"Eat something, child," the cook said gruffly. "You'll need your strength."
Clara looked up, surprised, but Mrs. Pike had already turned back to her ovens.
All morning, Clara worked: she cleaned the grates in the drawing room, polished the silver, kept her head down, and tried not to be noticed. Just before noon, she was carrying a heavy bucket of water along the upstairs corridor when footsteps came toward her. She looked up: it was the Duke.
Clara stepped back against the wall, as servants were trained to do. She lowered her eyes. Her heart was beating fast. Would he say something? Would he speak about last night?
He walked past her without stopping. He did not look at her; he did not slow down. It was as if she were invisible—just another servant, just another piece of furniture in his great, cold house.
Clara stood still until his footsteps faded away. Then she lifted her bucket and went on. So that was her answer, then. Whatever she had imagined in the library, it had been nothing at all.
In the linen room that afternoon, Clara heard a soft sound behind her. She turned: it was Hannah, Lady Cecilia's maid. The girl's eyes were red and swollen, as if she had been crying for hours.
"Clara," Hannah whispered, glancing nervously over her shoulder. "I am so sorry. I didn't want to give her the scissors. I swear I didn't."
"I know," Clara said gently. "I saw your face."
"She's cruel," Hannah whispered. "She's cruel to everyone, but she hates you, Clara. I've never seen her hate anyone the way she hates you. Be careful. Please be careful."
Before Clara could answer, a bell rang sharply somewhere down the corridor. Hannah flinched as if she had been struck.
"That's her," the girl whispered, and she was gone.
It was late in the afternoon before Clara finally climbed the narrow stairs to her room to fetch a clean apron. She opened the door and stopped: there was something lying on her bed.
It was a cap, but it was not like any servant's cap Clara had ever seen. It was made of the finest soft white linen, beautifully sewn with a delicate edge of lace. It was cut deep and full so that it would cover her head completely; every ragged strand of her hair would be hidden beneath it. Tied around it was a single ribbon of dark blue silk.
There was no note.
Clara picked it up with shaking hands. This cap had cost real money—more than a maid earned in a month. It had not come from Mrs. Dobbs; it had certainly not come from Betsy.
When Betsy came in a few minutes later, Clara held it up. "Betsy, did you see anyone come up here today?"
Betsy stared at the cap with her mouth open. "No one. I've been in the laundry all day. Oh, Clara, it's lovely! Who gave it to you?"