by Lexy Timms
“Would you like to sit in the storeroom?” His voice was soft and warm. “It would be quiet. You could be alone. If you wanted.”
A rush of relief. How had he known? There was not even any sound here, but there was also a wailing in her head, and the dreadful press of Clara’s grief and their mother’s fear, sharp and suffocating all at once, and Cecelia only wanted to be alone in the darkness, so she could press her hands over her mouth and not have anyone watching her. She managed to nod, and Cyrus led her gently from the room.
The storeroom itself was clean, sunlight creeping in from a high window. When she was a child, Cecelia had always wanted to be let in here, and it was just as she had imagined: the smell of spices, great piles of potato sacks and flour, coffee and tea and sugar in massive barrels, and hams hanging from the ceiling. She saw bolts of cloth and spools of thread, tinned meat and pots and pans, and yet all she could think was that she could be alone here, alone and quiet. When Cyrus sat her gently on a crate and left, closing the door gently, she burst at once into silent tears.
She was not grieving, she realized—she was scared. She rocked back and forth, her hand over her mouth, her terror obliterating everything else in her mind. She did not know what had happened to Solomon, and that made everything worse, somehow.
The sound from behind her made her jump. She scrambled off the crate in time to see a man emerge from the shadows, his hands out to show he meant no harm.
“I apologize,” he said at once. His voice was husky and warm, and Cecelia blinked, her head whirling with thoughts.
“Who are you?”
“Isaiah Rourke.” He made his way into one of the shafts of sunlight, and Cecelia saw auburn hair, black eyes surprisingly dark in a pale face, and a smattering of freckles. His brow was furrowed. “I did not mean to intrude,” he said awkwardly. “What has upset you? Please, sit, sit.” He stood, awkwardly, until Cecelia sat.
“It isn’t...important. Not to you, I’m sure.”
“We have all felt grief,” he said seriously. To her surprise, he sat nearby, and his eyes were still fixed on hers—not traveling over the neckline of her dress, or picking out her curves under the gown she wore. “And this seems like no little heartbreak or ripped hem.”
“You could tell that from my crying?”
“Only the truly sad,” he said carefully, “try to hide the sound of their grief.”
She took a more careful look at him at last, marking the common make of his shirt and the many patches on his pants, the callused hands and boots that had not been new for some time. A servant of some kind, hardly a great scholar. But he spoke with a philosopher’s quiet certainty, and she knew somehow that he had seen the depth of her grief, and not just guessed at it.
“My brother is...” Don’t say it, saying it will make it real. “...missing. From the battlefield.” And, as if it mattered at all: “He was lost at the battle of Monterey Pass.”
“I am so sorry,” Isaiah whispered. It could be him, Cecelia knew, and she had seen the looks of mixed terror and relief, revulsion at one’s own cowardice, as men absorbed the news of those lost at war. What was Cyrus thinking right now?
“I expected it to be better than hearing he had been killed,” Cecelia said quietly, not understanding why the words poured out of her so easily, “but it’s worse. It could be...he could be dead, couldn’t he? Or being interrogated.” A sob of fear bubbled up in her throat and she pressed her hand over her mouth.
A shift and scrape of boots on the floor let her know that he had moved, and he took her free hand in both of his own, his touch gentle. She waited for him to offer her platitudes and prayers, but he said nothing at all, only waited while the tears took her again and she doubled over, rocking back and forth with it. When she drew her hand away from his, he let it go easily, and took his seat nearby again while she wiped at her face.
“So.” She twisted the handkerchief in her lap. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”
Polite, a nice greeting. She could see her mother’s approval in her mind’s eye, and she wanted to laugh until she started screaming; this was not nice, this was not normal, and she was behaving as though it was a social function because she did not know what else to do.
“No, we haven’t.” Isaiah smiled tentatively.
Cecelia nearly lost her breath at that smile. It was warm, like dawn breaking, hope and happiness mixed together. Isaiah was a man with great dreams, she thought, and then chided herself for it. She could hardly know the man so well after a few moments in his company. But as much as she thought herself foolish, she was sure of it.
“I’m Cecelia Dalton,” she said, nodding politely.
“Clara Dalton’s sister?” he asked.
She nodded tightly, a stab of jealousy making its way into her belly. All those years in Clara’s shadow, never the golden sister, never the belle of the town, but she had made her peace with it. Why should it bother her now to be known that way?
“She’s the one Mister Butler is hoping to marry, then,” Isaiah said.
“Oh.” She felt relief. “Oh, yes. That’s Clara.”
“He speaks well of her,” Isaiah said, smiling easily. “Of you all. He prays for your brother’s safety when he thinks no one is looking. He’s a good man, is Cyrus.”
“Yes.” Cecelia nodded. “Solomon...” Her throat closed and she fought to keep the tears from her eyes. “Solomon thought well of him. He hoped...hopes...that Cyrus and Clara will marry.” She must think of something else. “And you?”
“Do I hope they will marry?” he teased, gently, and he sobered when he saw the look on her face. “Aye, I’ve a sweetheart. Jeanine, a housemaid at the parsonage.”
“Pretty?” Cecelia asked, trying to focus on anything but the rest of the world, and the truth that lingered outside the door of the storeroom.
“Very,” he assured her with a grin. “And do you have a beau? Surely you must.”
“I...no,” she admitted. Her good humor was gone in an instant, and in its place was a peculiar shame. Surely she should not feel ashamed, she told herself. She was only seventeen, hardly an old maid by any means. And yet she had never had a beau, never an admirer, for all that the boys danced with her at festivals.
The door creaked, and they both jumped.
“Cecelia?” Cyrus held out his hand, his face grave. “The reverend will be accompanying you back to the farm. Do you need a moment?”
“No.” Cecelia stood, her heart pounding. The reverend. Like Solomon was already dead. She nodded her head to Isaiah, who stood awkwardly. “It was very nice to meet you.”
“And I you.” He did not have to say that he was praying for Solomon’s return. His eyes said it for him, and his grave face told her that he knew she would break down in tears if he spoke the words.
Cecelia turned away before his kindness could move her to tears, and followed Cyrus from the room.
Chapter 3
After the dark of the storeroom, the street seemed blindingly bright and chaotic. Carriages were still moving down the main street, apprentices hurrying to and fro, and women walking solemnly in their winter garb, bundled against the cold. No one seemed to take any notice of the sad little ground clustered by the carriage: Clara, still white as a sheet; Millicent, swaying, on the Reverend’s arm, and Cecelia emerging with Cyrus from the recesses of the shop.
Millicent disentangled herself to give Cecelia a hug, and she rested her head against her mother’s shoulder, wanting to cry with pent up terror and grief. She must be strong, she told herself. She could not cry on the main street in front of everyone, in front of Clara, in front of Cyrus. The reverend would be most disturbed if she began to sob, surely.
“Will you be all right?” Millicent asked her, and Cecelia fought the urge to say of course not, she would not be all right until they knew Solomon was well, that all there was now was a gaping wound of terror and fury and it could not even heal because they did not know the shape of it yet, because there was n
othing but wondering. But there was no saying that, and so she nodded instead.
“Cecelia.” The reverend’s voice was deep and solemn, and she looked up t meet his eyes. He looked like a raven, she thought, all dressed in black. “I offer my condolences on this troubling news.”
Troubling, Cecelia thought. The word did not fit. Troubling.
“May I present my son, Abraham?”
“Hello, Abraham.” Cecelia dropped into a curtsy, nodded to the man with the brown hair, the winter sun lending it a red tint, and the blue eyes. He bowed over her hand, his warm breath brushing skin that was just beginning to take a chill.
“Miss Dalton.” His tone was warm. “I, too, offer my sympathy.”
“Thank you.” Because she must say something, mustn’t she?”
“Let us go back to the farm, then,” the reverend intoned. “Surely you will wish to be away from all this...” His waving hand took in the bustle of the town, and his expression said clearly what he thought of everything about them.
Cecelia’s world shifted. A moment before, she had thought as he did, but now, as he told them they should leave, she took an obscure comfort from the fact that the world had clearly carried on. If everything else was normal, perhaps Solomon truly was well. Perhaps he had simply found another group on the battlefield and they would shortly receive a letter that all was well. The sky couldn’t be blue and the carriages couldn’t run, surely, if Solomon was dead?
She ignored the voice in her head telling her not to be a child, and accepted Abraham’s hand to carry her up into the carriage. With the seat occupied by Millicent, Clara, and the reverend, Cecelia and Abraham must settle in the back, with the horse blankets. Once she would have bridled at it, being set aside like a child, but she found herself just as glad not to be listening to the man intone prayers and psalms. And she did not want to see Clara’s face, not now.
Like twins, everyone said about Clara and Solomon when they were little. No matter that they were three years apart—she was toddling after him as soon as she could walk, and they could speak with a glance what would take other people long minutes to say in words.
And where, Cecelia wondered, did that leave her? For she felt grief as well, and wished to cry, or to carry on as Clara might. But she knew what her mother would say: you know how close they were, Cecelia. Let her grieve.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she said hastily, before she could burst into tears or beat her fists against the sides of the carriage at the unfairness of everything, and Abraham smiled at her warmly. He did not seem at all shocked by the inadequacy of her words.
“That it is.” He looked around himself before remembering that he was the reverend’s son. “Truly a testament to God’s creation.”
“Mmm, yes. Of course.” Cecelia smiled back dutifully.
“May I say...well, it is no matter.”
“What?” She was desperate for distraction.
“You look lovely. That is all. Your cloak is especially fetching. It makes your skin look like cream.”
“Thank you.” Cecelia blushed, her cheeks burning against the cold air and her chest warming at the words. There. She was not so plain after all, even with Clara looking like a fairy princess. Perhaps someday, someone would court Cecelia, and then when some boy asked her if she had a beau, she might say yes—yes, she did.
She tucked the compliment into her mind and held it close, and they fell into silence as the carriage rattled along the frozen roads. Cecelia, for her part, was accustomed to the rough ride, but she saw Abraham wince as the cart struck rocks and ruts, and the back of the cart jostled. Often, she saw Abraham staring at her, and she blushed and looked away. You look lovely. Guilt twisted in her, that she could even consider thinking of this when matters were grave, but her mind seized on the distraction gratefully.
She flexed her fingers slowly against the winter air. It was cold, bitterly so now that the day was progressing, and they could see the grey of storm clouds on the horizon. But Cecelia hardly minded. Grey and clouds might mean a blizzard, and that was something to focus on—getting the goats inside and the barn closed up, the chickens rounded into one of the stalls instead of their coop. A storm meant howling wind and the shutters rattling, something she hated, something that would keep her mind from what was happening. Just like the bitter wind now cut at her fingers so that she was stiff and cold, hurting and wishing she was inside. It was a distraction, and she was grateful for it.
When Abraham helped her down from the carriage at last, the farmhouse looming behind them, he held her close for a moment, and she almost thought he might kiss her. Her mind whirled, but he only stepped back, and even in her half-moment of disappointment, she saw the admiration in his eyes and shivered with happiness. She was young, and pretty, and a man thought well of her—a good young man, too. The reverend’s son.
She did not want to go inside. The kitchen seemed smaller and closer than she remembered. Clara half-collapsed into one of the chairs by the fire and so Cecelia was the one to haul the kettle away for water, and set out refreshments on a plate. They did not need to do this for such an event, she knew that. But pretending it was a social call gave her the courage not to burst into tears.
She delayed as much as she could, but there was no stopping it entirely.
“Dear Lord,” the reverend said without preamble, when they were all seated. “We ask you today to keep Solomon Dalton in your grace and mercy, and see to it that wherever he may be, he is returned to his home safely. We ask, also, that you keep his family...”
The voice twisted around and around in her head, and Cecelia took deep breaths to steady herself, keeping her eyes on the flames and her hands twisting in her lap, nails digging into the flesh until the skin ached. The flames seemed to have burned themselves into her vision; when she closed her eyes and bowed her head, to pretend that she was praying, she saw them still dancing behind her closed lids.
“Cecelia?”
Her mother’s voice.
“What?” Cecelia looked up.
“Do you have any prayers to make?” Millicent’s eyes made it clear that Cecelia should say something profound, but from the way the reverend was clasping Clara’s hand, she was sure her older sister already had said the perfect thing.
And she did not want to speak, anyway.
“Dear Lord.” Her voice came out as a squeak, and faded to a whisper. She must not cry. “Let Solomon be still with us, and safe. Even if we do not know where he is, I am sure You do. Give us...give us courage to wait.” Her voice trembled and she bowed her head again hastily. She did not have courage. She did not, either, have any patience for this being one of God’s mysteries.
“Amen,” Abraham said at her side.
It was over in an eternity and a moment, the reverend’s voice droning and Clara whispering prayers, Millicent’s strong voice belying the terror Cecelia knew that she felt. And Cecelia felt a wave of anger, that they should be trying to impress the Reverend now with their piety, when he should be comforting them instead. As they sat down to a quick meal—“oh, reverend, we must feed you before you head back”—she slipped out into the orchard, no cloak to protect her against the cold, and breathed in a shuddering sigh of relief at the cold air.
She walked quickly, raising her fingers deliberately out of her pockets and brushing them against the bare tree branches, saving the ache and burn of the winter air on her skin. It took all she had not to scream at the sky, demanding answers. He could not be missing. People did not just disappear. They did not vanish into thin air. Someone must know. Someone must.
“Miss Dalton.”
She took a moment to steady herself before she turned, and curtsied.
“Mr. Thompson.”
“Might I walk with you?” Abraham asked her, and Cecelia nodded.
“You look like a winter spirit,” he told her. “No cloak, and yet you are not shivering. Are you hands cold?”
Cecelia nodded again. Words seemed to have deserted he
r.
“Here.” He came to her side and took his scarf, wrapping her hands together in it and holding them as heat began to prickle against the skin. “A little better?”
“Yes.” Cecelia found her voice once more. His gaze was warming her as well, blue eyes fixed on her own, plain brown ones. She tried a smile. “Thank you.”
“Cecelia.” He cleared his throat, and looked away over the fields and the barn.
“Yes?”
Cecelia wondered what he must be seeing as he looked. The farm had been her home for all of her life, and when she looked at the fields she saw the memory of a hundred games of hide and seek, blind man’s bluff in the forests beyond the barn. She remembered climbing up to walk along the stone wall that bordered the peach and apple trees, and she knew that the snug farmhouse would have warm cider on cold days like this one. But Abraham was a man from the town, and had never worked a day in his life. Did he see poverty when he looked at all of this?
When he looked back at her, she forgot everything but his regard.
“You will think me a cad for asking this now,” he said, “but I cannot hold my words back. Forgive me, Miss Dalton.”
“I...” She had not the faintest idea what he was speaking of.
“Would you allow me to...” For a moment, she saw lust in his eyes—she did not have to be worldly, or understand anything, to know what that was. It was naked and powerful, and he did not seem so much a man as a beast. And then he swallowed and looked down, and it was gone when he met her gaze again. “Would you allow me to court you?” he finished.
She hesitated. Why, she could not say.
“Cecelia, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known,” he said urgently. “Say I can. Say you would not be unkind to me.”
He was a good match, Cecelia told herself. In fact, there was no better match, save perhaps the mayor’s son. The Thompsons were well off, everyone knew it. She would be at the height of society in Knox. Her marriage would eclipse even her sister’s.
So why could she not seem to reclaim the warmth she had felt even a moment ago, the heady pleasure at being desired?