Chapter Two
In Are the New
'Waiting', as it turned out, was the bane of Clara's existence.
The next day, she, quite literally, ran the advertisement to the printing office as soon as the sun rose enough to light the way. She wasn't used to the November air, acclimated to spending her mornings in the nursery, and so she shivered as she walked through the London streets. It was odd seeing the town so quiet. She had to keep reminding herself that it was a Wednesday, and that most people were at work.
That thought sent a pang through her chest every time.
The market distracted her for some time, with its reeking fish and sacks filled with potatoes. Silently her mind drifted to the west, not so far away, where these same vegetables were causing so much heartache.
It filled her with a strange, painful gratitude that, as bad as her luck was, she wasn't a victim of the famine.
When she'd chosen the smallest and least expensive produce and bread that she could find, she hurried home to see if anyone had called.
They hadn't.
She put the food away and sighed woefully, finding no letters at the door or coaches anywhere in sight.
Shoes off, a pot of tea made, and then she was finished her errands for the day.
And so she waited.
She waited while she cooked meals large enough for an army, with only herself to feed. She waited while staring at the fire. She waited while she wondered if she had written her address correctly on the advertisement.
And then she sat, had another cup of tea, and waited some more.
It was well past tea time when she was called out of her misery. A silhouette of a man in a top hat brushed past her window, followed by a light rapping at the door. Clara jumped out of her seat, neary spilling drink all over herself, and began fiddling with her hair.
Her breath stunted as she wondered who it might be. Someone calling about the advertisement? Perhaps her next employer?
She hurried to the door with a genuine smile, and then froze. Her blood went cold.
What if it was the landlord?
No, that wasn't his knock. She knew his knock; it was violent and foreboding and plastered into her memory.
And anyway, he couldn't show up demanding payment two days early, could he?
He could.
But he wouldn't oust her after two years of relatively timely payments, would he?
He would.
A frown set deeply into her face, Clara pulled the door open with her eyes closed.
"Hello, ma'am."
She dared to look at the figure in front of her and found, not her landlord, but a strange man in a brilliantly blue waistcoat, tilting his hat to her as if she were some kind of a lady.
"Is this the residence of Dr. Williams?" He asked. Clara noted an accent far away from London.
"Er, no. He lives down the other side of St. Paul's actually. By the hospital," she explained, pointing in the right direction and shutting the door again.
Her eye caught the final mail coach of the day, sitting at the end of the street. It seemed to have no inclination to deliver to Clara's flat anytime soon.
As she watched the horse and driver ride off deeper into London, she deflated with a sigh.
The man, who she was surprised still stood in front of her, touched a gentle hand to her arm.
"Are you alright?" he asked, sounding genuinely worried over her.
She waved him off, but his question struck a chord which left her blinking tears out of her eyes again.
"I'm fine, sir," she said sternly.
He offered his handkerchief anyway, with a stiff and awkward air about him. Clara took it with a little smile.
"Thank you, sir."
"Not at all. It's practically in my job description to help people."
Clara wiped her eyes as stoically as possible.
"Oh?" She asked, as a ways to shift the subject away from herself.
The man looked sheepishly down at the frost beneath his feet.
"Well, I do what I can. I'm a doctor. Tomorrow's my first day working in London, actually."
He chuckled anxiously. Clara couldn't help but feel her mood lighten at the sight of this sweet, friendly new acquaintance.
"Ah, that explains why you were looking for Dr. Williams," she said.
He glanced down the street.
"Yes. You said it was this way?"
"Exactly. Just, er, swing around the corner, keep to your left, and you'll find a little house beside the hospital."
He smiled as he stepped away from her door.
"Thank you very much, miss…?"
"Clara."
His grin widened.
"Have a good night, Miss Clara."
Once he'd turned back to the sidewalk, Clara took a moment to giggle to herself, ridiculous as she knew herself to be acting. She wasn't a schoolgirl anymore. And he certainly wasn't Prince Charming either. He was probably married, anyway.
But as Clara leaned against the inside of her door and pulled out the man's forgotten handkerchief, she knew that they would meet again. She certainly hoped they would, at least.
She stared at the embroidered 'J. S.' and wondered what the letters could possibly stand for, and let her mind wander, basking in her imaginative stories for a long while before bed.
