All Rights Reserved © 2015 Emmy Alexander

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          Clara Massey ran as if the devil himself trailed her skirts. She felt sharpened pebbles, embedded in the terrain, stab unmercifully into her slippered soles, but she pressed onward in spite of their fleeting twinges.    

          Naught mattered in that moment but escaping him!

          He mustn't catch me! She exclaimed inwardly, her chest afire as she dodged a bended branch, shoving frantically at the dense shrubbery that threatened to thwart her escape.

          The sudden crashing of his pursuit from behind propelled her into an aimless flight, and in doing so, her ribbon unraveled and her hair tumbled free, entangling about the finger-like limbs as if to hold her captive for his seizing.   

          Clara struggled strenuously within those warped limbs, hysteria forcing tears to rise, and in her desperation to flee, she heard the ominous sound of a rip and tear. Her heart wrenched as she froze, her flight promptly forgotten, as her eyes accessed the damage.    

          Tears welled uncontrollably in her eyes as she ran her hands over her dirtied, torn skirts. Her dress was ripped. How many of her beautiful dresses had he ruined thus far? How many ribbons had she lost in his pursuit of taunting her? She glanced down at her feet, sniffling, somewhat relieved to discover both slippers perfectly intact, recalling countless pairs lost to this very forest.   

          Even now, she could recall her father's last chiding, having presented him with a torn hem sodden with mud.   

          If you insist on playing like a lad, mayhap we should dress you as such! He had muttered angrily.

          Clara spun around, her hands fisting at her sides as she braced for his attack.   

          And suddenly he was there, her tormentor, the boy that sought every waking hour to taunt, ridicule and insult her.    

          He halted at the sight of her, his eyes the color of blue rime, surveyed her suspiciously with wry humor. "Giving up so easily, brat?"    

          Her fists tightened, her eyes spitting daggers, as she fixed him with a lasting gleam of anger. "Curse you, Jonathan Devereux!" her face reddened with mortification as tears trickled from beneath her lashes to rest on the arc of her cheeks.

          For a moment, she witnessed a transient glint of admiration in those icy blue eyes, before something akin to sarcasm took residence, "Now, that is no talk for a little lady." He taunted, "What would your papa think?"   

          He crossed to her, grinning triumphantly as though he had bested her once again; her brows furrowed, unsure as to how he had conquered this round, until he raised a fist to the air, unraveling his fingers to disclose his prize.   

          There, suspended within the snare of his fingers, was her ribbon, one of so many lost to Jon Devereux.

          "Give it back!" she exclaimed, making a clumsy grab for it.   

          He easily wrenched it out of reach, chuckling under his breath, as he dangled it helplessly above her head. "If you can snatch it from my fingers, you may reclaim it." He teased, his mouth broadening into a smug grin.   

          She felt tears welling once more and she blinked them away. He would not make her cry again! How many times before had he made her cry? He was naught but an unruly brute that deserved a good lashing!    

          "Leave her alone, Brother!" commanded the gentled voice of her savior.   

          Clara sighed with relief as Jack, the younger of the two Devereux brothers, appeared before her, gently taking her hand within his. She gazed into his soft-smiling eyes as they settled on her, eyes so unlike his older brother's that they glinted warmly of a deep, gentle brown as he offered her a benign, reassuring smile.   

          "Pay no heed to my brother's taunt, little one." He flashed a genuine smile, brandishing a full-set of perfectly white teeth.   

          "He has taken my ribbon." Clara said, casting daggers at Jon Devereux, "Give. It. Back." She demanded through small, gritted teeth.   

          Jon raised mocking eyes to her, peering down the bridge of his nose as he retorted, "Like I said, if you can pluck it from my fingers, I shall relinquish it to you, until then, it is mine."   

          Jack squeezed her hand gently, "No need to fret, Clara, I shall buy you another."   

          Her heart blossomed against her chest like an azalea beneath a midday sun. She smiled sweetly up at Jack, and in that moment, her heart was forever his. She knew naught of love, especially considering she was only seven summers, but how else could she explain the raging butterflies in her belly? The way her heart fluttered at his nearness? And surely the look he bestowed her, was akin to how her papa looked at her mama?    

          Surely he felt the same? Why else would he protect her from his older brother's taunting and ridicule? He was so kind and gentle, where as Jon was cruel and a brute.   

          "Come, little one." Jack ushered gently, "Your papa has asked that I deliver you home."    

          He took her hand and placed it firmly within the crook of his arm as he escorted her away from a glowering Jon, whose grim expression bespoke his displeasure.    

          And she thought, mayhap he had not won this battle after all.

*******************

          Clara lay amid the grass, heedless to the stains that would surely ruin the length of her skirts as she gazed absently upon a cerulean sky. Her bisque doll lay at her side as she gazed upon clouds drifting like gossamer fabric strewn about the sky. A subtle breeze trickled through the strays of grass, whisking over her in a brief caress of nothingness, and she smiled.

          It was a lovely day, the likes to which her mother would have delighted in.

          Her smile vanished, replaced promptly with a deepening frown.

          Her mother had been ill for quite some time. At first, there'd been a cough. It came occasionally but over the span of time seemed to worsen. She had grown alarmingly frail, so much so Clara had noticed how her gowns lay slack around her tiny waist and protruding shoulders. She'd become a shell of herself, retreating to her room to never stray from it for days on end.

          And now she'd been bedridden for nearly a fortnight with a fever.

          "Nothing to fret, my child." Her father had consoled tentatively but the smile was devoid from his ever-glittering stare. "The day is beautiful." He had said with saddening eyes, "Go on outside and play." And he motioned her from the room with a wave of his hand.

          She hesitantly did as he bid while gazing concernedly at her mother who lay wheezing amidst a pile of coverlets.

          She passed a servant in the hall and paused to gaze at the stranger trailing her heels. He was an older man with black hair peppered with gray and a weathered face. He paused briefly to gaze at her through the spectacles perched on the brim of his nose, his seasoned face without expression, before carrying on behind the maid.

          As Clara gazed upon a ceiling of endless blue, she could think of aught else to do, and so she merely lay upon a green turf dotted with dandelions and watched as a breeze plucked clusters of seeds, casting them adrift.

          "Well, aren't you just a supine flower."

          Clara jolted upright, flattening her palms in the grass to peer upward at the boy looming at her feet. "What do you want?" she demanded haughtily.

          Jon cast a crooked grin beneath a wealth of unkempt black hair and lightly nudged the bottom of her slipper with his boot, "Am I not permitted to visit with my neighboring brat?"

          Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she hastened to her feet to smooth the wrinkles from her skirts, "Not on this day or the next." She snapped insolently with a tilt of her chin, and then paused to gaze beyond his shoulders to the fences that divided their country manors.

          "He's not coming." Jon muttered with slight ire.

          Clara's hopes lessened as she averted her gaze from the Devereux estate to Jonathan Devereux, "I know not what you mean."

          He snorted, "My brother does not care for you, imp."

          Her face reddened and her hands balled into fists, but before she could utter a snide retort his blue eyes fastened on her doll lying inert in the grass. Realizing his intentions, Clara lunged for her doll, but Jon was quicker and seized 'Emma' from her reaching hands.

          She whirled on him, flustered, with daggers for eyes. "Wretch!" she exclaimed with a cry, "Give her back to me at once!"

          He chuckled and dangled 'Emma' above her head, just as he had done with her ribbon. "Are we at this again?" he muttered with a laugh.

          She made several clumsy attempts to snatch her helpless doll from Devereux's fingers, but always he managed to keep 'Emma' beyond her reach.

          Exasperated, Clara stomped her slippered foot and her arms fell to her sides, "I hate you, Jon Devereux!" She spat angrily through a welling of tears.

          Her remark gave him pause and something in his expression darkened, and for a moment, Clara regretted her words.

          Until he sneered at her and replied with a deadpan voice, "It would be a travesty to think otherwise." And then he threw Emma to the grass and stalked off.

********************

          Clara awoke the next morning to a deafening cry. She bolted upright, clutching Emma to her chest as her ears strained for the despairing sound.

          And when it came again, it sent an undulating chill down her spine.

          She scrambled from her bed and padded barefoot to the door, wrenching it open to an assemblage of servants bustling frantically through the halls.

          Her heart thundered in her ears as she called softly, "What's happened?"

          And it came again, the discernible lamenting of ones soul tearing asunder, and it forced a chill to run rampant through Clara's veins. It was dread that propelled her into a run. She shoved at the countless hands attempting to stay her, but pushed them fiercely away with a strangled cry.

          When she reached her mother's doorway, she befell her father slumped over her mother's body, cradling her in the crook of his arm as he sobbed uncontrollably.

          Clara paled, her eyes broadening with stunned incredulity as Emma fell to her feet. "Papa?" she whimpered.

          Her father stiffened and inherently twisted his body to shield her mother from Clara's eyes. His eyes peered, grief-stricken and inflamed with unremitting tears, widened with alarm. "Clara, no!" he demanded hoarsely, clutching his wife tighter to his chest. "Servants!" he demanded on a plea.

          Suddenly, sets of hands were upon her, wrenching her from the doorway. She fought against them, screaming and flailing as she pried at their fingers.

          And she realized, horrifyingly, that her mother was dead.

************************

          Several weeks later after her mother's passing, Clara was beckoned to her father's study. She followed closely at the maid's heels, adorned in a black muslin dress that gave way to black silk slippers. Oh, how she hated the dismal lack of color and what it symbolized, and vowed never to wear it again.

          Her mother would have preferred her in vibrant hues, but 'twas custom to wear such drab during the period of mourning.

          Clara resisted a stabbing of tears. She would not cry, not when she'd cried so many nights thereafter her mother's untimely death, and thereupon, her father had retreated within himself, forever devoid of her presence. Since her mother's death, her father had all but vacated her life. He had barricaded himself within his study and rarely ventured from it.

          And now, as she trailed the maid, she pondered as to why he'd requested her presence. She wanted her mother – needed her father. But how could she voice that? How could she tell him that her chest felt bereft of heart? Many nights she longed for her mother and cried for her father to assuage her grief. Mayhap now he has realized the error of his ways? Would he console her now and offer words of comfort and understanding as to what had happened to her mother?

          The maid rapped on the mahogany door and her father bid them entry. Clara was ushered into the room and the maid closed the door behind her.

          "Come, take a seat, Daughter." Her father commanded gruffly and motioned to a seat opposite of him.

          She was momentarily stunned by his appearance. He was garbed in a black button-down, but several of the buttons were misplaced and his shirt hung awkwardly on his bowed shoulders. His face sported several weeks growth of beard and his hair was disheveled as though he'd continuously run his fingers through it. Dark circles framed empty eyes that gave way to a gaunt face with sunken cheeks. He was nearly unrecognizable.

          Clara wanted to run to him. She wanted to wrap her arms around his thinning waist and squeeze him until it pained her to do so. But she refrained, and sank into the chair across from him.

          She noticed a glass sitting atop papers dispersed across his desk. The spirits sloshed the rim as her father reached for it and drained its contents.

          He slammed the glass down and Clara winced.

          "Have you something to say, Papa?" she asked gingerly.

          His red-rimmed eyes finally met hers from across the way and Clara was taken aback by the stranger staring back at her. And for a time, he merely gazed at her with a look that bespoke of immeasurable pain.

          Finally, he tore his gaze away and cleared his throat. He gathered to his feet, seizing his empty glass to pore himself another.

          "You are of a certain age now, Clara." He said grimly, settling back into his seat with drink in hand. "I have arranged for you to attend a female seminary." He said flatly, avoiding her stare altogether as he took a hearty swig of his brandy.

          Clara frowned, "A seminary?"

          He met her gaze then, "'Tis a private educational institution for young girls such as yourself. You will benefit immensely from it."

          Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach and she perched on the edge of her seat, "But papa, must I go? Can I not continue my curriculum here with Ettie?"

          Another swig and then, "I have released Ettie of her governess duties."

          Her heart sank even further to her toes, "But, Papa – "

          "You will attend the Boarding School for Young Ladies." He growled, his red-rimmed eyes pinning her argumentatively, "I'll not hear another word on the matter, understood?"

          Clara's heart felt as though it were breaking all over again since her mother's death. Why would her father do this? Why would he send her away with such cold detachment etched onto his sunken face?

          "How long will I be gone?" she couldn't suppress the tremor in her voice and it struck a slight chord in her father for his grip tightened about his brandy.

          "You will return home when you are eighteen."

          This time, she couldn't suppress her tears and they fell unbidden with a stifled cry, "Papa, please don't send me away."

          His jaw tightened and he cast his eyes to the floor, "It has already been arranged."

          Clara leapt to her feet and grasped the edge of his desk, "Must you send me away?" she cried brokenly, tears streaking her face. "What have I done to upset you? Please, don't make me go!"

          He slammed his glass down and she retreated with a whimper. He gathered to his feet and fixed her with those red-rimmed eyes, "You will go and I'll hear nothing more of it!" he hesitated, the taut line of his jaw almost giving way to a tremble. "You may leave."

          And he turned his back to her.