BUMP. BUMP. BUMP.
Each jolt of the carriage sent Clara's heart stumbling within her chest. The wheels rattled against the uneven stones, and with every lurch, her fingers tightened against her lap until her knuckles blanched. The road from the countryside to London seemed endless, winding through mist and shadow, each passing mile a reminder of what she had done, what she was about to do.
She drew a shallow breath, her chest rising and falling beneath the suffocating lace of Lady Evelina's gown. It smelled faintly of lavender and perfume, refinements foreign to her hands, her life, her name.
Deception.
The word struck her again, cruel and cold. It pulsed in her mind like a bell tolling in some faraway church.
She had bestowed upon herself a falsehood that could cost her her very life.
She dared not think of the punishment should anyone discover the truth. But she had no choice. She told herself that over and over. This is for Mother. This is for her life.
Yet even now, as the grey morning light spilled through the small window and trembled across her pale hands, Clara could not banish the dread that clung to her. Her lips trembled faintly. She pressed them together.
Had she truly agreed to such madness? To steal another woman's place, another woman's name, and stand before a Duke as though she belonged in silk instead of homespun?
Her breath caught.
How strange, how swiftly one's fate could change—one hour at the bedside of her dying mother, and the next beneath the gaze of a lady who offered salvation dressed as sin.
****
Flashback – A Few Days Ago
The Harcourt estate loomed like a specter against the storm-darkened sky, its windows glimmering faintly in the rain. Inside, the air smelled of roses left too long in water and something faintly metallic, like sorrow.
Lady Evelina Harcourt stood by the window, her hand resting on the sill, her reflection a dazzle. She did not turn when Clara entered, dripping from the rain, her worn shawl clutched tightly around her shoulders.
Clara's boots left faint, muddy marks upon the marble floor. She wished she could vanish. "You asked to see me, my lady?"
The lady turned, her expression poised, practiced, though beneath the poise Clara saw restlessness, a flicker of something wild.
"Yes," Evelina said after a pause, her gaze skimming over Clara as if she were a specimen rather than a person. "You're the daughter of Mrs. Whitlow, the midwife?"
"Yes, my lady." Clara lowered her head, aware of the chill of the room, of her dripping sleeves.
Evelina's lips curved, not kindly. "I expected someone... different."
Clara flinched, uncertain what to say.
"But no matter," Evelina continued, smoothing the silk folds of her gown. "You may yet serve a purpose. I have an offer for you."
"An offer?" Clara repeated cautiously.
"I know of your mother's illness," Evelina said, her tone suddenly sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "The medicine she requires... it is costly."
Clara's breath faltered. "How do you—"
"Never mind that," Evelina snapped. "Tell me, Clara, how far would you go to save her?"
The question settled heavy between them.
Clara's voice trembled as she answered. "As far as I must. I would do anything for her."
Something flickered in Evelina's eyes then, something not entirely sane. "Good. Then perhaps we can help each other."
Clara blinked, confused. "Help... each other?"
Evelina drew herself up, her expression tightening with irritation. "In three days, I am to wed the Duke of Hastings. A man I do not love. A man I scarcely know. My father seeks his title and his fortune, and I—" She stopped, her voice cracking briefly before she regained it. "I will not be a pawn in their schemes."
Clara's heart began to pound.
"I intend to leave," Evelina said, stepping closer. "But I cannot do so without losing everything. The only way is if someone takes my place."
Clara froze. "Your... place?"
Evelina's eyes glinted. "You and I are not so different. A little paint, a little polish, and none shall know the difference. You will stand in my stead and wed him."
The room seemed to tilt.
"My lady," Clara whispered, her voice barely sound. "That's deception. If anyone discovered such a thing—"
"They will not." Evelina's tone was fierce, impatient. "You have my word. And in return, your mother shall have the finest physicians in London. She will live, Clara. I will see to it."
Rain struck the windowpanes, a steady, relentless rhythm.
Clara's mind swirled. She thought of her mother's fevered face, the trembling in her hands, the whisper of her name in the darkness. The nights she had prayed for help that never came.
Her throat tightened.
"But I... I could never be you," she said. "I wouldn't know what to say, how to behave—"
"You will learn," Evelina said quickly, her eyes burning with resolve. "Think of your mother. This is your chance to save her."
Clara hesitated, every breath a battle between fear and hope.
Death or deceit.
She closed her eyes. "My mother... will truly be cared for?"
Evelina's lips curved into a smile—cold, satisfied. "You have my vow."
There was a pause. A heartbeat.
Then Clara whispered, scarcely aware of her own voice, "Then... I will do it."
****
Back to the Present
The carriage hit another stone, and Clara's thoughts shattered like glass. She pressed a trembling hand to her breast, trying to still the frantic rhythm of her heart.
Now she wore Evelina's dress, Evelina's name, Evelina's fate. The lace sleeves clung too tightly to her slender arms; the corset constricted her breath. She sat stiffly among velvet cushions, her reflection in the carriage window pale and frightened, a stranger.
But when she closed her eyes, she saw her mother's face, and that thought silenced all others.