Freedom Forever (2 page)

“Come inside, come inside!” Cyrus came out of the shop to tie Beauty to the hitching post and drape blankets over her flanks, stroking her nose and giving her side an affectionate pat. He was in fine form, handsome, his eyes sparkling to see Clara—and everyone knew this was a show for her.

Everyone knew, too, that Clara had her doubts. At least, Cecelia did. And Millicent would have had to be deaf not to hear Clara’s arguments with Solomon before he left, him saying that she needed someone to take care of her, her laughing and telling him she needed nothing but for him to carry the plates from the table to be washed.

Still, it was like a fairytale: Clara and Cyrus so beautiful together, him doting on her like a prince out of a storybook, and her just as radiant as Cecelia in a new winter cloak of red. Solomon had spoiled them both before he marched off to war, and it had been so many weeks since he went that Cecelia no longer shivered with fear when she remembered where he was.

“I have some spiced wine,” Cyrus told them all. “And cider for you, Cee.”

“Thank you,” Cecelia said, prickling at his assumption of her as a child, but knowing full well that a lady was always gracious. She flushed with pleasure when she saw her mother’s approving nod.

Cyrus was still holding the door open when a young man with a grave expression approached them. Cecelia had seen him once before; he was the mayor’s son, and though he was still young enough that he looked gangly and coltish, his eyes were still and pitying. Fear skittered up Cecelia’s spine, and she shrank back, almost as if she would run down the street, away from whatever words this boy might say.

“Mrs. Dalton?” the boy asked, and even Millicent knew, in that moment, that something was terribly wrong.

“Yes?”

“I have...I have some news.” He didn’t seem to know how to say it.

Clara, her hand in Cyrus’s, had gone as white as the clouds that floated above in the winter sky. She swayed in the doorway, and her lips formed a single word:
Solomon.

The boy looked at them pleadingly, as if he hoped that someone would say something. As if one of them might guess at the news and he wouldn’t have to say it himself. But they were all frozen, the moment turning to liquid and heartbeats like a drum, echoing in Cecelia’s ears until she could hardly hear the words that came out of his mouth next:

“I regret to inform you that your son was declared missing after the battle of Monterey Pass.”

There was a silence. Cecelia remembered thinking how strange it was that the world kept moving, the carriages going up and down the street, people calling to one another, the wind blowing. The rest of the world didn’t even seem to understand what had just happened, what terrible news they had just heard.

And none of them seemed to grasp it, either. There was a leap in their eyes to hear the word
missing.
Missing was not dead, so missing must be better, mustn’t it? But it was not good, that much was also true. Missing might mean Solomon had been captured, that he was being hauled along in the wake of the Confederate troops, or that he
was
dead and they simply hadn’t found his body. Missing meant that Solomon fractured in Cecelia’s mind until he was a dozen places and none of them, every horrible thing she had ever imagined happening to him in her mind’s eye while she watched and could not stop it.

How she got into the shop, she did not know, but the air was cloyingly hot, and Cyrus was clearing a place for them in the back room with a few curt words to his father as people stared at them and murmured in pity. Everyone, Cecelia thought—she was still sure she would faint—knew the look of a family that had gotten bad news. It was strange, now, how she had feared every morning for weeks that she might hear he was lost or dead, and yet she now realized she had also expected that he would come home safe. He could not be missing, her mind insisted. Solomon was safe. It was a terrible joke.

“Cecelia?” Cyrus’s face swam into view. His hands were chafing hers, and then held under her elbows to keep her up.

It was strange. Only a few moments ago, such a touch would have made Cecelia blush, knowing the Cyrus was her sister’s betrothed—as good as, no matter what Clara said—but still giddy at receiving the attentions of a handsome man. Now, Cecelia could not bring herself to feel anything at all.

“Yes?” she asked, because he seemed to want her to say something.

“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 nothing 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.