Chapter Text
After dressing and pulling a comb through her hair, Cleo carried herself down the stairs with the newfound confidence that she wasn't in love with her female best friend. She immediately went to find Saira, but naturally, that doesn't mean anything. It was during her search for Saira that she realised just how big her new home was.
Cleo checked the usual places she found Saira, the parlour and Saira's library nook. When she found nothing but servants and maids, she opened her search to the rest of the house. There were rooms similar to what she had back home, multiple dining and drawing rooms, and a lot of rooms she was unsure of the function of. Still no Saira. By the time she reached the conservatory, she was very annoyed and completely ready to give up. As she huffed and took a seat in a delicate wooden chair, a glint of sunlight caught her eye through one of the huge windows. Of course! The grounds.
She pulled the glass doors towards her, and she stopped to admire the Essex landscape. It really was beautiful. Cleo came from wealth, but their land was nothing compared to the size and grandeur of the Earl's acres upon acres of stretching orchards and rolling fields. She realised with a sinking heart that this immense amount of land - beautiful or not - meant it would take forever to find Saira. She squinted over the grounds that must be at least eight miles across, and sighed heavily.
Although she still desperately wanted to speak with her best friend, she returned to her little patch of grass beneath the beech tree. Instead of just untamed, yellowing grass and sprigs of wildflowers, she found… Saira.
“Saira,” The word escaped from her lips in a breathless whisper. They held silent eye contact for a long moment, until Cleo noticed a small collection of off-white canvases and small jars of paint. “What are you doing?” She gestured to the objects littering the ground.
“You seemed.. well, upset, last night. At dinner.” Saira explained, fiddling with the hem of her long, white scientist's coat. Cleo felt a flush of shame and guilt spread up onto her cheeks. She opened her mouth to explain, but Saira held up a hand.
“You don't have to explain, but I've heard that painting can be relaxing.” It was the shorter woman's turn to gesture. “I was going to ask you at breakfast, but when you didn't come to eat with me, I didn't know what to do.”
Cleo felt guilty again. She had had some very confusing feelings about her best (and only) friend, but her actions had been selfish. The taller woman was brainstorming ways to apologise, when she suddenly felt the weight of Saira's smaller hand on her own.
“Are you okay?”
I was, Cleo thought. Just when she became sure that her feelings had nothing to do with Saira herself, Saira confused her all over again. Was this the way of female friendships?
“You mean a great deal to me, Saira Bellum.” The grin that spread across her friend’s face was worth the ache her heart gave. She wondered why it did that.
“Likewise. Now, shall we get to painting, Countess?” Saira laughed, and the pair spent the next two hours doing little else. Truly, Cleo did feel better. Laughing and painting with Saira felt like a healing salve for the worries weighing on her heart and mind. In that moment, they were just two young women having fun. She was not a Countess, worried that she felt romantically for a humble-
That train of thought came to a screeching halt. Come to think of it, why did Saira live at the Earl's Manor?
"Saira?” Cleo voiced, interrupting the other woman mid-way through cleaning her goggles. She hummed in acknowledgement. “Why do you live here? You aren't employed by the Earl.”
The shorter woman stopped, placing her goggles on her face with a thoughtful expression, she seemed to be contemplating her next words. “My mother, father and I used to live in a small, lackluster cottage just outside of the Earl's lands. It was all we could afford, even years after we came over from India, but it was enough for us. My father would walk to work every day, and my mother would teach me. She taught me to read, write, and experiment.” Saira’s eyes glittered with excitement at this last word. “When we lost my mother, my father didn’t know what to do. Our little cottage felt too big, too empty. Without her.”
Cleo paused, unsure what to say. ‘I'm sorry’ felt like too little. Before Cleo had the chance to decide on something to say, Saira continued. “Luckily, the Earl had taken a liking to my father. My father and I just live here now. In a way, my mother's death made this all possible. My father no longer has to walk two miles everyday. Us.” Saira stopped.
They locked eyes, and neither of them said anything for a moment. Then Cleo cleared her throat and looked behind her, back towards her husband's large manor house at the same time Saira averted her eyes down to her lap. There was another strained silence between them again, and Cleo mentally cursed her brain as it immediately started over analyzing Saira's demeanour and actions. The scientist had stopped talking after the conversation had turned onto their relationship. Did that mean something?
Cleo shook her head. She was being ridiculous. Wasn't she?
Just because Cleo had been feeling strangely about Saira, doesn't mean Saira was suffering through the same issues. She was fine. This situation was fine.
Cleo rose, brushing her hands down the green folds of her dress to smooth out the creases. She then extended her hand to Saira to help her up.
As soon as their hands touched, Cleo knew it was a bad idea. The sensation of Saira's hand in her own was one Cleo could get lost in. She wanted to feel the shorter woman's smooth skin under hers forever. However, just as quickly as their hands had come into contact, she felt Saira's palm slipping away from hers.
*
Having spent the majority of the morning together, the pair decided to go their separate ways before they reunited for lunch. Saira retreated to her library nook and Cleo found her way back to the kitchens to see Martha, Bethan and Annie. Cleo needed more friends, and they would make brilliant company.
Her mother and father would have criticised her for trying to befriend ‘the help’, but the non-aristocrats were much more enjoyable to be around than the usual company her family kept. She wondered if her 48-year old husband would agree with her parents.
When Cleo entered the kitchens, no one curtsied. She smiled to herself at that, happy that they didn't see the Countess of Essex, but they saw Cleo. Just… Cleo.