Freedom Forever (Southern Romance 3)

Chapter 1

The sounds of the party rippled through the autumn night. The air carried the touch of winter, but no one cared: they had been dancing jigs and reels all night to the strains of violin, pan pipes, and accordion, and their cheers accompanied the rhythmic stamp of the dancers. The scent of peach pies and spiced punch mixed with the smoke from bonfires. It had been a solemn affair, the wedding: Clara resplendent in a pale blue gown that matched her eyes, and Jasper in a new suit, flowers in his buttonhole, his dark hair a perfect match for Clara’s golden curls.

But as soon as the rings were exchanged and the vows spoken, the party had taken a more exuberant turn. Solomon, having given Clara away, made toasts and danced beautifully with Violet—who, even as awkward as she must feel in a dress, was a graceful enough dancer that the two made a beautiful pair.

All of which left Cecelia with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, the same feeling that had been twisting there for weeks as she tried desperately to accustom herself to the idea of marriage.

Marriage, of course...and the baby. Her stomach heaved again and she trembled as she leaned against the side of the barn, sweat standing out on her forehead. It would get better in time, her mother told her, but Cecelia was not so sure it would. How could she become whole in body when she felt so sick in spirit? She moved through her days like a ghost, hardly speaking, watching her belly grow a little rounder each day, and her eyes grow a little more shadowed.

She could only be glad that her sister was being married, and her brother was engaged as well, for the natural curiosity of her siblings had been muted by the excitement in the Dalton household. Clara, sharp-eyed, was nonetheless giddy with her own marriage, Jasper had been bedbound until his injuries—a few cracked ribs and too many bruises to count—had healed, and Solomon, now that Cecelia was properly engaged, had been entirely absorbed with his own romance.

No one had asked too many questions, and Cecelia was glad of it, for she did not think she had the heart to lie. And she must lie, that had been made very clear to her. She straightened up and wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, then grimaced and stumbled to the water butt, washing her hand and her mouth alike with cold water.

The glare of the lanterns made her wince as she rejoined the party. With stars resplendent above, silvery and cold, the party looked warm and golden and beautiful. Candles and bonfires twinkled, and in the center of it all whirled Clara and Jasper, gold and chestnut, their faces alight with happiness. The music led them into a partner switch, and Clara whirled into Solomon’s arms, while Violet clutched at Jasper’s sleeve worriedly.

“Come. We should dance.” Her fiancé’s voice was soft, even warm, but Cecelia felt only a sinking in her stomach.

She looked over. Abraham Thompson was a fine-looking young man, all the young ladies of the town thought so. Even Cecelia had thought as much once. She’d be a fool not to, for with his reddish-brown hair and strong frame, the man cut a fine figure. A straight nose and a firm jaw rounded out a face with startling deep blue eyes and a full mouth. Cecelia knew that the other women at the party were envying her now, to see her put her hand in Abraham’s and follow him to the dance floor.

But I don’t love him.

She banished the traitorous thought with the tiniest shake of her head, nipping her lip with her teeth to remind herself to smile. Tonight was a happy night for her family, and they must all look merry.

“Why, you must think this is a waltz,” Abraham said, a twinkle in his eye. “You’ll be falling behind in a moment.”

“I apologize.” Cecelia willed her feet to move faster, but she could hardly think for the roar of the music. Her stomach was still churning, and the smells of roast pig and fresh pie, ale and punch, were almost too much to bear. She felt lightheaded, and held tight to Abraham’s hand to stay upright.

“And you’re very pale,” he observed, whirling her around so that she swayed against him; she felt his hand splay on the small of her back, drawing her closer.

“I’ve been ill,” Cecelia said, with as much grace as she could muster. “You know that.”

“That’s your own fault,” he said tightly.

She looked up, and saw that although his smile was still in place, all traces of warmth in his blue eyes had vanished. But now she was defiant. She did not care if Abraham objected to her being with child. He had been happy enough about the circumstances that led them here, he had what he wanted now: her as his bride to be, the woman he would marry one week from tomorrow. If he did not care that the thought made her almost sick with nerves, then she resolved not to care that he thought ill of her for her condition.

“You’re right, of course,” she said, as calmly as she could.

“Are you going to look that way all night?” he demanded of her.

“Pale? Sick? I suppose so.” She gave what she hoped was a withering smile on par with Clara’s. Oh, how she wished she were Clara now. Clara truly wouldn’t care what Abraham thought. Clara would have been clever enough to find a way out of this, and damn the consequences—perhaps she would simply have lashed Abraham with her wit and fire, and intimidated him into giving her her own way. By contrast, Cecelia’s defiance, weak as it was, only stoked Abraham’s anger.

“This way,” he snapped, and he led her away from the party with her hand clasped tightly in his, hardly seeming to care that the bones were pressed together painfully. When they rounded the corner of the barn, he drew her close to hiss in her ear. “I’ll not have you shaming me. You’re my betrothed.”

“That’s your own fault,” Cecelia threw back in his face.

For a moment, she thought he would hit her. She saw it in his eyes. But he steadied himself with a deep breath.

“I only asked,” he said, smiling at her. “And you said yes.”

“You only asked?” Cecelia said incredulously.

“You said yes.”

“You hardly gave me a choice.”

“Oh, there was most certainly a choice.” But his smile was chilling. He knew she could not say no and she, for her part, knew he would never let her. Abraham had been determined, for months, to have her as his wife.

“Well, if you don’t want me to shame you,

perhaps we should sit and watch the dancing,” Cecelia said finally. She could not bear to keep speaking of what could be. She would start crying again, as she had too many times since the betrothal. As she did, now, every night, pressing her face into the pillow so no one could hear her.

“And have people trade gossip about you not feeling well?”

“They’re more likely to do that if you make me dance until I collapse,” Cecelia hissed back.

“I’ll not have people saying my fiancée carries a bastard.”

“Why not?” Cecelia whispered. “It’s true.”

What he was planning to say to that, she never knew, for the sound of footsteps carried clearly through the night air, and both of them froze.

“There you are!” Clara’s voice said. It was delighted, still carrying half a giggle with it. She smiled at them both, and even Abraham smiled back instinctively. “My dear, might I borrow your betrothed for just a moment? I need her to help me with my gown.”

“Of course,” Abraham said, bowing slightly. His manners were perfect and his smile easy. He might never have been angry at all. He kissed Cecelia’s hand, once more the perfect husband-to-be, and disappeared around the side of the barn with a backwards glance and a smile to them both.

Everyone, Cecelia reflected bitterly, did what Clara wanted. Why had she never managed to learn that trick? She was just as pretty, surely, even if her hair was not golden. She was just as sweet.

Perhaps she was too sweet.

“Thank you for letting me steal you away,” Clara said.

“Oh, it’s no trouble.” Cecelia tried not to show that she was shuddering with relief to be extricated from the conversation. Perhaps she might not go back, she thought, in a burst of inspiration. She could get Clara to go tell Abraham she’d eaten something bad, perhaps. He wouldn’t yell at her.

But in the shadows of the barn, as they slipped inside, Clara took extra care to bar the door before turning to take Cecelia’s hands in her own.

“Is everything well with you?” she asked without preamble.

For a moment, Cecelia could not speak for surprise. She stared, chewing at her bottom lip, the truth tumbling over on her tongue and her lips pressed tight to hold it in. She could not say. She could not tell anyone.

“Of course all is well,” she said finally. Was that her voice? It sounded too high, almost hysterical in its lightness. She managed a smile.

“Are you...are you certain?” Clara’s brow furrowed.