Page 33 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“And you’ll have an exceptionally sore seat if you don’t do what you’re told.”
Nathaniel let out a huff, but the twins followed Papa Harcourt inside, leaving Clara alone with her mother.
“Shall we take a turn about the kitchen garden?” Mama suggested, slipping her arm through Clara’s. Then she steered her around the back of the house to where Mr. Grainger’s vegetables formed a series of neat rows. The white-haired gardener was digging around the base of a wooden frame on which green shoots wound their way up. He tipped his hat as they approached.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, rising to his feet. “And Miss Clara.”
“Don’t get up on our account, Mr. Grainger,” Clara’s mother said. “We don’t want to keep you from your peas.”
“I’m almost done here,” he said, holding up a truckle filled with vegetables. He gave a gap-toothed grin, then plucked a pod from one of the plants and offered it to Clara. “There ye go,miss,” he said. “There’s nowt better than peas fresh from the vine. Try it.”
She split open the pod to reveal a row of pale green spheres nestled against each other. Then she popped them into her mouth, savoring the fresh, sweet taste.
“They taste better right off the plant, don’t they?” he said.
Clara nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Grainger.”
“My pleasure, miss,” he replied. “Mind ye, don’t let me catch ye taking them yerself.”
“There’s no danger of that,” Clara said. “When I steal your vegetables, I always make sure not to get caught.”
“Less of yer cheek!” He laughed, his eyes twinkling. “Ah, ye’ll be a right handful for yer husband. But for all that, he’ll be a lucky young man.”
He touched his cap once more, then returned to the house, whistling.
They continued until they reached a bench against the perimeter wall. Mama sat and patted the space beside her for Clara to join her. Then she took Clara’s hand.
“Are you fond of Mr. McTavish, my dear?”
“I-I like him, Mama.”
“I can see that.”
“I’m sorry I spoke out of turn today, inviting him to visit tomorrow. It was just that…”
“That you like him?”
Clara nodded. Her mother kissed her hand.
“Your stepfather approves,” she said. “Not that you’d know.”
“Of Mr. McTavish?” Clara said. “Or…of me?”
“Ofcoursehe approves of you, darling! How can you doubt it?”
“He doesn’t say anything,” Clara said. “He just gives me a look each time I do something wrong. But it’s the same look he gives when I do something right.”
Her mother laughed. “Harcourt’s a very different creature to you and me,” she said. “As are Cornelius and Nathaniel.”
“Because they’re men?”
“Partly, and partly because they come from a world that we weren’t born into—the world of dukes and lords.” She let out a sigh and leaned back. “Can you imagine that? Being taught, from the cradle, that to express your feelings, or say what you think, is the deadliest sin of all? But your stepfather feels a great deal, even if he cannot show it.”
She placed her hand on Clara’s cheek. “He loves you very much, Clara. It’s because he loves you that he appears so strict at times. And it’s why he—and I—want to be sure that Mr. McTavish is an honorable man. You must be careful when you speak to him. Careful about…”
Mama looked away, narrowing her eyes as if in pain.
“Careful about telling him who I am?” Clara said. “Who my real f-father…”
