The Duke’s Guests Laughed as the Maid Fell Into the Lake — She Said, “I’ll Remember Every Face”
Chapter 5
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"That's better." Mrs. Pratt straightened up. "Now take off that wet dress and put on your old one. Tonight, when the guests are gone, you will scrub the floor of the great hall—every stone on your knees. And if I find one speck of dirt in the morning, you'll be on the road with nothing but the clothes on your back."The great hall at Ravensworth was the size of a church. By midnight, Clara's knees were raw and bleeding through her stockings. Her hands were cracked from the cold water and the hard soap. The candles had burned low, and the huge room was full of shadows.She did not stop. She scrubbed and scrubbed, and while she worked, she remembered. It was a gift she had always had, even as a little girl. Her father used to laugh about it."My Clara never forgets a face," he would tell the other grooms. "Show her a man once, and she'll know him 20 years later in the dark."He had been proud of it. John Doyle, head groom of Ravensworth Hall: a big, gentle man with rough hands and a soft voice who could calm the wildest horse in England.Clara closed her eyes for a moment, and she could see him again, laughing in the stable yard, lifting her up onto Bramble's back when she was six years old, teaching her the names of every horse.Then she saw him the way she had seen him last: in chains, standing in the courtroom while the judge called him a murderer, turning his head to find her in the crowd and mouthing two words before they took him away: "Be brave."They had sentenced him to hang. At the last moment, the sentence had been changed to transportation. He was put on a ship to Australia with 300 other prisoners. Two years later, a letter came: the ship had been struck by fever; many men had died. After that, there were no more letters.Clara opened her eyes and wiped them quickly with the back of her wrist. She had not come here to cry. She had cried enough in 15 years: in the workhouse where they sent her after the trial, in the cold bedrooms of the houses where she had worked since she was 12, in every place where someone had heard the name Doyle and looked at her like she was dirt. That was why she had changed it. Clara Doyle, the murderer's daughter, did not exist anymore. Only Clara Hollis, a housemaid, unnoticed.And now, at last, she had seen the man with the scar. Today, by that lake, God had finally answered her prayer."You missed a spot."Clara jumped and turned. The Duke stood at the bottom of the great staircase, holding a candle. He was still in his evening clothes, but his collar was loose, and he looked tired.Clara scrambled to her feet, wincing as her knees protested. "Your Grace, I'm sorry. I didn't hear you.""That was a joke," he said, "poorly made. Forgive me." He came closer, and his eyes fell on her bleeding knees. His face changed. "Who ordered you to do this?""It's my work, Your Grace."