Little Love Affair (Southern Romance 1)

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 w

hat 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.”