told me you were sorry for the Duke. Nobody in my whole life had ever been sorry for me. I knew then; I have known ever since." His voice was not quite steady. "I have no right to ask you anything. I let them hurt you—I know I did. But if you will let me, I will spend the rest of my life keeping every promise I make to you. Clara Hartley, will you marry me?"
The whole church held its breath.
Clara looked down at him. Slowly, she raised one hand and touched the edge of the lace cap. Beneath it, she knew, her hair was still short and ragged and ugly.
"My hair," she whispered. "It will take years to grow back."
The Duke smiled: a real smile this time, the first real smile anyone in that church had ever seen on his face.
"Then I will wait," he said, "for every single strand."
And Clara Hartley, who had not cried when they cut her hair, or when they threw her into the rain, or when they locked her in the dark, began to cry at last.
"Yes," she said. "Yes."
For a moment, there was perfect silence. Then, from the back of the church, someone began to clap: it was old Mrs. Pike, with tears pouring down her wrinkled face. Then Hannah joined her, then old Mr. Drummond the banker in the third row, then the bishop himself. And then, like a wave rolling through the great church, three hundred people rose to their feet and applauded.
The Duke stood up and took Clara's hand, and together they walked back down the long aisle, past the white roses and the candles, toward the open doors and the bright, cold London sunshine.
Behind them, on the stone floor, the diamond bracelet lay forgotten. Nobody bothered to pick it up.
Spring came early to Ravenshire that year. By the end of March, the great lawns had turned bright green again, daffodils nodded beside the long drive, lambs cried in the fields beyond the park, and the old oak trees were full of birdsong from morning till night.
And on the wide stone steps of Ravenshire Hall, a girl of fifteen with rosy cheeks and golden hair was laughing so hard that she could barely stand up.
"Clara! Clara, come and look! The pony has eaten Mr. Grant's hat!"
Clara Hartley came out onto the steps and shaded her eyes against the sunshine. Down on the gravel, a fat little brown pony was happily chewing on what had once been a very fine black hat, and old Mr. Grant, the butler, was standing beside it with an expression of deep and dignified suffering.
Clara put her hand over her mouth to hide her smile. "Polly," she called. "Polly Hartley, did you give that pony the hat?"
"I didn't give it to him! He took it!" Polly was laughing so much that tears ran down her face. "Mr. Grant put it on the fence post, and Bramble just walked up and ate it!"