Chapter Eleven

Will I, Won't I

Sunday night, Clara was angry.

Two cups of tea and a sit-down by the fire with her favorite Dickens novel didn't seem to be of any help, either. If anything, it just made her think about John eve more, and how angry she was.

She wasn't honestly sure, as she sat in her chair and tried, rather badly, to forget about the Smiths, whether she was angry about John or the situation they were in. Yes, he'd upset her earlier, all acting like he knew best and being distant. But more than that, it was just so much more frustrating that they were in this position at all. Why did that silly doctor have to return so suddenly? And what was so urgent in Wales that John and Bill had to be there instead of London at Christmas?

Tossing and turning throughout the night, Clara made another realization. Perhaps she wasn't angry with any of the doctors, John or otherwise. Maybe she didn't have a sudden hatred of Wales. Perhaps, just, perhaps, she was angry with herself.

She had felt things, things she hadn't felt in a very, very long time. He made her happy, and excited, and sort of like her little dilapidated flat in the East End was not all that she had in her life. He had given her a home, a real home. They had fun together, real fun.

Maybe she was only angry with herself. Because she'd never told him any of these things, and now he was leaving. God only knew if they'd ever meet again, let alone walk by the Thames hand in hand or sit and have a glass of wine by the fireside.

Her daydreaming brought fresh tears into her eyes, just as dawn creeped over the horizon, yellow light bleeding through the dusty windows. Outside, people shouted and dogs barked and a new day began. Clara still had no idea what she wanted to do.

Monday morning, Clara was sad.

Beyond that, she was conflicted. Should she pour her heart out for a man she didn't know felt the same? Should she give up what little she had in her little life on a chance to be happy?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Maybe she should just leave it; forget him. Make a new life for herself. He'd write her a letter of recommendation, and giver her some money. She could promote herself and get a good job. She could move into a nicer flat, next to a bakery or a flower shop. She could walk the Thames by herself and feel like she owned the world.

Only something in that daydream was missing.

Clara groaned, forced herself up out of bed, and got dressed. After all, problems weren't solved by running circles in one's head. You had to get up and find a solution.

Breakfast, a bowl of porridge. Boots on. Coat and scarf and gloves to ward off the December chill. Door opened, and a hat added to her head.

And down the street she went, where all of the shops glistened with waning candlelights.

. . . . . . .

Tuesday morning, Clara was as conflicted as ever.

She hadn't seen John since their little quarrel on Sunday night. Would he even want to talk to her? Or would he be all distant and strange again, acting as if they had never revealed their deepest secrets to each other?

But on the other hand, she only had today and tomorrow morning to tell him what he meant to her, if she so chose to do so. Then he'd be in Wales and she'd be in London. And oh, this all seemed so hopeless!

She couldn't just up and leave her flat to chase after her previous employer (that is, after all, all that he technically was to her, on paper). She had responsibilities, rent due, money in the local bank, debts to be paid. She had people she knew, and smiled at every day. Comforts she'd found even in her humble home in her struggling neighborhood.

Yes, she wanted to travel someday. But people from her neighborhood couldn't just up and leave. That was how most of them got stuck there. And she definitely was not about to sell out her independence for some man who might only ever see her as a rather good governess.

She knocked on the door, confused and unsure and overall just feeling a very dull gray, like a cloud was stationed above her head creating a fog in her brain. John opened the door, still buttoning his shirt closed, unevenly. His medical bag sat half open on the chair, though the clock read that he was already late for work.

Oh, John.

If this had been a novel, Clara would have grabbed her arms around him and professed her undying love. She would cry into his shoulder and beg him not to go, or beg him to take her along. They'd walk into the sunrise together, Bill beside them, and it would all be very lovely.

But this was not a romance novel. At least, Clara didn't think it was.

And so she walked inside and found Bill with a bandaged knee sitting on the sofa, and John running around to pack his things and get to work.

"It's a good thing it's my last day," John said with a smirk. "Otherwise I might get the sack."

Clara set her things down.

"They can't sack you for being a good father."

"If only," he joked, shutting the claps of his bag.

Clara sat beside Bill.

"What happened?"

Her face blushed slightly.

"I was running through the flat and I fell," Bill said timidly.

"Why were you running? Was there an ogre?"

Bill giggled.

John raised an eyebrow.

"Only if I count as an ogre," he said as he worked his coat over his shoulders.

He and Clara shared a smile that made her chest ache. If she could only tell him...no. He was late for work, anyway.

She handed him the medical bag.

"All ready?" She asked.

"I believe so. Oh, Clara,"

The way he said her name, with that accent she loved so much, made her chest ache even worse.

"I will give you you're severance pay and the letter of recommendation as soon as I get home this evening."

She nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

"Thank you, John."

Each word struggled over the lump forming in her throat.

"Bill, let's leave the ogre chasing to the experts, alright?" He said playfully.

Bill merely giggled again.

Clara watched him start down the street, shutting the door only when he was completely out of view. Then she turned to her charge and made herself forget him, for the moment. She still had a day's work to do.

"Your father is a brilliant doctor, but he forgot the one thing that always makes me feel better after I've hurt myself."

Bill's eyebrows furrowed together.

"What's that?"

"Ice cream!"

Bill grinned, and for just a little while, the ache in Clara's chest didn't feel so heavy.