“I’m not miserable,” Clara whispered. Her composure was crumbling, but she clenched her hands one under the other. The gold of an engagement ring winked back at her, and she averted her eyes.
“Yes,” Millicent said implacably, “you are.”
Clara buried her face in her hands. She could not speak for fear of what might burst forth. For a week she had smiled, accepted congratulations, allowed Cyrus to kiss her cheek, her mouth. She ran for the stairs when it became too much, and buried her face in the coverlet. She had hidden it so successfully that even Cecelia’s surprise had given way to happiness.
Every day, however, it grew worse. Was this what it would be like forever? Shying away from her husband’s kiss, wanting to run after a man that had betrayed her? Bereft even of the good memories she’d had of her brother?
“Clara, answer me honestly.” Millicent took her hands, and her voice became stern when Clara tried to turn her head. “Look at me. Tell me, are you regretting this engagement?”
She could not admit that, or everything would come tumbling down, and she could not make herself say no. Clara shook her head tightly, but when her mother’s hands tightened on her own, she felt herself nod at last, miserably.
“I knew I didn’t love him, and I...”
“Girl, why on earth did you say yes?”
“You said kindness was better than passion!” The words burst out of her in a torrent.
Millicent sighed. “Kindness, yes. But Clara, my love, you’re miserable. You think I don’t see you crying?”
“What else is there?” Clara whispered. “I don’t love him.” Her lip trembled. “But better him than...”
“Than a Confederate soldier?” Millicent said.
The bottom fell out of Clara’s stomach. She met her mother’s eyes, shaking. “You knew?”
“Of course I knew. A mother always knows. Good grief, child, do you think that when I married your father it was all honorable speeches and courting calls in the sitting room? I know what it looks like when a child sneaks back with her hair in disarray and her gown misbuttoned.” She gave a snort at Clara’s sudden blush. “And you’ve a good head on your shoulders, child, so I said nothing of it. You called it off with him, as was wise. But to shackle yourself to a man that you cannot love in any measure...”
The tears came in a rush.
“He was so kind,” Clara whispered.
“Kindness is only enough if you want it to be,” her mother said sadly.
“You said—”
“Clara, you were so headstrong, so sure of yourself. I never dreamed you would choose a path that would bring you such pain.” Her mother sighed. “No matter. We can undo it. I can’t pretend that Cyrus will be pleased, but he will abide by your wishes.”
“And what then?” Clara cried. “So I don’t marry Cyrus. Then who? There isn’t a man in this town that I want. I want....I want Jasper.”
“He left, child.”
“He’s still there.” She had looked out one night to see a fire. “Both of them are.”
“Ah, yes, the sick one. The one whose life you saved. You know, I—” She broke off at the look on her daughter’s face. “What is it?”
Clara stared mutely at her mother. Every moment, the truth lay in her mouth, wanting to tumble out: Solomon is alive. He’s a turncoat, a traitor. They never found his body because he ran away. And just as many times, she wanted to storm up the hill to scream her fury at him and ask him how he could dare shame them so. As always she clamped her mouth shut. She had nothing to say to Solomon any longer, and she could not hurt her mother.
However, the truth would fester if she did not speak it, and Clara feared now that it would eat her alive. Every morning she woke with bile in her mouth and a twisting sickness in her belly. She was resentment and anger and betrayal and desire, and not a single piece of it made sense, and not a single piece of it, either, was fair.
“You’re not with child, are you?” Millicent asked finally.
Clara could not help herself. She laughed, bending over with her hand at her stomach, every ounce of resentment and fury coming out in hysterical whoops of laughter that would not seem to stop. She laughed until she was shaking, until she could not catch her breath, and she slumped onto the bed with her head in her hands, nearly crying with it. “No. No, and I wish was, because then I’d have at least those moments to remember. I wanted to, I won’t deny it, and now I have nothing to look forward to and nothing to remember, and I don’t even have Solomon any longer.” The laughing turned to sobs and she clenched her hands in the coverlet, rocking back and forth, Millicent at her side.
“There’s more than you know.”
“Tell me,” Millicent said.
Clara hesitated, but the die was cast.