Freedom Forever Read online

  But her mouth, it seemed, was more practical than her heart.

  “I would be very pleased for you to court me,” Cecelia heard herself say, and she smiled even as Abraham squeezed her fingers to the point of pain.

  Chapter 4

  Cold water splashed into the bucket and Cecelia put her hands on her hips as she waited for it to fill, slumping and letting her eyes drift closed. Her back ached and her hands were about to bleed with cracks and blisters. She had been working herself to the edge of exhaustion for weeks now, always the one to offer when there was more water needed for tea or washing, always the first up and feeding the goats, or brushing Beauty, or kneading dough for the day’s bread.

  She pulled herself up and looked out over the orchard, trying to take some sense of joy in the beauty of the day. Winter was losing its grip now, the worst of the snows come and gone, and sometimes the ground was not so hard beneath her feet when she left the house in the mornings. The sunlight warmed ground that hid, Cecelia knew from her life’s experience, the first green shoots of spring—onions and garlic, crocuses, corn. It would not be long until the very first stirrings of summer were felt even in the iron coldness of the winter nights.

  But nothing stirred in her chest. This place was alive with ghosts and no more for Cecelia, memories crowding her until she thought she might scream with them. When she looked at the trees, she heard Solomon telling her how to prune them. When she broke the ice over the water butt, she remembered how he taught her to use the axe before their father would have allowed it. And she remembered how, even from her earliest years, it had always been Solomon and Clara, and Cecelia had hung back, desperate to be noticed and taken into their circle. She should have fought harder for it. That way, she might have more memories of her own, and not snatches of overheard conversation as he confided in Clara.

  She felt a stirring of fear now. She had worked so hard to exhaust herself, thinking it might plunge her into sleepless nights and monotonous days, that she had nothing left to protect herself from memory. And she could not afford to surrender to it now.

  “There you are.”

  Her heart leaping with relief at the distraction, Cecelia turned. Clara looked like a ghost, her blonde hair drawn back in a severe braid and her face pale as death save for the dark circles under her eyes. Her voice was rough with tears shed and unshed, and not for the first time, Cecelia wanted to launch herself into her sister’s arms and sob until the tears let them both go, and sent them to sleep in true peace.

  She knew better than to try. Once, and only once, she had crept into her sister’s room when she heard the sound of muffled sobs, and when they had lain together in the darkness, fingers clasped tightly, Cecelia had listened to the sound of her sister’s grief and felt that she was allowed, at last, to cry. While Clara stroked her hair and whispered choked reassurances, Cecelia had admitted, to the darkness, that she was afraid Solomon was truly gone.

  She did not even have to see Clara’s face to know the change in the room. It was as if the air itself carried the charge of a storm. Clara’s fingers clenched around Cecelia’s so tightly that Cecelia gave a little cry of pain.

  “He is not dead,” she had whispered fiercely into the dark. And Cecelia had fallen all over herself to say of course he was not, until Clara had turned away, cold, to cross her arms over her chest and hunch her shoulders. She would not speak to Cecelia after that, or for days afterwards, until time and tiredness smoothed away the worst of it.

  So instead of crying, or confessing what was in her soul, Cecelia only hefted the bucket. “What do you need?” she asked awkwardly.

  “Mr. Thompson is here to see you,” Clara said simply. “Go up the back stairs, fix your hair. I’ll make him some tea.”

  Mr. Thompson. Wash your face. As if Clara had ever cared about nice words or perfect manners. But she had retreated into etiquette as if it was all that would shield her from the fear that Cecelia knew—knew—ate at her as well.

  Up in her room, she stared at her face long and hard, and tried to make herself smile. She forgot how between every visit, Abraham’s presence a spark of humor in an otherwise humorless world. He would laugh, joke, sometimes bring her a bit of ribbon or some bright thread—as if he knew that when she was left alone at the farm, the world faded into greys and browns.

  And he brought warmth. Always, he stood close so that she could feel the heat of him, and she blushed at his closeness, knowing what he wanted—in the meaning of it, if not exactly what he hoped she might do. The thrill of danger, what every woman was warned against, made her pulse beat a little faster.

  When she appeared at the bottom of the stairs with a fresh ribbon in her hair, he rose at once and bowed. In the presence of Clara and her mother, he was the most perfect of gentlemen, and the eager press of his body against Cecelia’s when they embraced was all the more a shock. She curtsied.

  “Mr. Thompson.”

  “Miss Dalton, you are as radiant as always.” He looked outside at the still day. “Perhaps we might walk outside? I have been shut indoors too much, of late. That is, of course, if it pleases you, ma’am.” That last was directed to Millicent.

  “Of course you may go.” The woman found a smile from somewhere. Whatever she thought, deep in her heart, she knew this was an advantageous match for Cecelia. She was nothing but polite to Abraham, though he took liberties with his courting.

  As always, Abraham waited until they had walked for some time before he spoke. The day was still, and so the cold did not so easily sink into their bones. Cecelia wore the green cloak he liked so well, hoping that he would think her pink cheeks were a blush of pleasure at his presence, not from working outside like a servant.

  “Cecelia,” he said finally, and she felt the shiver of anticipation that always came with these conversations.

  “Yes, Abraham?”

  He always waited for her to speak, and he liked it when she said his name. In a way, it made her sad to know already how to put him in a good humor—which words to use, how to smile at him. It was as if he was a puzzle, and she had figured him out. Except, of course, for what she knew was coming.

  “Will you let me kiss you today?”

  He always asked it, and Cecelia always, properly, refused him. She was a God-fearing woman, she told him sometimes. Other times, she only smiled and let him kiss her hand, her lips parting in surprise at the intimate brush of lips against her skin. Once, he had turned her hand over and planted a kiss on the inside of her wrist, seeming to savor her shocked gasp.

  What he made of it, she could not say. He wanted her to say yes, she was not a fool. He wanted kisses, and he wanted more than that as well. But he enjoyed it when she said no to him, as if it lit his blood on fire to hear the word no. As if she was a challenge to be figured out. And as if he approved, for he knew as much as she did that they should not be kissing, not when they were not betrothed. The fact that other young couples did so, they both pretended not to know; they hide behind propriety, and it excited him as much as it stoked his frustration. Cecelia, walking carefully along the knife edge she had always known existed, but never experienced, felt a heady rush of...

  What was it? What, truly, could she call it?

  It made her feel alive, in this house of ghosts and tears. It made her feel as if she was flesh and blood and living now, not just waiting for a messenger that might either bring them all back to life or shatter them into dust. She felt as if she was living in a doll house where time never passed, waiting for life to resume again. Abraham, urgent and with his pulse beating quickly at his throat, was alive and wanting the future.

  So she smiled and watched desire kindle in his eyes, and she lowered her lashes demurely and looked away while his hand found hers under her cloak.

  “No,” she said softly, nipping at her lip in the way she knew he liked, and he took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “You must let me.” He sometimes said this, and always his voice sounded thick.

  When
she looked up, she saw a hint of red in his eyes. His breath smelled of ale, she thought. But those eyes were as blue as they had ever been, and as intent. His fingers squeezed around her own.

  “Mr. Thompson, it would not be proper at all.” She kept her voice light, for she knew he liked smiles and blushes and sideways glances.

  “Do not tell me I must wait. How long will you keep me in agony?”

  “Agony?” This was new, and she felt herself smile. There were only so many times one could repeat the same words before they became boring.

  “I am on fire for you, Cecelia. I think of you day and night. You are locked away in your tower, and I must have you or I will go mad.”

  “It is only the first stirrings of spring,” Cecelia told him lightly. “You are not mad at all, Mr. Thompson, only bored of winter and seeking distraction.”

  “No,” he said roughly, and before she could protest, before she could draw away, he crushed her into his arms and his lips came down on hers.

  Cecelia felt herself pushing against his chest, and he groaned as he overpowered her, holding her close effortlessly. She could feel him pressing against her, and his lips moved urgently.

  “Mr. Thompson!” She pushed him away at last, flushed, breathing hard—and knowing, beyond all doubt, that he had chosen to release her. Her heart was pounding, like she was a rabbit in a snare.

  “You cannot blame me,” he told her, his own chest heaving. “Not when you look so beautiful, Miss Dalton. Not when you are perfection. I could...”

  “I beg you, have a care for my virtue!”

  Her words rang with panic to her own ears, but the word virtue was enough. He stopped and bowed, then knelt on the ground.

  “Miss Dalton, forgive me. I was overcome. I will be your most respectful admirer if you will only let me continue to see you. Say you will not refuse my visits.”

  “I...of course not,” Cecelia found words from somewhere. She looked to where smoke curled from the chimney. “But I am very cold. Perhaps we could go in now.”

  “Anything you wish,” he said gallantly, as if he had not just pulled her to him despite her objections, and he led her to the front door, where his groom was waiting. “I will leave you here, with a fond farewell to your mother and your sister. Until next time, Miss Dalton.”

  “Of course. Thank you very much for calling.” Cecelia stepped back until her fingers met the door, taking an obscure comfort in the thought of refuge.

  As she waited to wave him off, her eyes caught on his groom. It could not be... But it was: Isaiah Rourke, his hair shining bright as copper in the sunlight, the freckles on his nose lost in the pink of wind-burned skin.

  She smiled before she could stop herself. Her lips curved, and her heart leapt in her chest. You, her smile said, and she could feel her heart beating wildly once again, but there was only joy, and no danger.

  And you, his smile agreed. But Abraham, having missed the smile between them, only gave a stern order and turned to blow a kiss to Cecelia.

  She held her smile, trembling, her fingers out before her as if to hold his kiss in the air, until they were well away, and then she leaned in the shadow of the doorway and waited, even shuddering with cold, until she could no longer see the auburn gleam of Isaiah’s hair in the distance.

  Chapter 5

  “...Forever and ever, amen.”

  “Amen,” chorused the congregation.

  As the strains of the postlude rose through the air, Cecelia unfolded her hands and looked around herself at the church. In the spring chill, everyone was glad of the crush of bodies—something that would become nearly unbearable in July and August. Now, woman wore heavy shawls over their winter gowns, and men pretended to have forgotten to take their scarves off.

  “Mother. Mother? I’ll only be a moment.” Cecelia eased her way out of the pew and made her way along the side of the sanctuary, avoiding the throng who made their way out into the entrance hall for hot tea. Everyone was anxious to be home for their Sunday dinner, but not quite so anxious that they wanted to skip Sunday gossip.

  And Cecelia knew what that entailed. One as interested as anyone by the whispers of whose gown looked too fine and whose daughter was being courted by whose son, she had quickly grown wary of the ritual. For every week, no matter what the topic of discussion or how great the scandal, there was always time for people to cluck knowingly at her and touch her cheek, whispering—why did they always whisper?—that they were so sorry to hear the news, and had the Daltons heard anything more from the army yet?

  Cecelia, genuinely afraid of what she might say if she heard the question one more time, had taken to edging her way along the side of the entryway, and running lightly down the stairs to her family’s carriage. Her mother, thankfully, had made no comment about her breach of etiquette, and Clara was too vague these days to notice anything at all, though Cecelia sometimes saw her eyes flash when people suggested that Solomon might not ever come home.

  In any event, everyone knew that she was being courted by the reverend’s son, and Cecelia was sure not to hear anything new while everyone was so keen to speculate on what was happening with her. She knew that there would be eyes who marked her on her way back to the rooms behind the sanctuary, and that there would be knowing glances. But hardly a thing could happen under Reverend Thompson’s watchful eye, or so they thought—and so any gossip would be muted, hidden behind words like “touching” and “young love.”

  And was she in love? Cecelia felt herself frown as she walked. For certain, she felt as if she was. In the last two weeks, she thought she had been walking on air. The sky seemed more blue, the birdsong sweeter. Even the chill of morning frost seemed invigorating and bracing, not just another discomfort to be endured as she worked. At times, Cecelia thought her heart might beat its way out of her chest, she was so happy. She wanted to smile and sing all the hours of the day, and it was only with difficulty that she kept her feelings hidden. She wondered, sometimes, if anyone else could see the happiness bursting within her, and knew that they must.

  “I thought I might find you hear.”

  Her heart leapt at the words, and Cecelia turned with a smile on her face. She could not stop the speed with which she whirled, nor the light in her eyes at seeing him. She had imagined his face every night for two weeks, imagined walking hand in hand with him across the frozen ground of the fields. He would make her laugh, and she would see admiration and desire in his eyes... As she did now.

  And yet, she must speak softly.

  “Isaiah.”

  Even his name made her stomach twist, and she wanted to shake her head and laugh at her own foolishness. What was happening to her? How could she accept the courting of one man, and yet see another man’s face in her dreams? Was she such a flighty girl that she might later take a fancy to someone else? And why, of all things, did she not care that she was treading a dangerous path? This was how women got reputations as temptresses and vixens, and Cecelia had always credited herself with having more sense than to become any of those things.

  Nor, in her wildest dreams, had she ever imagined that two men might pay her court.

  “You look well,” Isaiah told her, and his smile was warm.

  Cecelia smiled back, breathlessly. I am well, now that I am seeing you. But surely she could not say that.

  “I...er...”

  “I thought the service was very fine today,” Isaiah remarked, and the very propriety of his statement only heightened the low tones of his voice.

  “Yes,” Cecelia said hastily, hoping that she was not blushing. “The...prelude...”

  “Beautiful,” Isaiah said, and she knew he was not speaking of the music.

  They both remembered themselves in the next instant.

  “I should let you get to your dinner,” Isaiah said formally. “But it was a pleasure to see you, Miss Dalton—and it is most certainly a pleasure to see you looking so well.

  “It was a pleasure to see you as well.” A pleasure, and so
mething she had sought out, all while telling even herself that she was looking for Abraham.

  Abraham. Cecelia felt her face fall and she looked around to make sure he had not found his way out of the sanctuary yet. No one must see. No one must know. There was hardly anything improper in the way they stood, several feet apart, but surely anyone could see that the air between them had heated, and their eyes were wide with emotion.

  Perhaps, Cecelia reflected, she was going mad. That would explain a great deal. It would certainly explain why, as Isaiah turned to leave, she called out to keep him there when she should have gone to find her family.

  “Are you employed by the Thompsons now?” As she said it, she felt her face flush, to bring up such employment. One did not remark on another’s misfortune, such as servitude.

  But he smiled easily, not ashamed in the slightest.

  “Yes. It was a fine advancement. I am to be their groom.”

  “Mr. Butler must have been sad to see you go,” Cecelia said lightly.

  “Aye, he wasn’t best pleased,” Isaiah admitted. “But he said he’d not stand in the way of me making a good living for myself and my...”

  His voice trailed off, and Cecelia felt her smile falter as she realized what he meant. Jeanine, his betrothed. Also a servant in the Thompson household. Yes, Isaiah must have been very pleased to gain employment there. And—her blood heated, this time with anger—how dare he be so pleased to see her, smiling at her as if they were courting, when he was betrothed?

  “Of course,” she said, almost icily. “Good day, Mr. Rourke.”

  “Wait.”

  “Yes?” She hated how quickly she turned, and how hopefully.

  He was twisting his cap in his hands, worriedly. “I hope...I hope you won’t take this poorly,” he said softly, “but I was hoping to see you today.”

  “Oh?” She wanted to warm to the words, but something in his manner said that this was no mere flirting.

  “Yes. To...to warn you.”

  “What?” That, she had not expected.

  He took a deep breath and looked around them before leaning close. “It’s about Mr. Thompson,” he said in a rush. “Cecelia—Miss Dalton, I beg your pardon—please be cautious with him.”