what to make of that - has something awkward and uncomfortable happened and passed her by? Something more awkward and uncomfortable than her - an engaged woman, destined to be a duchess - developing a fondness for a bastard-born tailor?

In fact, the first time she sees him after that conversation is more a matter of necessity than friendship.

“Mr Lincoln is coming to call. We’re all taking a walk together.” Octavia tells her excitedly, when she arrives at the house for what she expects to be a painting lesson.

“I’m hardly dressed for a walk in the park.” Clarke mutters, gesturing down at the worn gown she chose to paint in.

“Sorry - I should have said - but he’ll be here shortly and we must be ready.” Octavia frets, patting at her hair, then pulling her bonnet hastily onto her head.

Clarke goes to help her, gets the bonnet sitting right on her head. “You’re looking very well. Mr Lincoln is sure to be captivated.” She says honestly. Her friend is wearing one of those fine new town dresses her brother doesn’t allow her to paint in.

“Thank you! Thanks. I hope so. Dear me - this long engagement business is very tiring. I’m always worried he will lose interest in me through waiting. Do you ever feel like that about Wells?”

Clarke doesn’t dignify that with an answer. It would feel dishonest even to try, somehow, she feels. It would be cheeky to stand in Bellamy’s home and pretend she’s ever felt anxiety about whether hers and Wells’ love will stand the test of time.

Mr Lincoln arrives then, thank goodness. He bustles through the door, all gruff good cheer, and greets Octavia warmly.

“Are we ready to set out?” Clarke asks, when greetings have been exchanged and the three of them are standing together in the hallway of the house.

Octavia laughs. “Dear me, no. We must wait for Bellamy. Surely you didn’t think he’d allow me out on this excursion without chaperoning me himself?”

Clarke swallows hard. She’s not feeling emotional or distressed, of course, because she doesn’t feel things like that. But she is perhaps feeling a very little bit uncomfortable.

She can see how this turns out. The happily engaged couple will walk ahead. She and Bellamy will follow behind, keeping an eye on them from an appropriate distance.

She swallows hard once more, and it doesn’t help.

The man himself walks down the stairs, then. He’s the one who’s late down for a change, and his sister well ahead of him. Clarke’s convinced there really is something amiss here.

“Are you well?” She asks him, eyes narrowed. It’s an impertinent sort of greeting, perhaps, but she cares, damn it. He looks rather more like the sad fellow she first met, today, than like the jovial Bellamy she has got to know since then.

He doesn’t answer her directly. He turns to his sister instead.

“Do you have a spare bonnet you can lend Clarke?” He asks.

She nods, turns to reach for an old straw bonnet that hangs by some coats in the hall.

“I don’t need to borrow -”

“Nonsense.” Bellamy tells her, firm, but perhaps with a hint of his usual warmth in his eyes. “You must have a bonnet. I fear this might be quite a lengthy walk, and it’s very warm out, and I’m worried your cheeks will catch too much sun.”

She gasps, a little emotional reaction breaking through her armour. He’s worried her cheeks will catch too much sun? Is that a deliberate reference to the words she said so long ago, to her advice that a husband must always fret about his wife’s cheeks in hot weather?

But if he’s trying to say something affectionate, or even romantic, why does he have a face like thunder?

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, sir.” She tells him prettily, as she accepts the bonnet from Octavia’s outstretched hand and starts trying to secure it on her own head.

No. That’s not good enough, apparently. Bellamy himself is leaning in, reaching for her, tying the ribbons in a bow beneath her chin.

“There - all ship-shape. You should survive anything the world can throw at you.” He jokes, wobbling the bonnet a little on her head as if to prove it is securely tied.

She grins up at him. This is better. This is more like her usual warm Bellamy. There’s still something around his eyes she doesn’t much like, but all the same -

“We should go.” Octavia says, pointed, a little too loud.

They do. Clarke gulps, takes a step back from Bellamy, leads the way through the front door. Then she realises her mistake, dawdles on the steps so that the engaged couple can overtake her and Bellamy can catch her up.

Everything is a little more comfortable once they are underway. When they’re moving, walking side-by-side through the nearby park, she manages to act quite normally.

Bellamy seems to be feeling more like his usual self, too. As the two of them trail some paces behind Lincoln and Octavia, they manage a heated discussion about the hot weather, some cheeky observations about a ball they all attended a couple of weeks ago, a sort of running commentary on the odd fashions they see around them.

It’s not until they turn for home that it all goes pear-shaped.

They’re nearly out of the park, in fact. The four of them are just making their way through a clutch of trees - as always, the engaged couple at the front, the two who can never be a couple bringing up the rear. And the foliage is quite thick here, so it’s easy to lose sight of each other through the branches.

“We should walk quicker.” Clarke says, rather focused on her duty to her friend. “It wouldn’t do to let them stay out of sight for long - we ought to catch up.”

“Mmm.”

“Bellamy?” She turns to look at him, alarmed. That wasn’t a very coherent response.

And then, all at once, he’s kissing her. He’s got one hand tucked around the back of her neck, just below that borrowed bonnet, and he’s tilting his head to duck under the wide brim, and he’s kissing her.

It’s a good kiss - at least, she thinks it is. She doesn’t have a lot of experience to compare it with, does she? But it’s firm and eager, yet quite careful, too. She likes it very much. It’s just like Bellamy himself, she thinks - kind and considerate, yet heartfelt and passionate, too.

She kisses him back as best she can. She has no idea what she’s doing, of course, but she thinks she’s managing well enough. She reaches for him, sets both hands at his waist, and allows her lips to fall open a little as they kiss.

But then he pulls away. He was the one who started it, yet he’s the one who ends it, too. He steps back, panting, suddenly incapable of meeting her eyes.

“I’m sorry - that was - I do apologise.” He mutters.

“Bellamy -”

“I should go. My sister has been out of sight too long.”

With that he strides off, through the trees, following the path Octavia and Mr Lincoln took.

Clarke is left stumbling in his wake, dazed, and touching her hand to her tingling, freshly-kissed lips.

…….

The following morning Clarke gathers her courage. She’s a brave woman, and she’s not about to be put off from visiting her good friends just because one of them happened to kiss her yesterday. In fact, she thinks, that might be all the more reason to visit the Blakes - she senses she might need to have a conversation with Bellamy.

The way she sees it, he must feel something for her too. That’s the only way she can understand that kiss. All the friendly conversation and hints of flirtation are one thing, but a kiss is a category all of its own. So it is that, in her rational, pragmatic way, she thinks it’s necessary to discuss all this with him. She is engaged, yes, but an engagement can be broken if it must be. If Bellamy enjoyed that kiss even half as much as she did, she thinks she ought to be honest with Wells and suggest they go their separate ways - or rather, that they keep living next door as friends all their lives, rather than sharing a home as husband and wife.

She thinks she should suggest that, even though she vowed she would never hurt him.

It's not a perfect solution, to be sure, but she thinks it's the most logical solution to be had at this point. So it is that she presents herself at the Blakes’ familiar front door. She knocks, is admitted by the manservant, and enters.

She finds Octavia, and only Octavia, in the sitting room.

“No Bellamy today?” She asks, carefully light.

“No. He went out early - something about having business to attend to. He said not to expect him back until supper.”

Clarke nods, and pastes on her old impassive expression, and gets on with teaching her friend how to paint.

…….

That morning rather sets the pattern for the days which follow, unfortunately.

Bellamy avoids her. It’s as simple as that. He’s never there, never asks after her, never leaves a message.

She can take a hint. She knows this means he doesn’t want to talk about the kiss. But she’s quite sure it doesn’t mean he didn’t enjoy this kiss. In fact, the way she sees it, the only reason for him to flee now is if he enjoyed it very much indeed, and is losing his cool over a passionate kiss with his engaged friend. If he was indifferent to her, he’d just tell her that to her face, wouldn’t he? This reaction only makes sense if he’s very much attached and is torturing himself about her being already spoken for.

It leaves her with a lot to think about. A lot of emotional turmoil, threatening to spill over. And so it is that she falls back into old habits. She adopts that old impassive frown, learns to wear it calmly as a public mask once again.

The worst thing of all? Wells notices something is wrong.

“Are you quite well? Did you eat something funny?” He asks her, tonight, at a ball thrown in honour of the Prince of the Ice Nation.

Clarke swallows hard. She wishes she ate something funny. Then she wouldn’t have to stand here, at this damn party, celebrating some minor royal she cares not a whit about and wondering whether the Blake siblings will show their faces.

“I’m perfectly fine.” She lies as brightly as she can manage. “I think I’m just a little overtired. Please don’t let me ruin your evening - go and ask someone else to dance.”

“If you’re sure.” He hedges, throwing her a concerned sort of look.

“Quite sure. There’s nothing the matter, truly. I’ll just take a glass of lemonade and stand somewhere cool. Look - there’s a quiet spot by that beautiful palm.”

It’s a very ugly palm tree, as it happens. But in a lifetime spent lying about her feelings - or pretending not to have feelings at all - one little lie about a palm tree seems like the least of her worries.

…….

It’s Octavia who tells her that the Blakes are going home.

Of course it is. Bellamy still isn’t speaking to her, since that earth-shattering kiss in the park.

Clarke swallows, and nods, and tries to adopt an impassive smile as she wishes her friend well. They’re heading home because Octavia is already engaged, because the season is nearly over anyway, because there’s no reason to stay, because their parents are missing them and the money is running out.

Clarke keeps nodding, even though that’s not strictly true, the way she sees it. She’s quite certain from the way he’s spoken about his family that no one is particularly missing Bellamy. She’s convinced that she’s the only person who ever does that, in fact.

She keeps nodding, even when Octavia tells her they’re departing in three days’ time.

…….

Clarke doesn’t count down the hours until Bellamy leaves town.

Of course she doesn’t. That would be foolish. And anyway, it can’t make any difference to her whether he stays or goes, since he’s refusing to see her.

That’s it. That’s when the idea takes root. He’s not strictly refusing to see her, is he? Yes, he’s avoiding her. Certainly, he’s not volunteering to see her. But would he actually refuse to hear her out if she presented herself and insisted on speaking to him?

So it is that, the night before he’s due to return home, she does just that.

It’s the only silly, scandalous, emotional thing she’s ever done, in a lifetime of minding her manners and embroidery she hates and keeping a lid on her real feelings. But Bellamy has taught her a thing or two about letting her heart sing free, this Season, so she’s not about to give up on him without a fight.

It scares her witless, for the record. There’s something utterly terrifying about sneaking from her home, catching a Hackney across town, and knocking on the Blakes’ door late in the evening.

The manservant answers the door. And Clarke demands, in her firmest voice, to speak with Mr Blake about an urgent and important matter.

It works. To her relief - and horror - it works. She’s shown into the sitting room, and Bellamy appears within seconds, frowning hard.

“Clarke? Whatever is wrong? Why are you here at this time of night?”

“It’s not that late.” She defends herself, chin jutting out stubbornly.

“Clarke -”

“I’m here to ask you to marry me.” She says, interrupting his protests just as he interrupted her on that fateful day they kissed. “I’m here to suggest we should just do it. I know this is our last chance to speak before you go home so - so please hear me out. I can break my engagement to Wells. If we have a son, he’ll inherit all my father’s estates, so we’ll be comfortably off. We could be one of those fashionable artistic couples - me with my painting, you with your coats, and -”

“No. Absolutely not. There’s nothing romantic about starving, nothing fashionable about struggling to make ends meet. I don’t know what sort of fairy tale you think you’ve fallen in love with, but this will never work.” He argues, bitter, gesturing between the two of them.

“We could make it work. And I’m not being so naive - my father’s property -”

“Is contingent upon you having a son. There are no guarantees in this world, and no one would help you out if you married a nobody-turned-tailor. It’s a pretty dream, to be sure, but you’ve been led astray by the idea that aristocrats can play at painting and -”

“You take that back.” She demands, stepping right up to him, suddenly furious with him. “You know my painting is good, and you know it’s important to me. I’m not just playing at anything.” She takes a deep breath. “I spoke wrong, when I talked about being fashionable - you know that doesn’t concern me. I suppose I was trying to say that there is a precedent. There are other people in my circle who have made the decision to concentrate on their art and manage well enough with less money. So really, what I am suggesting is not so entirely senseless.” She tells him, as much to convince herself as to convince him.

He sighs. He seems to deflate a little, even as he still stands taller than her. He drags a heavy hand through his curls.

Then he speaks, and she feels her heart shatter in her chest.

“You’re being foolish.” He tells her sadly. “You must know I think you’re an exceptional artist and - and a very lovable woman - but you can’t marry me, Clarke. Think of the future you have ahead of you with Wells. You should be a duchess and I should be a tailor.”

She swallows. She nods, once, feels a few tears course down her cheeks. She doesn’t like to cry, of course, but apparently there’s nothing to be done for it now.

There’s just one last thing she feels the need to clarify.

“You won’t marry me? Then here, Bellamy - a challenge for you. Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me. If you can do that, I’ll say no more about the matter.”

He can’t do that. He’ll never be able to do that. She can see it in his tightly clenched jaw, can hear it in his heavy silence.

Well, then. That’s almost worse, she thinks. He loves her, but it’s not enough.

She sighs. She accepts it. She accepts his answer because she’s sensible, well-mannered, well brought up. Because she swore to herself, once upon a time, that she would never lose control and lash out, not ever again.

He loves her. And he won’t marry her. And she’s destined to be a duchess.

…….

She gives herself permission to take a day to be sad, the following day. On the day Bellamy leaves town, the day after he refused to marry her, she tells her mother she has a headache and stays in bed nursing her hurt pride and sore heart.

And then, the following morning, she gets up and lives her life. She pastes on her impassive face, sits in the drawing room, and works on some indifferent embroidery.

She thinks she had better go and see Wells tomorrow. They have a great deal to discuss.

…….

She tells Wells that she would like to move forward the wedding - that she’s ready to marry him as early as next month, if that idea pleases him.

She doesn’t tell him about the kiss. She doesn’t think there’s any sense in upsetting him with one little kiss, not when it’s over and done and she’s put it behind her. Perhaps that’s not the most morally defensible choice - perhaps it would be better to tell him. But she never claimed to have a heart of gold. She’s not convinced any woman can be morally clean, brought up in this hostile world of constant competition, fear, and no good choices.

If she tells Wells she kissed another man, she might end up starving in the hedgerows. So strangely enough, she chooses not to tell him.

But all the same, he doesn’t look happy. Even without that substantial slice of bad news, he still seems displeased about something.

“You want to marry this month?” He asks her, frowning.

“Or as soon as it can be arranged.” She hedges, sensing that she has got something wrong, here, and not really knowing what.

“We can’t throw a big society wedding inside a month. And anyway - I thought we were waiting until next year.”

“I find myself eager to move it forward and begin our married life.” She tells him, with what she hopes is a warm smile.

“I don’t.”

She stares at him, shocked. Does he mean he no longer wants to marry her? Has he got wind of what transpired between her and Bellamy? Is her future falling apart before her very eyes?

“I mean - I don’t mean I don’t wish to marry you, of course.” Wells says, then shakes his head. “I mean - I do wish to marry you. But not this year. We agreed on next year. I was rather enjoying having the freedom to be sociable and make friends, and I thought you were too. Within a year of marriage I expect we’ll both be tied to home and the nursery.”

She nods. He’s speaking sense. But today, she candidly likes the sound of home and the nursery more than she likes the sound of the social scene. Without the Blakes, there’s not much interest for her here. And she has always known that, one day, her future would lie in a home and children with Wells. There’s a comfort to that familiar future which is quite appealing, just now.

“I suppose I am eager to start our married life and perhaps fill our nursery. But I don’t mean to rush you. You’re right - we might enjoy our youth a bit longer first.”

He nods. He still doesn’t look happy. He doesn’t look at all enthusiastic about marrying her, she frets, and that worries her. For years now - since she was fifteen years old - the one constant in her life has been that Wells loves her.

That’s a silly, selfish way of looking at it, perhaps. She wonders what has happened to him, in his life, to have him pulling this face now. Have her best friend’s dreams changed without her even noticing it?

“Are you quite well?” She asks, concerned. “I feel like I have lost track of your news recently. Perhaps we might play chess together this afternoon?”

He brightens a little. “Yes. I’d like that. A game of chess with my future duchess - a fine plan.”

Well, then. Apparently she can still get something right.

…….

She plays a lot of chess in the weeks and months which follow. She paints a lot, too, and stands silently next to a great number of potted palms.

The chess is good. She genuinely enjoys it very much, and she thinks that it’s doing her relationship with Wells good, too. She must admit she neglected their friendship a little bit, when she was so caught up in the excitement of befriending the Blakes. But she’s fast remembering that she loves his company - that she loves him - and that chess is in her opinion a fascinating way to spend a wet afternoon.

She’d tell Bellamy that, if only he were still here. If only they were still exchanging stupid comments on the weather.

Her painting goes from strength to strength, too, after he leaves town. She thinks there’s a truth, now, to the myth of the heartbroken artist. She certainly becomes bolder, and her work becomes darker, and she pushes more than ever the limits of what it means for a young lady to dabble in watercolours.

Her next exhibition isn’t about isolation. It’s about grief - the grief of losing relatives when they pass away, yes, but also a different kind of grief. The grief of loving and losing someone who’s still breathing, but might as well be separated from her by the vastness of space.

The potted palms are… less good. But that’s fine. She only needs to suffer through one more Season, and then she can marry Wells, and cry off the social scene with excuses about caring for her children. She’s not convinced she’s the most maternal sort, but a safe, familiar future with a full nursery is a comfort she’s clinging to more than ever, these days.

Maybe she’ll be able to paint motherhood, one day. Maybe sometime in the future she will actually learn to paint something happy.

…….

At last, she and Wells agree on a wedding date. It’s to be in the middle of next Season, and they send out their invitations and even put a notice in the paper.

Clarke wonders about inviting the Blakes. She’s written to Octavia a time or two since she left town. But in the end, she decides that inviting her to the wedding is probably not the done thing. The Blakes were just in town for a short visit, and were her close friends only for that time. And the wedding of a duchess is for cordial society strangers she doesn’t give a whit about. Close but fleeting friends have no place at such a formal, false occasion.

And that’s fine. That’s just the way that high society is. She’s known all her life it would be this way. That’s why she’s determined to marry Wells - because he’s her one genuine friend, the one good and kind person she knows she can depend upon.

She does manage to paint something happy, inspired by that thought. She paints Wells a wedding gift - that bench in the garden where they used to sit when they were younger, and all the flowers in full bloom around it.

It’s a rather pretty piece, if she does say so herself. And it’s an entirely fitting gift, she thinks, for the best friend who will soon become her husband.

…….

It’s when she sees her own engagement announcement in the paper that she finds herself struggling.

It’s the silliest thing. The notice was sent into the Times two weeks ago. But she’s reading the date of her upcoming wedding in print for the first time, today, as she spreads old newspaper over the table to get on with some painting.

She gulps, reads the notice again. It’s right there in print. It has Wells’ name first, and lists all his titles, and the dukedom he stands to inherit. And then there’s her, a poor second place - the friend he’s marrying out of pity, or tired, stale childhood affection.

If she married Bellamy, they probably wouldn’t bother with all the fuss of putting it in the paper.

She crumples. She breaks, just a little - not shattering, but perhaps wilting. She lets her head fall into her hands, swallows down tears.

She’s not sure she can do this.

A lifetime spent preparing for this future. Years of practising her best impassive expression. But she’s honestly not convinced she can marry Wells, not when Bellamy is still out there somewhere.

She’s been so determined to press ahead with the wedding because she knows it’s what Bellamy wants for her. He said that to her, the day he refused to marry her - he said that she should go forth and be a duchess. And that was fine, as a plan, as long as she thought she was making Wells happy too. As long as he earnestly wanted to marry her, the way she saw it, more people stood to gain than lose by her going through with the wedding. As long as Wells wanted wedding bells, going through with it was the best way to avoid hurting him.

But here and now, today, as she cradles her head in her hands, she’s not so sure.

Wells likes playing chess with her, but he also likes what he called freedom, when they spoke at the end of last Season. He’s affable, and sociable, and he likes going out to society events more than she does. He’s got more friends, and some of them are young ladies, and frankly she sometimes catches herself wondering if he’d rather marry someone else, these days, than the friend and neighbour he sealed an engagement with when they were still children.

It’s her fault. All her fault. She came up with this silly, naive scheme in the first place.

No - it’s society’s fault. She maintains that she did the best she could do in a situation where there were no good choices. In this world there are few options for a woman - marriage, or misery, or both.

Only - what if there’s another way? What if she could call off the wedding, leave Wells free to do as he likes, and make a living with her art?

She sighs. She’s not at all sure about that. She’s not convinced she could support herself and her mother, and they certainly wouldn’t be respectable. The scandal of jilting a duke-in-waiting would haunt her all the days of her life.

But all the same, it’s an idea. And quite against her better judgement, it takes root.

…….

She paints more urgently, more desperately than ever in the weeks which follow. She has given herself permission to make a sort of plan. If she can secure another exhibition of her work before the wedding, and make a few sales of her work, she’ll call it off. If she can just find a shred of evidence that she can make a living by her paintbrush, she’ll set both Wells and herself free.

That’s why she’s wearing an apron, with cobalt blue all up her arms, when Bellamy comes to call.

“A Mr Blake to speak to you on urgent business.” The maid tells her, audibly intrigued, as she looks in on the sitting room Clarke uses as her studio.

She nearly drops her paintbrush.

“A Mr Blake?” She asks, stunned.

“Indeed so.” The man himself answers, striding through the door without further ado.

The maid bobs a curtsey and leaves. Clarke sits there, staring, her brush still clutched in her hand.

“Bellamy?”

“Yes. Hello. Pardon me for interrupting. What do you make of the weather this morning?” He asks, too light and bright, as if nothing at all is the matter.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, instead of answering his question.

He sighs. He gulps loudly. He clenches his jaw, then unclenches it, then takes a shaky breath.

“I love you. I’m here to tell you I love you.” He repeats, a little too loud in the small space. “I’m sorry - I think, all my life I have feared to be selfish, and I have been taught to think of my sister first. But perhaps this is one occasion where I need to be selfish. I can’t watch you marry another man, Clarke. I thought this was what I wanted - but then I saw the notice in the paper and - and lost the plot a little. So - here I am.”

“You love me.” She says, and it’s not a question. She’s known it for some months now, of course, but it feels good to say it out loud.

“Yes. But - please tell me I’m not too late. The wedding is next month, yes? I saw the notice in my stepfather’s paper - an old one from weeks ago - I should pay better attention to the news, but -”

“Bellamy.”

“Yes?”

“You can stop berating yourself now.”

“I’m not at all sure I can.” He counters, with a tight little laugh. “I’m so sorry, Clarke. I pushed you towards Wells because I was too scared to say what I wanted. But - I really do think we can make it work. I have a little money, hopefully enough to start my business in premises here in town. If that’s enough for you, please will you do me the honour of accepting my hand? I realise my making all this mess is hardly the most auspicious start to a marriage. My hesitancy doesn’t speak well of the depth of my feelings, but I assure you I do genuinely love you.”

“I love you, too. I suppose you realised that about the time I begged you to marry me.” She tells him, still clutching that paintbrush - as if she could use it to defend herself from an uncomfortable conversation. “But I don’t think this is such an inauspicious start to a marriage. I’ve seen so many couples have picture perfect courtships but then grow to cordially detest each other within the first year. I believe it’s just as well that we have already seen the best and worst of each other, the strengths and weaknesses which lie between us. The fact that you’re here, now, loving me - that’s good omen enough for me. Let’s get married.”

He laughs again - less tense this time, perhaps a little shocked. He’s sweeping across the room towards her, reaching down for a clumsy embrace. She’s still sitting, still holding her paint brush, but there’s warmth and comfort in his arms all the same. A cuddle does not have to be neat to be loving.

Hmm. Perhaps her life doesn’t have to be neat to be loving, either.

“Wells will be happy.” She says, off-hand, as Bellamy pulls back to look down at her, his hand still nestled on her shoulder.

“He will? But I thought he did want to marry you?”

“So did I, once upon a time. But lately he seems rather wretched about the whole thing. I think he wants to play chess with me but share a marriage bed with some other lady, most likely. But he’s too good and loyal to call it off. It’s my fault - I did start it.”

Bellamy sighs. He squeezes his hand on her shoulder once more, even stoops to press a kiss to her forehead.

“What do you say we all take a break from blaming ourselves? We acknowledge that this has been a fine mess, but that all involved still want the best for each other? When all’s said and done, you and I will have a happy marriage. Perhaps this way, the same fate is waiting for Wells, too.”

She nods. “I hope so. And - I know you and I will be absurdly happy. I tell you, we should pay this rocky beginning no mind.” She says firmly. It’s not sensible to dwell on such things, she decides, as long as the ending is to everyone’s liking.

That said, she thinks she might feel a little wobbly about Bellamy’s initial rejection for a while longer. That’s not something a woman can recover from instantaneously. But all the same, she’s determined to get over it in time, and with the reassurance of Bellamy’s presence and love she thinks it won’t be so very difficult to move on and forget all about it.

Bellamy, meanwhile, is already thinking of another way he can lend her his support.

“Would you like me to come with you to speak to Wells?”

“No, thank you. This is a conversation I must have alone.” She swallows hard, takes a steadying breath. “In fact, I believe the weather looks perfect for a difficult conversation in the garden with the man I once intended to marry.”

He throws her a sad, loving smile. It’s an expression he’s rather good at, actually - melancholy and heartfelt. In fact, it looks a lot like the way he was looking at her that day they first kissed.

And then, as ever, he gets on with lifting the mood. He’s a complicated, confusing fellow like that - and she looks forward to spending a lifetime taking the measure of him.

“I daresay that, after that, the weather will be perfect for a walk in the park with your betrothed.” He offers.

She grins. “No, in fact, I think it will be too sunny. I think you’ll have to procure me a bonnet and then make a fuss about tying the ribbons and checking my cheeks don’t catch too much sun.”

“I look forward to it.”

……..

She invites Wells to walk in the garden with her, to sit on that bench, to admire the flowers and share a conversation.

And then she gets straight to business. No good can come from delaying a conversation of this magnitude.

“I’m afraid I have some big news.” She tells him, heavy and serious. “I’m so sorry - I don’t mean to make you feel second-best, not at all. You know you are the best of men and my closest friend. It’s only that - that the person I love most truly and deeply in the world asked for my hand in marriage this last half hour.”

Wells doesn’t miss a beat. To her surprise he’s right there with her, nodding, even smiling.

“Bellamy’s back in town? I should renew our acquaintance.” He says at once.

Clarke frowns at him. “You - you knew I was speaking about him?”

“Yes - who else could it be?” He asks, as if it’s just obvious. As if it’s plain as day that she will never love anyone else quite the way she loves him. “So all is well between you two now? You’ll marry and we can end this sham of an engagement?”

She finds herself bristling at that. “It was never a sham, Wells. Our engagement has always been built on more love and respect than many in the ton. I would have been a good and faithful wife to you, and now I will be a good and faithful friend still. I understand that it would not have been the perfect marriage, but don’t you ever tell me it would have been bad.”

For a moment, she actually feels bittersweet tears prickling at her eyes. For just a heartbeat, she gives herself permission to pause and mourn the future which would have been hers. This is it. This is the moment she closes the door, once and for all, on what she has expected from her life since she was seven years old - and dives into an unknown future instead.

Wells understands. Of course he does. He pulls her into a firm, chaste hug. All the strength and protection she would have known as his wife - and will still know as his closest friend, but married to a man she loves rather better, rather more as a woman should love her husband.

When he pulls away, he’s smiling.

“I think this is good news on every possible front, Clarke. For one thing, you and I were always better suited as friends than as lovers - and I think we will be even better friends when we don’t have this engagement tripping us up all the time.”

She nods. He’s right - she’s been a worse friend while she’s been fretting about not loving him the way she loves Bellamy.

He presses on. “More than anything, I must own I’m relieved for my own sake. There’s a lady and - well - it might yet come to nothing, I suppose. But even if it does, knowing her has shown me that there can be more for me in this life, too. More than the puppy love I’ve always felt for you.”

“There’s a lady whose caught your interest?” She asks, with sudden, lively interest. She was starting to wonder. But it’s testament to how much this engagement has interrupted their friendship, she thinks, that she never knew this for certain until today.

Wells ducks his head, evidently embarrassed. “It’s the silliest thing - I’ve only danced with her a time or two, and always with you standing in the corner, of course. So - I’m not sure it’s love. But she’s caught my interest and - well - I am happy to be free to explore that, honestly.”

“How did I miss this?” She asks, all conspiratorial.

Wells laughs. “You’ve been preoccupied with Bellamy. And I’ve not spent much time with her yet - I thought I was engaged so it didn’t seem right to stray.”

She nods. She swallows. She prepares herself for a confession which is probably long overdue, because, in fact, she did stray.

“I kissed him, Wells. Or - he kissed me. Last Season, just before he went home. I’m so sorry, I know I should have -”

“Save it, Clarke. You kissed another man. I’ve been mooning after another woman. And yet we both loved each other too much to rock the boat. Do I have it about right?”

She nods. “All the same, I am sorry. It was wrong.”

“Was it more wrong than my wandering gaze? Should we compete over it, do you think? I prefer competing over a chessboard, myself. Let’s just call an end to it all.”

“You’re being too kind to me.”

He laughs. “I just told you I’ve been falling for another woman while we were still engaged. I think we are both being far too kind to each other. Come, Clarke. Let me tell you that I am overjoyed at your happy news and send you back to Bellamy. You must have a great deal of pointless thoughts about the weather to exchange.”

Her turn to laugh, now, louder and longer. It’s funny - she thought she was being so subtle at falling in love. Wells has only seen her and Bellamy together, truly together and engaged in private conversation, perhaps half a dozen times. She was so careful not to appear disloyal.

But apparently she’s anything but calmly impassive when she’s in love.

“You still haven’t told me who the lucky lady is.” She says now, slow and thoughtful. “Are you trying to distract me with all your good wishes?”

Wells chuckles, his gaze slipping sideways towards the flowerbeds.

“Wells.” She prompts him. Just that - just his name in a firm sort of tone, the kind of tease only a best friend can get away with.

“Swear you won’t tell a soul.” He urges her, fervent and clearly quite nervous. “Swear on our friendship and your best badger-hair paint brush set?”

She smiles. He does know her well. “I swear.”

He tells her. He fixes his eyes on his knees, and tells her.

“It’s Miss North. I - I haven’t said anything to her, naturally - I was engaged to you. So I have no idea of my reception. But we enjoy dancing together and - and I suspect my father will be horrified that I am even considering making her a duchess, but she’s a challenging conversationalist and - well - she stirs my loins so -”

“Wells. Please.” She interrupts him, reaches in to pat him on the arm. “The best of friends we may be, but never tell me about your loins again.”

…….

Clarke gives her former fiancé a gift on her wedding day.

That’s a little unconventional, perhaps. But it’s only right under the circumstances. Wells has been an integral part of the wedding ceremony - he and Octavia were the two witnesses - and that’s partly why she thinks his part needs celebrating. But more than that, she feels a real need to show him he’s firmly still a part of her life.

That’s why she takes Bellamy by the hand, tucks the wrapped gift under her other arm, and crosses the floor to where Wells and Miss North stand together by the champagne.

“Are you enjoying the wedding, Miss North?” She asks politely. She’s trying her hardest to warm up to the frosty woman. Somehow she smiles at Wells far more fluently than at anyone else.

“It’s very lovely.” Miss North says, with the air of a woman who feels entirely out of her depth.

“Personally, I think it’s a little stuffy in here.” Clarke mock-whispers in a confidential sort of tone. “But it’s very polite of you not to complain.”

“You chose well in standing next to the champagne. Just the thing to survive a stuffy ballroom.” Bellamy adds, chuckling to himself a little and elbowing Clarke to invite her to join in the joke.

She does, of course. She never turns down an invitation to laugh with her husband.

But then she gets on with her task. “I came over here to give you your wedding gift, Wells.”

“How original. I believe it’s your wedding day.” He points out with a wry smile.

“All the same, I have something for you. I - ah - I must own I painted it to be a gift to you on our wedding day. But I think this is a much better occasion, don’t you?”

Miss North nods in firm agreement at that, and Clarke doesn’t miss the gesture.

With that, Wells takes the gift. He unwraps it carefully and reveals a framed watercolour of a most particular bench, surrounded by blooming flowers.

“It’s our bench.” He says, smiling, as he pulls Clarke into a quick hug.

“I’m not sure what I think of being squired around town by a man who has a bench with another woman.” Miss North says, wry and direct.

Clarke grins. She can see why Wells likes her, now. She remembers being drawn to Bellamy for his honesty, at the beginning, before she learnt about his warmth and strength and humour, too. There’s something very engaging about honesty in a world of pretension and manners.

“Best get used to it.” Bellamy says, in a loud mock-whisper. “They have a bench but it’s all very innocent. Clarke took me there once. Far too many thorny roses for a good tryst, honestly, so you can be assured you have nothing to worry about.”

That has them all spluttering in laughter. But it has Clarke reaching out to take her husband’s hand, too, because he’s right. It’s not just that his words are literally true - it’s that they carry a deeper meaning, too, and show such a compassionate and comprehensive understanding of the complexities of her feelings.

She loves Wells. She’s in love with Bellamy. And her wonderful, beautiful husband just summed that up in one ostensibly funny comment about benches.

She turns to him, reaches for him, kisses him full on the lips in the middle of the ballroom. It’s a ball to celebrate her wedding day, after all, so she thinks a little scandalous display of affection is quite acceptable.

“Dance with me.” She whispers against his lips, pulling back just an inch.

“Gladly.” He answers, without missing a beat.

He says it like he’ll always be glad to dance with her. Like he’ll be twirling around the floor with her, come hell or high water, whether they have a dozen sons to secure their place in high society or whether he ends up dancing round a tailor’s shop floor with her.

He says it like they’ll never stop dancing, and she likes the sound of that.