Page 9 of A Magic Deep & Drowning

Helma eyed the overflowing basket of flowers as she helped Clara relieve herself of her cloak, but didn’t ask what had taken her so long or why she had picked so many. “You’d best hurry upstairs—your parents are going to be calling for you soon, and you look a mess.”

Trudging upstairs, Clara carried the flowers to her dressing table and threw them into a somewhat haphazard bouquet. Helma set to work at once, tidying her plaits and helping her step into a fresh petticoat of pink silk.

Clara hardly noticed as Helma reprimanded her for her wet stockings; her mind was back in the shady canal. The more she thought about her strange encounter, the angrier she grew. Shame on that man for trying to tempt her! And he was not just any man, he was the servant of the man whom Clara was to marry. He should have known better.Sheshould have known better. What on earth possessed her to almost get in his boat with him? Where would he have taken her? She knew enough about what went on between men and women to know that seduction would have been a distinct possibility.Her foolishness could have cost her the chance to be married, her entire future. There had been a look in his eyes, not lecherous nor feral, but kind and yearning. What exactlyhadhe wanted from her? He could have taken her against a tree or on the ground, but he hadn’t. Oh, her mother would be furious that Clara even knew such things were possible, but Clara heard servants talk. She knew that Atty had gotten a belly big with child from just such an encounter. No, Clara did not think it was solely the ravishing of her body he had wanted. It had been something more complex, yet infinitely darker.

With a grunt, Helma finished lacing her bodice, and stepped back to inspect her young mistress. “Well, the fresh air did you good at least. Put some rose in your cheeks.” Licking her thumb, she rubbed at some imaginary speck on Clara’s chin. “Now, you won’t go making any trouble today, will you? You know how important this is to your mother.”

“Of course not! How can you even ask such a thing?” Despite Clara’s assurance, there was a waver in her voice; she had almost realized Helma’s greatest fear just that morning. She took Helma’s hand up in hers. “I want this just as much as Mama and Papa,” she said in earnest. “They’ll have no trouble from me.”

When Clara slipped into the great hall, her parents were already standing with Mr. Edema at the far end by the hearth, crystal goblets glinting with ruby wine. Her mother pressed her lips into a thin line when she saw Clara, and her father cleared his throat. “Clara,” he said shortly. “We were expecting you some time ago.”

Hendrik Edema had his back to her, but at her father’s words, turned around. She held her breath. This was the moment she had waited for so long.

Everything about him, from his sharp little beard, to his pressed lace ruff was neat neat neat, precise even to her father’sstandards. Little wonder that Theodor had approved of him. With a small, straight nose, and full lips, she had to concede that he wasn’t unpleasant looking, though he was far from as handsome as her dreams.

“Mr. Edema, I am honored to present to you my daughter, Clara.” Her mother passed Clara a silent look of warning.

“Sir,” she said, bowing her head and dipping into a deep curtsy. His black leather shoes were immaculate, high-heeled and tied with ribbons.

He took her hand, raising her up, and bowed low over it. “Mistress. A pleasure to meet you.”

She waited for him to say something else, but apparently satisfied with this brief introduction, he just cleared his throat nervously several times, and dropped his gaze to the goblet in his hand. Her mother swooped in to fill the conversational void, commenting on the spring’s crop of tulips, as Atty poured a glass of wine and pressed it into Clara’s hand.

While her mother commented on the weather—yes, it did look like rain—and her father asked about the ongoing wars—Was it true that the French had occupied Utrecht?—Clara took a rigorous inventory of Hendrik Edema’s person and bearing.

His broad forehead shone with perspiration, and the roots of his dark curls were slightly greasy, as if he had run his fingers through them many times. He wore a short beard as her father did, and this was his saving grace, as it gave him something of a scholarly quality. His eyes were light, somewhere between hazel and gray, and kept flickering over to her as her mother addressed him. When this happened Clara would lower her lashes demurely, staring into the depths of her wine. She knew it made her look very chaste and becoming.

“Perhaps we should let the young people talk,” her father said, setting aside his glass. “Clara, why don’t you show Mr. Edema around the grounds?”

Clara dipped her head and accepted the silk arm that Mr. Edema held out to her. Her heart beat faster, not because of the man beside her, but because of his servant, Maurits. What if he was still on the grounds somewhere? Would Hendrik see him and deduce what had transpired between his servant and his bride? Should Clara mention the ruse, or pretend that she was none the wiser for her intended’s trick?

As they emerged outside, her fears proved unfounded. Maurits was nowhere to be seen, and the strange pall that had fallen over the grounds had lifted. Gravel crunched under their shoes and an insect buzzed next to her ear before darting away. The silence was all the more pronounced by the awkward tension between her and Hendrik. Clara waited patiently for him to say something, ask her about the grounds perhaps, or comment on the quality of the roses, but he didn’t seem to know what to say. She could feel the strain of his muscles beneath her hand, as if he was fighting against his own insecurity. When the silence became too unbearable, Clara at last threw convention to the wind and spoke first. “Papa tells me you own ships?”

The tension in his arm melted and he let out breath. “Yes,” he said gratefully. “I own three ships in all, and have a fourth being built.”

“Ah! How interesting.”

It was not a very elegant answer. If she had been more interested in things like ships, she might have tried to think up another question. They lapsed into silence again, the only sound Hendrik’s occasional throat clearing.Please just let him be nervous and not dull, Clara prayed. To coax him out of his shell would be a challenge, but to find that there was nothing inside... well, that would be a bitter disappointment indeed.

“This canal runs the entire length of the estate,” she said pointing. “Papa said that you live in Franeker?”

He nodded.

“Ah!” she said brightly. “So this very same water runs by your home then, and right past mine. You could put a note in a little paper ship and sail it all the way to me.”

This image seemed to please him, and he gave her a shy smile. How remarkable that he was at least ten years her senior, but acted as if he were a schoolboy, afraid to speak to girls. Buoyed by her enthusiasm, he ventured, “Do you often walk by the canal?”

Determined not to let his effort go to waste, Clara put on her brightest face and furrowed her brow as if it were the most interesting question she had ever been asked. “I try to walk every day,” she told him. “Sometimes Helma comes with me. Inside is the same every day, but even amidst the flatness of the fens the outdoors is a little different each day. See those pink buds over there? Yesterday they were barely open, but today you can see the start of petals. Soon they will be fully blossoming.”

He nodded absently at the buds. “You should have a dog,” Hendrik said finally. “A little companion for your walks.”

She looked up at him in surprise, finding that the tips of his ears were pink. He quickly dropped his gaze. “I suppose your father would have made sure you had one if you had wanted one, though.”

“That’s a wonderful idea! I should love a little dog, and only wonder that I never thought of it before.” In truth, there were dozens of dogs under the care of the gamekeeper. Sometimes they got into the garden and dug up the plants or left droppings, and Father would go into a rage.

This earned her another shy smile, and they walked on in silence, Clara occasionally pointing out a feature of interest, and Hendrik enthusiastically nodding. When they had come full circle and walked the whole of the rose garden and the winding paths of the estate, they paused outside of the front door.

“You know,” Clara said, toeing her slipper in the gravel, “you didn’t have to send your man around to spy on me. I would have been happy to provide a miniature, or answer any of your questions regardless.”

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