Little Love Affair (Southern Romance Series, #1) (5 page)

Even here and now, his body tiring from the constant swinging of the scythe, the sunlight on the grain and wind in his hair, Jasper felt as though he might be two men: one in the world as it was, working honestly for his dinner; the other still lying on the battlefield where Horace had rescued him all those months ago. Pain...so much pain searing in his leg and the stink of death and wanting nothing more than to leave the world that had been so cruelly different from the one he thought he knew. When the smoke cleared and the men you had slaughtered were only boys like yourself, and you knew neither their names nor their families nor even why they had marched, you began to wonder if any of it mattered.

Perhaps that was why Jasper had remained at Horace’s side. Why he was so insistent now that Horace heal and survive and return to his family, when Jasper had seen a dozen of his friends die. Horace believed where the rest of them doubted. Horace reminded them that there was something worth fighting for.

Jasper turned, shading his eyes to pick out the abandoned cottage on the hill. Horace had been sleeping peacefully when Jasper left for the fields, a cup of water at his side and a bit of bread and bacon saved from Jasper’s dinner. The man was delirious and moody by turns, with enough sense to see that they’d been here far longer than he had wanted. Still, Jasper suspected that Horace tried to force himself out of bed when he was alone. It would explain why he did not insist that they go. He knew he could barely make it one step farther.

The supper bell rang, and Jasper tried not to sigh with relief. He was desperate for a cup of water and for a rest as he listened to the men talking. They no longer tried to draw him into conversation. He had affected a disinterested demeanor, for he dared not even spark conversation with the other hired workers to pass the time. No, that would not be wise, not when he had no answers for them about where he lived, how he had come to be employed, and why he had the accent that Clara had so easily marked. But he was lonely.

Clara. Jasper felt his mouth curve and tried to keep the smile from his lips. She had barely spoken to him in the past days, and yet sometimes when he looked up at dinner, he thought he saw her eyes resting on him, almost curiously. What was she thinking behind those blue eyes? Did he dare hope that he occupied her thoughts as she occupied his? He had very nearly driven the scythe into his foot while he daydreamed of her smile.

He wondered what her laugh sounded like.

As he walked over the fields to the farmhouse, the glint of movement caught his eye: a horse and buggy, with a lone man in a dark coat. He drew up at the wagon hitch as the laborers passed by, and Jasper felt a flicker of fear when he saw the man’s eyes catch on him. New. The other laborers nodded respectfully, and Jasper copied the movement.

“Cyrus!” Clara’s mother came out of the house with a smile on her face. She held out plates to the laborers, a hearty spread of beans and bacon, sliced tomatoes, and a hunk of bread.

“Misses Dalton.” The man inclined his head gracefully, now hardly sparing a look for the men who filed past him. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his golden-brown hair swept neatly to one side, and his clothes were well made, better even than Jasper had worn before the war. “Dare I hope that Clara is here?”

The familiarity in his tone made Jasper sick. He forced himself to sit in the shade of the chestnut tree nearby, looking determinedly down at his food, aware of the sudden flush in his face. He knew that tone, desire barely restrained by politeness. Why should she not have a suitor? She was a beautiful woman, the eldest daughter, with a farm for a dowry.

It did not stop him from stabbing his food with rather more force than was necessary.

“She’s inside, at work on the books.” Millicent’s tone was warm and Jasper, looking up, saw her turn to call in the open kitchen door. “Clara! Mister Dupont is here.”

It took longer than Jasper would have expected before Clara appeared at the kitchen door. Her face appeared composed, but blank. Was it too hopeful to think that there was reluctance in the set of her shoulders?

“Cyrus.” Her voice, if reserved, was familiar. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“It’s been too long since I checked in on all of you,” the man said warmly. “I wanted to make sure you were well and to see if there was any help you needed.”

“Good of you,” Clara said. There was the very faintest edge to her voice. “As you can see, all is well.”

“What a fine job you’ve done with the farm,” Cyrus said. His smile was open and broad. “The harvest looks good this year—enough for you to hire another hand.” His eyes flicked sideways to Jasper and narrowed when he saw the man watching.

Jasper looked down hastily at his food. The last thing he could afford was for this man to take notice of him.

“Indeed.” Clara’s face might have been made of stone.

The silence stretched, and Jasper tried to keep from smiling into his food. At his side, the other laborers were oblivious to the conversation. Either they did not care at all for the goings-on in the house, or this scene had been repeated often enough that they were now numb to it. He hoped it was the latter.

“Perhaps you could show Cyrus the improvements that have been made to the farm,” Millicent suggested finally.

“Of course.” Clara’s hesitation was minute.

“Perhaps we could discuss some future improvements to the orchard,” Cyrus suggested, and Jasper saw Clara’s face go stony.

“Oh?” Her voice was dangerous, but Cyrus did not seem to notice.

“Of course,” he said jovially. He smiled down at Clara, who had walked slowly down the steps.

“Then let us go.” She turned before he could proffer his arm and made her way for the barn.

Jasper, walking to bring his plate into the kitchen, bit back a laugh at the man’s expression. He regretted it as soon as Cyrus looked over, scanning the fields. Their eyes met, and what Cyrus saw there, Jasper could not be sure. What he
was
sure of was the man’s face turned dangerous, darkness clouding his features.

“What’re you staring at?”

Jasper got to his feet slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other laborers making hastily for the kitchen, before they could get caught in whatever this was, and Jasper knew he should duck his head, mutter an apology, and follow them. He most certainly shouldn’t answer, but the blood was roaring in his ears and he could not bear the thought of Clara shackled to this man. A man who talked over her words, who looked at the farm she maintained and could only tell her what she was doing wrong.

“Clara’s quite competent,” he said, keeping his speech as neutral as he could. He had been listening to the other laborers as they spoke amongst themselves during the days. He tried to mimic the accent now.

“She’s an exemplary woman,” Cyrus said slowly. He had not expected this. Perhaps he was thinking Jasper would challenge him.

“I don’t think you do,” Jasper said simply. “See that you treat her with respect.”

It was too far—much too far.

Cyrus’s face closed off. “You see that you learn your place,” he said, his voice low and ugly. “Whatever delusions you might have, Clara is a lady. She won’t marry some field worker.”

He strode away to where Clara waited by the barn, her eyes flicking between the two of them. She studied Jasper for a moment, blue eyes grave, and he had the ridiculous urge to ask her to walk with him instead of this well-heeled suitor of hers.

But he did know his place. He said nothing at all, and he watched her duck her head and turn away, slipping her hands once more into the crook of another man’s arm.

“I
must say,” Cyrus said, as they walked. “That new worker of yours...”

“Mmm?” Clara was looking over the fields, trying to imagine herself anywhere else. Every time he visited, Cyrus came closer to asking Clara outright if he might court her, and she worried what she might say—all the more so now that she knew it was his love she feared.

The new realization did not sit quietly with her. She should make sense of it and dismiss it, she knew, but her mind with all its quick words and logic could not seem to overrule her heart. She told herself that there was an understanding between them, and that there was no way to back away from the courtship now. All was as it should be, she said sternly to herself as she lay in bed. Cyrus Dupont was a good man and she was lucky to have his regard.

All she felt was panic. In choosing not to call on him, she had bared her heart to herself, and she could not forget what she had learned.

“Are you quite sure he’s trustworthy?”

“What?” Clara came back to reality with a jolt.
Fool
, her mind said. She should have realized earlier what Cyrus meant. If he realized what Jasper was...

“He said some very insolent things to me,” Cyrus said, leaning down as if to share a confidence.

“What did he say?” Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. No one was nearby, and there was certainly no reason for Cyrus to pull her a little closer as he talked.

“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you with it.” Cyrus patted her hand.

Then why did you mention it
? Clara wanted to ask. “What did he say?” She demanded instead. She stopped dead in her tracks, stubbornly and tried not to smile when Cyrus was jerked to a stop as well. Annoyance with Cyrus was far easier to bear than panic at her own unruly emotions.  “Cyrus.”

“Don’t worry yourself,” Cyrus said infuriatingly. “I’ll get rid of him for you.”

“We need him,” Clara said precisely, “for the harvest.”

And for his smile, and for the way—

She took a deep breath. Apparently her heart, not content to reject a perfectly good man, was determined to set itself on precisely the wrong one. Perhaps she was going mad.

“Clara, you know I would help with the farm.” Cyrus looked at her so earnestly that Clara could not even bring herself to look away. His hand tightened over hers. “I’ve long expected to do so.”

“You’ve done a great deal for us,” Clara said, trying to be fair. She knew it was true. “But times are difficult, and your family helps everyone in town. It wouldn’t be right to ask you for charity unless we really, truly needed it.”

She did not tell him that every season, things got worse. Poor harvests, heavy rains, hard winters. It took so little to turn a farm from profit to poverty, and the slide had begun long ago, before Solomon left.

“It isn’t charity,” Cyrus told her. He stopped her in the orchard, a faint breeze rustling the peach trees, the scent of ripening fruit all around them.

Clara thought distantly what a pretty picture they must make here: she with her hair in a neat plait, Cyrus in his suit, both of them surrounded by the perfect prettiness of the orchard. Anyone watching from the kitchen window might think that the two of them made a beautiful pair. What would they think of Jasper, so dark next to her fair hair? A blush rose in her cheeks at the thought.

She was definitely going mad.

“Clara...” Cyrus had misconstrued her pink cheeks, and his voice deepened.

“Cyrus, this really isn’t—”

“I must speak,” Cyrus said passionately. He untucked her fingers from his arm and took both of her hands in his. “Clara, you must know that I have always admired you.”

Clara stared at him mutely, unable to come up with a clever answer, and—she worried—completely unable to stop this.

“Running the farm is too great a burden for you,” Cyrus said earnestly. “I’d help you with it. You would be free then, Clara. You could have everything you want. You would be at home with the children, not out in the fields with roughened hands.” His fingers stroked over hers before tightening. “I could give you the life you deserve.”

“That’s very kind,” Clara managed. He must not say it—she could not let him say it. She must think of some way to distract him. “But, Cyrus—”

“It isn’t
kind
. Kindness is for strangers. Clara, I love you.”

She should have pretended to faint. Clara stared dumbly at him. “You’ve been one of the family for years,” she said, not wanting to hurt him. How did one respond to something like that?

“And I would like to care for you all,” he told her. “Family cares for its own. But Clara...to you, I want to be more.”

“I...” She stared up at him. In the past few days, while trying to think up ways to convince herself to marry him, she had instead thought often about how to tell him she could not love him. She imagined saying it gently, and speaking of the girls in town who did wish to marry him—for there were many. She imagined telling him how much happier he would be with another woman, for she was sure that he would be. A woman not so quick to retorts. A woman with delicate manner. In her imagination, Cyrus always nodded seriously and told her that she was right and he had been blinded by his feelings of duty to her brother. They parted amicably, Cyrus embracing Millicent and promising to watch over the family until Solomon returned, but now, at this most critical moment, Clara could not remember a single word of her speech—and she was quite sure that staring was not going to help anything.

“Clara, do you think you might ever look upon me as more than a brother?” Cyrus asked her.

“I...” Oh, dear. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I have loved you for years.” His face was gentle. “Surely you must know it. No one would make a better husband for you than me. I would be kind to you. I would protect you. It is so dangerous for you here.”

“Dangerous?” It was hardly the point of his speech, but Clara felt her brow furrow. This, here, was what had always infuriated her about Cyrus. When they were little, he would insist on helping her out of trees they climbed. When she was twelve and wading in the river to look at dragonflies, he had decided to that the current was too fast and carried her to shore over her protestations that she was perfectly safe.

“The war is raging,” Cyrus insisted. “The Confederacy is desperate, and they care nothing for what we have here. Anything might happen. You should have someone here with you.”

“You can hardly hold off an army by yourself,” Clara said reasonably. “We have my father’s shotgun.”