Clara's presence, though she'd only been there minutes, seemed to change the very air. He could hear Molly's voice from upstairs explaining the household routines, and Clara's quiet responses: professional, distant, proper, everything this marriage would be. The spare room Molly was showing Clara had been meant for the additional children he and Margaret had planned. They talked about filling the house with laughter, maybe three or four little ones running through the halls. Margaret had even started a quilt for the next baby, soft yellow and white squares that now lay forgotten in a trunk in the attic.
Papa. He turned to find Sophie standing in the doorway, her face streaked with tears and dirt. Mrs. Henderson stood behind her looking apologetic. She insisted on coming home, Mrs. Henderson explained. Wouldn't settle.
Thank you for trying, Ethan said, his heart breaking at the sight of his daughter's distress. After Mrs. Henderson left, Sophie flew into his arms, her small body shaking with sobs. Why, Papa? Why did you bring her here? This This is Mama's house.
Sophie, sweetheart. No. She pulled back, her gray eyes flashing with anger that looked disturbingly adult on her young face. "You promised we'd be okay. Just the two of us. You lied." Before he could respond, she'd wrenched away and run up the stairs.
He heard her bedroom door slam, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot. "Children, adjust," Clara's voice came from behind him. He turned to find her standing at the foot of the stairs, having changed from her wedding dress into a simple blue work dress. "It will take time, but they adjust." "Speaking from experience," the question came out more sarcastically than he'd intended. "As a matter of fact, yes." Her chin lifted.
I've taught dozens of children, Mr. Walker. I've seen them weather far worse storms than a new stepmother. You're not her mother. The words were cruel, meant to wound, and he saw them hit their mark. Clara's composure cracked for just a moment, a flash of pain crossing her features before she rebuilt her walls.
"No," she agreed quietly. I'm not and I won't pretend to be. But I am here and I am now your wife whether either of us likes it or not. We can make this situation bearable or we can make it a misery. The choice is yours.
She turned and walked into the kitchen, her back straight, leaving him standing alone in the hallway of his own home, feeling like a stranger. Dinner that evening was a disaster. Molly had prepared a fine meal. Roasted chicken with potatoes and green beans from the garden, but it might as well have been sawdust. Sophie refused to come down despite Ethan's repeated calls.
Clara sat at Margaret's place at the table, though she'd tried to take a different chair before Molly had firmly directed her to the foot of the table opposite Ethan. "It's your place now," Molly had said, though her tone suggested she didn't entirely approve. They ate in silence, the clink of silverware against plates unnaturally loud. Clara cut her food into precise small pieces, chewing each bite thoroughly. Her manners were impeccable, her posture perfect.
Everything about her screamed refinement and education, so different from Margaret's easy natural grace. The chicken is excellent, Mrs. O'Brien, Clara finally said. Thank you, ma'am. More silence. I understand you have a library, Clara ventured, looking at Ethan.