Chapter 2 - The Southwark Arrival
The carriage ride from Mayfair to Southwark was the longest two hours of Clara’s life.
She sat huddled in the corner of the small estate gig, a single canvas valise resting at her feet containing her few worn dresses, her mother’s Bible, and the folded note that had sealed her exile. The rain had started by the time the driver dropped her at the edge of the wharf, tossing her bag onto the wet cobblestones before turning the horses around without a backward glance.
Southwark in October smelled of rotting cabbage, coal smoke, and the heavy, stagnant tide of the Thames.
Clara pulled her wool shawl tight against her shoulders and hurried down the narrow alleyway toward Mercer Street. The tenement buildings leaned toward each other like tired old gossips, their windows bleary with grime. At number fourteen, she pushed open the heavy front door, climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the third floor, and turned the key to their small room.
""Clara?""
A small voice came from the cot in the corner.
Tommy propped himself up on one elbow, his cheeks flushed with fever, his thin fingers clutching a patchwork quilt. When he saw her standing in the doorway with her valise, his eyes widened with confusion. ""Why are you here? Is it Sunday already?""
Clara forced a bright, practiced smile to her face, rushed across the room, and knelt beside the bed, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead. He was burning up.
""No, love, it's not Sunday,"" she said, smoothing his tangled brown hair. ""I've... I've been given a holiday. A long holiday. I'm going to stay right here and look after you for a few days.""
Tommy’s face lit up, a brilliant, infectious smile breaking through his illness. ""Really? You don't have to go back to the big house tonight?""
""Not for a good long while,"" she lied, her heart aching.
She immediately set to work. She boiled water on the small iron hearth, brewed the bitter willow-bark tea the apothecary had recommended, and changed his damp linens. But beneath her calm exterior, her mind was racing like a trapped animal.
She had no job. She had no savings—every coin she possessed had gone toward last month’s rent and the apothecary’s bill. Without Wexley House, she couldn't pay for next week's medicine. And without medicine, Tommy wouldn't survive the coming damp of November.
Lady Isabella hadn't just fired her; she had stripped her of the only weapon she had to keep her brother alive.
By late afternoon, the knock on the door made Clara freeze.
It wasn't a heavy knock, but a sharp, rhythmic double-tap—the kind delivered by someone accustomed to being answered instantly.
Clara stood slowly, smoothing her apron, and walked to the door. She lifted the iron latch and pulled it open.
Standing in the dim, narrow hallway was not a debt collector, nor a local grocer. It was a young man in an immaculate tweed overcoat, holding a leather portfolio under his arm. He had sandy hair, sharp green eyes, and a small notebook tucked into his breast pocket. He looked entirely out of place among the peeling wallpaper and soot-stained lintels of Southwark.
""Miss Clara Higgins?"" he asked, his voice crisp and educated.
Clara gripped the edge of the door. ""Who are you?""
""My name is Julian Vance,"" the man said, offering a polite, brief nod. He glanced past her into the small room where Tommy was coughing softly into his pillow. Then his eyes returned to Clara. ""I work for the Duke of Wexley. Or, more accurately, I used to investigate matters his family prefers not to bring to the local constabulary.""
Clara’s pulse spiked. She tried to close the door, but Vance placed a steady hand against the wood, stopping it with ease.
""Don't do that, Miss Higgins,"" he said calmly. ""If I were here to cause trouble for you, I would have brought two Bow Street runners with me. Instead, I came alone. Because I have a very simple question, and you are the only person in London who can answer it.""
""I have nothing to say to anyone from Wexley House,"" Clara whispered fiercely, keeping her voice low so Tommy wouldn't hear. ""I was dismissed this morning. I am no longer a servant there.""
""I am well aware you were dismissed,"" Vance replied, stepping slightly closer. ""Which is precisely why His Grace sent me here.""
Clara stopped breathing. ""His Grace sent you?""
""He didn't believe the brooch story for a single second, Clara,"" Vance said, lowering his voice. ""Nathaniel Ashford is many things, but he is not a fool. A woman who has served six years without a blemish does not suddenly turn into a common thief on the eve of her master's engagement dinner—especially not by stuffing a heavy gold-and-silver swan into an apron pocket where anyone could spot it.""
Clara stared at him, her defenses wavering. ""Then why did he send me away?""
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""Because,"" Vance said, his green eyes sharpening, ""he wants to know what you were hiding. And more importantly... he wants to know why Lady Isabella was shaking so badly she couldn't pour her own tea this morning.""
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