Chapter 9
Closer and Closer
Clara woke with a strange, comfortable feeling in her chest.
She was in another woman's nightgown, lying in her employer's bed, with her injured ankle propped up on a pillow. It was a situation she had never imagined, let alone lived before. And yet…
And yet she felt, dare she say it, right at home.
Of course her actual home was a few blocks away, littered with dust and cobwebs and the ever-present spirit of her landlord. But being in this bed, with John somewhere nearby and the smell of breakfast cooking - or, rather, burning - in the kitchen just felt...right. In fact, she hadn't felt this right in a long time.
It was calming, and warm.
And it scared her half to death.
Her morning reverie was broken by the sound of voices; Bill was home, escorted by the sound of it by one of the ladies from the hospital.
Clara grimaced. She'd hoped to be out of the house before Bill came home, if only to avoid awkward questions. Too late for that.
She did let herself wait until the other woman had gone, grooming herself and putting on the gown from last night because she hadn't brought anything else. When dressed, she stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long time.
With her mind cleared of the dreamy world of sleep, she suddenly didn't feel so at home here. The dress seemed ridiculous, her hair sloppy. Last night, with John and his nightmare and their conversation afterward, seemed so awkward and embarrassing.
Would he treat her different? Or would they proceed as if she hadn't witnessed him cry and hadn't heard the tragic story of his wife's passing?
Which one did she prefer?
Clara shook her head. It wouldn't do any good to stand here avoiding the inevitable all day. She had to face him again, and explain to Bill that adult relationships are complicated.
She groaned and dropped onto the bed and wished she could just magically appear back in her own room, away from her employer/friend/gentleman friend.
Then she stood, straightened out her gown, and opened the door.
"Good morning," she said with a smile to both of the Smiths.
Bill was sitting at the dining table picking at some sausage as her father brought in another two plates to sit beside her. His jaw dropped slightly when he saw Clara, but he shut it as soon as he realized.
Bill merely grinned.
"That's a lovely dress, Miss Clara."
"Thank you, Bill."
John cleared his throat and finished setting the table.
"I was just telling Bill that you needed to stay last night; because of the, er, ankle. Is it feeling any better this morning?"
"A little, yes. You're a very good doctor, John."
He smiled, a twinkle in his eye.
"I better be."
. . . . .
"Miss Clara?" Bill asked, as the governess tried very hard not to drop sausage and eggs on her evening gown. "Can you play with us today?"
John chuckled.
"Miss Clara is probably busy, Bill. She's been trying to get home since last night."
He met Clara's eyes and they both smiled.
"But papa…"
That word again, used so casually, jolted through John. His whole face seemed to lighten, eyes softening. As if his every wish came true in that moment.
"Nah," Clara said. "You two go ahead. I probably shouldn't go around town in a ballgown anyway."
"You can join us later," John said quickly. "If, er, if you want to, I mean. You're always welcome."
Clara couldn't tell him how much that phrase meant to her, lonely as she'd been recently. So she merely replied, "Thank you, John. I'll definitely think about it."
. . . . .
Of course, 'I'll think about it' meant that she decided, right then and there at the breakfast table, that she absolutely needed to see this man and his wonderful daughter again that day. Even as she stood in her own bedroom and switched into some normal clothes, she was already planning on what she'd say when she got back to their house; what they might do together with a whole day to enjoy.
It was silly, she knew it was. Governesses aren't supposed to fawn over their employers. They're hardly even supposed to see each other, just from the nature of the job. But he was so kind, and he made her feel like a person again; after so many years working for mechanical people to pay rent for a place she didn't even like.
Clara finished getting dressed and hobbled on her still-injured ankle to the door. Just this once, she decided to be kind to herself and get a taxi to the flat. It was a short ride, made even shorter by her anxious thinking and rethinking.
What if he'd only been being nice, and he didn't actually want her with them all day?
No, of course not. People aren't just 'being nice' when they invite you to a theatre and then carry you home. People aren't just 'being nice' when they give you their wife's old dressing gown and tell you their life story.
She knocked on the door, feeling a little strange. Like she was breaking some unwritten rule or code of governesses. But her joy outweighed her little anxieties and awkwardness as soon as his face appeared at the door.
"Clara! How good it is to see you again."
He ushered her in out of the cold and over to a chair. He was still anxious about her injury, glancing at it every now and then.
"I am still sorry about last night," he said.
Clara shook her head.
"You didn't push me; a man bumped into me and I tripped over my own two feet. I'm grateful to you; else I'd probably be stuck at the hospital all this time."
He smiled, looking at the floor, and then turned toward the nursery.
"Bill! Miss Clara is here."
A soft reply came in response. It was too far away to hear but it sounded joyous.
"So where are we going today?" Clara asked to break the silence.
"There's a new bakery by the river selling eel pies," John replied.
Clara's eyebrows raised to her hairline.
"I know," he continued, "Bill was fascinated, though. She wants to try it."
Clara smiled to herself.
"You're a good father, John."
He looked at his twiddling hands.
"I don't get to see her nearly enough."
"You do what you can."
He met her eyes and held them.
"I suppose so."
. . . . . .
Eel pie was, thankfully, not the only thing on the menu. As Bill and John took daring bites of their strange new favorite baked good, Clara ordered a simple beef pie and enjoyed it like it was her last meal.
When they left the restaurant, they walked together by the riverside, Bill in between John and Clara and holding both of their hands.
"I like eel pie," Bill said, skipping over uneven cobblestones.
John smiled at his daughter, and Clara smiled at John.
"'Scuse me," said a man, standing by a camera by the short barrier wall of the walkway. "Can I interest you in a family photographic print? It's almost instantaneous-like. Only two shillings."
Clara started to politely decline, but John paused in his gait, looking at the camera standing nearby.
"Do you want to try it?"
Clara shifted from foot to foot.
"It's a fair amount of money; I don't know."
"Don't worry about the money. Please, join us?"
He held out his hand and she took it with a silly blush on her cheeks. Bill led the way to the camera, talking excitedly to the photographer about how the mechanism worked, as Clara and John followed behind at an easier pce. Only when they were stood in front of the camera did they let each other's hands go.
"Okay, now," the photographer said from behind the large device. "You've gotta hold still for about a minute. Most people just give a straight face to make it easier."
But none of them needed to keep a straight face; smiling for a minute today was an extraordinarily simply task. The day was perfect, even the wind rested and the temperature warmer than usual. Clara's shoulder was brushed up against John's, her hand on Bill's shoulder.
Smiling was so, so easy.
At the flash, the photographer let them relax.
"It'll take about fifteen minutes to process, and then I'll let you get on your way. Thank you very much."
The man tilted his hat and then got to work on the image.
Clara turned and found John leaned against the banister, looking out at the Thames. Bill was fine for the moment, watching a bird of some sort pecking at a dropped pie, so she went over to him.
"Thank you, again," she said, leaning on the wall and gazing at the river.
"It's my pleasure, Clara."
He turned to her with a smile, hardly a foot away. She smiled in return.
"John? What are you two doing after this?"
"Going home, I should think."
She shifted from foot to foot again.
"Would it be impertinent...do you have room for one more, John?"
He smiled softly into her eyes.
"We always have room for you, Clara."
. . . . .
Clara found herself, for the second night in a row, sitting on John's sofa in front of the fire. Bill was in bed, tired from a long day of eel-eating and riverwalking, no doubt. And so the adults were left sitting on the sofa, drinking wine as the looked at the picture they'd taken.
"I've never had a photograph of myself," Clara said. "I don't know if I like it."
John chuckled, but shook his head.
"You look wonderful. I'm the one who looks ridiculous."
"You don't look ridiculous."
They laughed together again, and then set the picture on the table. Clara tilted her head.
"It does look rather beautiful in the firelight."
John took a sip of his wine.
"It does," he said after a moment.
He turned to her slowly, setting his glass beside the photograph.
"Clara?"
Her heart skipped a beat. It at least felt like it did, as he gazed into her eyes.
"These past couple months have been…"
He cleared his throat.
"What I mean is…"
Clara took his hand.
"I know."
John stared at their intertwined fingers, as if wondering how they came to be that way. Then, slowly, he raised his head again to look at her, just as he raised her hand to his lips.
He opened his mouth to speak…
And then a knock came to the door.
He shut his eyes as Clara let out a chuckle.
"I'm sorry," he whispered with a smile. "I'll just go, er…"
With an apologetic look, he went to the door. Clara took a sip of wine and watched the fire as he dealt with whoever was at the door. She couldn't help but feel a little disappointed at their interruption, but she let it go. Perhaps it was some good news.
John came back to the sofa a minute later with a telegram in his hand. It was not, in fact, good news, judging by the look on his face. Eyebrows drawn, blue eyes piercing the piece of paper as if to stab it.
Clara caught herself just before she pried too far; it wasn't her news to receive and he'd tell her if he needed to. And so she went with the next best option.
"Is everything alright?"
His eyes turned up to her. In them, she read an expression that clearly read 'no, everything is very not alright'. But then he plastered on that false smile and folded up the telegram.
"It's fine," he forced through gritted teeth. "Do you want any more wine?"
