“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.