Chapter One

Gone are the Old Days

Clara took one step out into the snow outside and instantly wanted to cry. She'd exited this house a thousand times before, normally donning a wide and brilliant smile. The children, little Angelica and Arthur, would wave madly from the windows to wish her farewell. And, always, she'd wave back.

But none of that today.

"I'm sorry, Miss Oswald," Mr. Maitland said from the doorway. He fiddled with the fob of his watch, eyes avoiding his children's former governess as if his life depended on it.

"We just don't have the funds anymore. I do hope you will find new employment soon," he added with an attempt at a smile.

Clara tried to smile, too.

"Thank you, Mr. Maitland. I wish your family well."

Mr. Maitland bowed his head.

"Have a safe journey back to town, Miss Oswald."

Clara nodded and turned away at once. The tears she'd held back so fervently were creeping down her cheeks now. Her gloved hand wiped them away before the carriage driver could see.

"London, please," she requested. "Near St. Paul's."

"Ma'am," the driver replied, stirring the reigns until the horses began marching forward.

Clara turned to the house one last time as the carriage pulled out. The fountain in the front was dried up; a few cracks broke through the wall beside the front door; the shutters squeaked on rusty hinges. It was understandable why Mr. Maitland couldn't afford a governess anymore.

But that didn't lessen the mixture of sadness and worry that kept Clara's head leaned on the window all the way back to London, eyes wide and searching.

That was that chapter of her life closed. What was to come in the next portion of her tale?

. . . . . . . .

The chill of November air was just settling in her small tenement when Clara arrived home. As her boots trudged through the early frost, she marvelled at how calm and accepting she had grown to her fate; a complete turn around from just an hour or two ago. Upon entering her tiny flat, all she felt was relief.

The kettle on, uniform off, and boots tucked in by the fire, Clara emitted a relaxed sigh.

Throughout her journey home, she'd contemplated all the things she could do now, with all the time that lay before her. She could learn to sew and mend socks for the winter. Or perhaps bake an entire Christmas pudding a month early. Maybe she'd finally start writing that novel; give that old Charles Dickens some competition.

The whistle of the kettle blew her daydreams away, but they returned as soon as soon as the steaming liquid was poured into her teacup.

Looking around her space, Clara's eye landed on books and treasures of her mother's travels; knicknacks and novelties from across the world.

Maybe now it was time to have an adventure of her own.

A rapid knock came to the door, making Clara jump so quickly she almost spilled her tea.

"Coming!"

She set the cup hastily on the closest table, smartened up her dress, and yanked the door open. The looming figure that appeared in front of her made a weight sink into her stomach.

"Miss Oswald," her landlord said with a sarcastic tilt of his hat.

"Evening, sir."

The more relaxed she tried to sound in his company, the more childlike her voice came out.

"It's, er," he scratched the back of his neck, leaning on the doorframe in such a way that Clara couldn't close it without hitting him. "It's been quite a while since you've paid rent."

Clara's eyes flickered down.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'll, er, get it to you presently."

"Presently?" He laughed horribly. "I hope by that you mean in the next three days."

"Three days. Right."

Clara's heart sank further. It must've reached her toes by now.

"Look," he said, adjusting his weight but keeping his arm leaned above in a vaguely threatening manner. "You're on your last chance, sweetheart. If I don't get that money by Friday…"

He clicked his teeth and shook his head. Clara got his meaning, a shudder running down her spine.

"I understand, sir."

Her voice sounded even smaller than before.

. . . . . . . .

As soon as the landlord was gone, door shut and locked against the wind and any more unwanted visitors, Clara let herself cry again. It wasn't often she cried twice in one day, but today wasn't like most days.

Most days had been pretty good, in retrospect.

When the tears of her second crying spell dried, she got to work.

For the rest of the evening she sat in front of the fire sipping tea and writing. Again and again she wrote of her qualifications; her work experience, her skills, her interest in honest work. And again and again, she rolled the parchment up in her agitated fists and hurled it into the fire.

With an aching hand and a nearly dry inkwell, Clara found herself watching the moon from her same little spot in the corner. The advertisement was finished; folded and sealed inside the cleanest envelope she could find. All she could do now was wait for morning to send it in.

And then all she could do was wait, again, for a reply.

With the weariness of a week already far too long and far too short, Clara closed her eyes and leaned back into her chair. The fire cocooned her in its warmth as the night chilled and iced over.

And Clara slept, a worried but much needed sleep.