Little Love Affair (Southern Romance Series, #1) (4 page)

“We’ll need to hire a man for the harvest this year,” Clara said. She busied herself with her breakfast to keep from meeting her mother’s eyes, spreading a piece of bread with peach preserves and taking a sip of milk. The other two men they employed had gone out into the field already, leaving the family alone in the kitchen.

“Are you sure?” Her mother’s voice was deceptively mild, but Clara heard the sudden flare of interest.

“Yes.” Clara tried to keep her own tone light. “At least one. Cecelia can’t help if she’s taking care of the livestock, and you’ll need to be tending the garden and the orchard.” She took care to smile at her sister, who looked up nervously. With her soft voice and innate kindness, Cecelia was the favorite of all the animals, from the cows to the grumpy old cat in the barn—and experience showed that she was terrible with a thresher.

“Do we have the money for it, then?” Millicent asked.

“I thought we might pay in grain and vegetables.” Clara tried not to let her face flicker as she met her mother’s eyes. It was shameful not to be able to pay the laborers in coin; she knew her mother would balk at it. Indeed, she was not happy, herself.
We only have to hang on until Solomon is home.
“We have some honey left. Butter. Cheese.”

“Clara.”

“Yes?”
Oh, don’t say it.

“You know Cyrus would help if you asked.”

Clara tried to bite back a sigh, and her mother’s face took on a warning look.

“His father’s shop has more help than it knows what to do with,” Millicent said.

“I thought about that.” Clara felt her tension rise. Of course she had considered it; she had known her mother would bring the subject up.

“And?” Millicent asked, implacable.

“I decided not to ask him,” she said at length.

“Why not?”

Clara considered offering reasons and knew her mother would see through all of them. They were reasons she had told herself and rejected each time. There was no reason at all for her to refuse the help of a man who came to call each week, his eyes soft when they rested on her. He would have offered his help if he had even the faintest idea that the farm was struggling.

No reason, save that every time Clara thought on her brother’s friend, the kind, handsome man with his prosperous shop and fine clothes, she could feel nothing but sadness at the thought of marrying him. She tried to feel the relief she knew she should feel at finding an honorable man who loved her and would be kind to her and help save her father’s legacy, but she could not.

After months of visits, only lightly chaperoned, her mother should know that Clara was having doubts.

“You know why not,” Clara said quietly.

“I’m quite sure I don’t,” Millicent said sharply. “He’s a fine young man. He’s handsome, he’s wealthy, he doesn’t turn his nose up at hard work, and you know you’d have nothing to fear from him. He adores you.”

“I thought we were talking about hiring extra farm workers,” she said in a flash of insolence. She had not wanted to speak of this. It confused her enough without her mother telling her all the things she told herself. She regretted her words when she saw the look on her mother’s face.

“Those are workers you would not need to hire, were you a Dupont,” her mother observed. “Don’t lie to me, Clara. You’re hiring them because you do not wish to be Cyrus’s wife.”

“Yes!” Clara cried, finally. “You’re right. I don’t want to be. I wish I did, I do wish it. But you knew my heart before you mentioned Cyrus, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So why ask at all?”

“Because you’re not a child anymore!” her mother snapped back. “You’re nineteen, Clara. You’ve a farm to manage. You’ve your younger sister to think of.”

“Then let
her
marry Cyrus!”

“Clara, Mother...” Cecelia’s voice was pleading. She clenched her hands around her teacup, her brow furrowed with worry.

Clara sighed and rubbed at her forehead. She was so tired—tired of managing the farm on her own, tired of trying to find a way through this without calling on help that carried obligations. She was even, traitorously, tired of pushing it all away so that she could smile at Cecelia.

However she could not let her sister know how bad things were. She was only sixteen. That was too young.

“I’m sorry, Cee.”

“Please don’t fight,” Cecelia whispered.

“We aren’t.” Clara found a smile somewhere and reached out to clasp her sister’s hand. “Why don’t you go see how the kittens are doing?”

Cecelia’s face brightened, but she looked between Clara and Millicent warily.

“You won’t fight?”

“We won’t fight,” Clara promised. “Go on, dear heart. I’ll be out to see to the horse in a moment.”

They held their peace until Cecelia was gone, casting a wary look over her shoulder, but as soon as the door closed behind her, Millicent rapped on the table sharply.

“A woman of your age should be setting a house in order and bearing her first child, not tending horses and running a farm.”

“And Solomon should be here,” Clara said, fighting to keep her tone even. “But everything’s different right now.”

“You know Solomon approved of Cyrus,” Millicent said softly.

Anger flared, and Clara felt her hands clench. It was just like her mother to bring up Solomon now, of all times.

“He didn’t want me to be alone.” She bit the words off. “I told
him
no, too. I can take care of myself.”

“I see.” Her mother knew better than to fight her on that. “Then what about the farm then? You think I don’t see candlelight coming from the library every night? Your father never taught you like he taught Solomon, and you know it was struggling even before he...” A moment of pain crossed her face. “Before he went away,” she finished softly.

“It’s not for much longer,” Clara said, suddenly desperate to stop her mother’s slide to melancholy. “A year more, they said. Two at most. Then he’ll come home. Just a little longer.”

Her mother’s eyes closed for a moment, and her chin trembled. “He’s not coming back, Clara.”

Clara sat frozen. There was a roaring in her ears. “He is.”

“Your brother,” Millicent said softly, her voice cracking, “is dead.”

“He’s coming back,” Clara whispered.

“He isn’t.” Tears trembling in her eyes, Millicent reached for Clara.

“He might.” Clara snatched her hand away. “He might,” she whispered again, fiercely, and she left before her mother could say another word, running to the heavy barn door and letting it thud closed behind her. Once she was alone in the silence, she slumped against a support beam. She bit her lip to keep from crying.

Cecelia was in the barn, and she must not cry where Cecelia might see. Never ever where Cecelia might see.

“Clara?”

Clara took a deep breath before answering. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

Clara looked around the beam. Cecelia was in the corner of the barn, sunlight glinting off her brown hair, kittens mewling softly nearby.

“Of course.” Clara smiled. “I’m just tired.”

“You and Mother were fighting,” Cecelia said in a very small voice.

“Oh, Cee.” Clara went to kneel in the straw. “It’s the same old fight. Even Solomon wanted me to marry Cyrus. Do you remember?”

“Why don’t you?” Her brown eyes were open, innocent—too unworldly for Clara to get angry.

“Why don’t
you
?” She reached out and tapped her sister on the nose, grinning.

“Because he’s in love with you,” Cecelia said promptly.

“Oh, that.” Clara felt her smile fade. She had no hope of explaining something she could not understand herself. “Cee...I don’t know. I don’t know why. I just can’t.”

“All right.” But Cecelia looked dubious. She looked up when Clara stood. “Where are you going?”

“To find someone to help with the harvest, remember? I might get you some candy.” Clara gave a last smile at Cecelia’s delighted shriek and made for the wagon hitch, smiling. Her mother’s disapproval was only words, she reminded herself. Nothing more. No one could force Clara to marriage—and for all Millicent’s advice, she would never try.

Clara simply wished she could come up with a reason not to marry Cyrus Dupont. Solomon had approved of him—indeed, Cyrus had been his closest friend. Before his death, Clara’s father had looked fondly on Cyrus, and Millicent carried on the tradition, often setting an extra place at the table for him. He was kind to Cecelia. Intelligent. Handsome enough. He loved her, even Clara could see that.

Love. Clara stopped, her skirts swirling around her. In the stillness of the morning, she understood at last. It was his love, of all things, that sent her running. Had Cyrus only wanted a partner in business endeavors, a woman to build a home with, Clara might have said yes. But when she looked into his eyes, she saw love, and she knew without any doubt, that she could never return it.

She was so absorbed in thought that she was nearly to the wagon hitch before she saw the man waiting there. She started, and bit back a very unladylike exclamation.

“Hello.” He was without a coat once more, but he had made an effort to comb his hair, and he had shaved. He ducked his head but did not come any closer.

“What’re you doing here?” Clara demanded without preamble, surprise making her short-tempered.

“I came to thank you,” he said awkwardly. “Miss, I don’t like taking charity, I assure you, and I know we’re...my comrade and I...”

“What?” Clara asked icily. “Confederate soldiers? Is that what you meant to say?”

“Yes.” He met her eyes without flinching. “You helped us. It was a very noble thing to do.”

Clara strongly doubted that anyone in town would agree. She stood silently, sun warming her skin. She wanted him to leave so that she might return to her work. She did not want him here, polite and earnest. She did not want to remember what she had done, and the affront to Solomon’s...

To Solomon. Solomon, who was gone. No! She refused to believe he was gone. She looked down at the ground, clenching her teeth to keep from speaking. Charming manners and a handsome face should mean nothing to her.

“Thank you,” the man said finally, when Clara did not answer him. “We’ll be on our way. We have imposed on your hospitality enough.”

It was when she heard the heavy tread of his boots that she looked up at last.

“Wait!” Her voice rang out louder than she meant it to.

He turned slowly, early morning light glinting in his rich brown hair, a half smile on his face like he
knew
why she was staring. His eyes when they met hers, were very warm.

“Yes?”

The voice sent a shiver down her spine, and Clara swallowed. For a moment she could not think of a single thing to say, and then inspiration hit her in a flash.

“We need to hire someone to work on the farm.”

They stared at one another, Clara frozen, the man seeming suddenly unsure of himself.

“We could...if you wanted food...” Clara shrugged, trying desperately not to behave as if this mattered to her at all. What was she doing?

A sound business decision, she told herself and tried to ignore the suspicion that this was one part running from Cyrus and one part foolish infatuation. Because it
was
a good business decision, wasn’t it?

Of course it was.

“I would be happy to work for our keep. I’m afraid Horace—my friend, that is—”

“Horace?”

“Yes.” He stared at her, confused by her interest.

Her father’s name had been Horace. He had hated it but the mention of his name brought a softness to her heart. Clara relaxed slightly, and shook her head to clear it of memory. “You said your friend is ill?”

“Very. Some clean bandages, perhaps and a bit of food. He needs to rest before he can travel.”

He was so earnest, so polite. The sunlight shone in his dark hair.

“I thought you said you were leaving today.” For some reason, she felt herself smiling.

“I would never impose.” But he was smiling, too. “I have forgotten my manners. My name is Jasper Perry.”

“Clara Dalton.” Her voice came out much too softly, but he heard her.

“Clara.” His voice was as low as her own.

With a jolt, she realized she was standing in a field, smiling at a Confederate soldier. Clara shook her head to clear it and raised her chin.

“Very well, then. The men have gone out to the field. We’ll see you for your supper at one o’clock.”

She turned on her heel before he could say one more word, before he could smile again—most
certainly
before he could say her name again in the way that made her heart do that strange sideways leap—and marched back into the house.

T
he midday sun beat down as Jasper swung the scythe rhythmically. He was too exhausted to care he was in Pennsylvania. He might be back home, helping with the harvests he’d witnessed. They had not owned a farm, but there was no getting away from the harvest when the time came. It took over the town, and nearly every family sent men to work.

Jasper never had. This was poorer work than his father thought acceptable for their family. The man would never have approved of Jasper working side by side in the field with a freed slave. Jasper stole a sideways glance. William was a puzzle, a man given to singing as he worked, with a ready smile. He was learning to read over the supper hour, he said. Miss Cecelia was teaching him.

None of the other men seemed to find it the least bit strange to be working the same job. Clara paid him the same for his work as she paid all the others, and Millicent called a hello to him. The men spoke of their families together, and no one mentioned that this was unnatural, an affront to the order of things.

No, his father would not approve at all. Jasper did not even have to wonder what the man would say. Field work was not for gentlemen, the man would have said, least of all alongside Negroes. Jasper, even a year past, would have ducked his head and accepted his father’s words as an immutable truth. A year ago, missing his father desperately, he wanted nothing more than guidance and wisdom.

Now he no longer believed his father’s words could answer the questions raging in his head. William’s kindness, and the intelligence in his eyes, sparked thoughts he could not understand, and those thoughts were not even the least part of the storm in his mind. Jasper had seen too much since he left his home. The world made a sick sort of sense as he went into battle, so much so that it seemed nothing had changed...until he thought of his home and could no longer fathom how he might live there. How had he never noticed how simply others saw the world? How much they missed, how little they could comprehend of the world’s cruelty?