As Clara sat looking into her mirror that night, It dawned on her that she was officially in her husband's house, and the house didn't feel warming to her.
She slept late that night and awoke to a sumptuous breakfast tray beside her bed in the morning. Aina was pulling back the heavy curtains, when Clara finally opened her eyes wide enough.
"Good morning, Aina, how are you?" Clara said.
"I'm fine, thank you. Good morning ma'am."The girl replied cheerfully. She came over and stood at the foot of the bed, regarding Clara with frank curiosity. Bennet's sudden remarriage had created much interest and speculation amongst the servants. Although Mrs. Eunice, the cook who was among the first set of servants employed to work in the mansion when it was first built, had refused to say a word about the ill-fitting union, as they chose to see it.
They had all thought Miss Bethany Maloney would have been their master's choice and it was plain that no one, not even Beatrice had ever suspected that Clara stood a chance against Bethany.
"I hope you slept well, ma'am," Aina said demurely, but her eyes strayed to the uncreased pillow beside Clara.
Clara felt herself flushing. "Very well, thank you," she said briskly.
Left alone, she sat frowning at her breakfast and wondered how many servants Bennet kept. He had told her that there were more servants than the ones she saw yesterday. But the rest were putting the house in order. 'She will tell Beatrice to take her to the kitchen and introduce her to the staff. There must be plenty of activity in a house as big as this.' she thought, and the first thing she could do for Bennet would be to see that it was well run.
When she had finished her breakfast she went to the window and looked out.
After what seemed like a couple of minutes, she dressed slowly, wondering where she would find Beatrice at this hour of the morning. It was Sunday and she wondered if the members of the household attend service, judging from the fact that no one spoke to her about it.
It did not occur to her to ring for a servant and ask for Beatrice's whereabout. She decided to see Isabella first and maybe find out where Beatrice was. Her room was one of several in a short corridor. At the end of the corridor, two steps took her down into another wide passage with doors, and this was were she finally caught the muffled sound of voices.
For a moment she hesitated, before finally knocking on the outer door to Isabella's playroom, and she heard Beatrice's precise voice bid her enter.
She stepped into the young girl's playroom and for the hundredth time, wondered why, with so many rooms to choose from, Bennet had picked this small, depressing, square-looking, ugly room as his daughter's playroom. The window had straight bars that gave it a cell-like appearance and the furniture was extremely depressing. The usual official type of chairs found in offices.
"Good morning, Mrs. Lewin. Do you want anything?" Beatrice asked, politely rising from her seat.
"I was looking for you," Clara said with a smile. She looked around for Isabella, but she was nowhere to be found. "I thought perhaps you, or Isabella would take me around the house, show me the ropes, in fact."
"After lunch, while Isabella is having her rest, I'll be at your disposal," the housekeeper said.
"But can't we go now, all three of us?" asked Clara impulsively.
"It can be a good bonding time for myself and Isabella. I'm sure she would like some tea or chocolate when we have done our rounds."
"Beatrice will call that sucking up," said Isabella in her clear, high voice, coming from the edge of the room. Obviously Clara failed to see her right there.
"Don't be rude, dear," Beatrice said smoothly. She turned to regard Clara with a calm eye. "I cannot interrupt Isabella's lesson and playtime. I'm afraid, Mrs. Lewin. We consider routine to be very important at the mansion. You will find there is a fire in the small study to keep you warm, since today's weather is a bit cold. Lunch is at one o'clock."
Clara turned towards the whiteboard behind her and saw some words written out in plain English. She turned to Beatrice and wondered when the lady turned to a child tutor. Then, she felt like a rebuked child and was fully aware of Isabella's enjoyment of her pain and sadness.
"But today is Sunday, surely she doesn't have to learn on Sundays." Clara said but got no response. "I'm sorry," Clara continued. "I would love to visit the kitchen quarters, then."
"The kitchen?" Beatrice's eyebrows rose. "I don't think this would be a very good moment...."
"Surely it is quite usual to visit one's kitchen in the morning," Clara said gently. "To give orders for the day, I mean."
"The orders for the day? Oh, you are referring to meals. You have no need to trouble about anything like that, Mrs. Lewin. Mrs. Eunice, she's been the cook here for years. The late Mrs. Lewin left her in charge of everything related to the kitchen and she does excellently well in that aspect."
"I see," said Clara, feeling chilled.
"If you would care to see Mrs. Eunice, I will send her to you in the small study," Beatrice said, but Clara turned to the door.
"No, it does not matter," she replied, and went away.
'The late Mrs. Lewin...' It was the first time Clara heard that phrase from a member of the household, and even then the shadow of Felicia touched her with momentary disquiet as she recalled the almost lifeless face of the woman.
She began to explore the remaining parts of the house that she have not seen before. The unseen rooms were not so many as she had imagined at first, and they all bore a curious uniform resemblance.
The dark dining room, the small, well-stocked library, even the little panelled study, which last night had seemed friendlier with its wood fire, had a secret air of anonymity, as if the facades they presented did not reveal their true personalities.
She looked into the room in which the telephone had kept ringing last night, the room turned out to be Bennet's study, as she suspected. She opened the room and noticed that the desk and the modern filing cabinet had been chosen with care, and the neatness of the room bore vivid witness to Bennet's well-organised habits.
There was one room left, and as Clara opened the door and stood for a moment at the door post, she immediately received a different impression. The white covers that draped the furniture explained that they were not in use. Even so, the room had a quality the others lacked, and as Clara whipped off dust sheets to see what lay beneath, it began to reveal itself in all its graciousness.
The rest of the house held good taste and quiet comfort, but whoever had designed this room was an artist, and Clara's gaze was drawn to the portrait that hung above the fireplace at the farther end.
She walked slowly across the room and the lovely face of the first Mrs. Lewin came sharply into focus like a camera shot on the screen. It could be no one else. Just as she recalled her face lying almost lifeless at the space back at Cherim. The only difference was that this time, she looked extremely neat and well made up. There were Isabella's dark eyes, brilliant and demanding, the full, passionate mouth and the hint of arrogance in the lifted chin and the faint smile that touched the lips.
It was the face-of a woman secure in the knowledge of her own power, and her beauty shone in its perfection.
This, was Bennet's wife.
For a moment, as she gazed up at the picture, Clara experienced a sharp pang of inadequacy, a curious sense of trespass in her husband's house, and she jumped guiltily as a voice said sharply from the doorway, "What are you doing in there?"