Freedom Forever (Southern Romance 3)

“That it is.” He looked around himself before remembering that he was the reverend’s son. “Truly a testament to God’s creation.”

“Mmm, yes. Of course.” Cecelia smiled back dutifully.

“May I say...well, it is no matter.”

“What?” She was desperate for distraction.

“You look lovely. That is all. Your cloak is especially fetching. It makes your skin look like cream.”

“Thank you.” Cecelia blushed, her cheeks burning against the cold air and her chest warming at the words. There. She was not so plain after all, even with Clara looking like a fairy princess. Perhaps someday, someone would court Cecelia, and then when some boy asked her if she had a beau, she might say yes—yes, she did.

She tucked the compliment into her mind and held it close, and they fell into silence as the carriage rattled along the frozen roads. Cecelia, for her part, was accustomed to the rough ride, but she saw Abraham wince as the cart struck rocks and ruts, and the back of the cart jostled. Often, she saw Abraham staring at her, and she blushed and looked away. You look lovely. Guilt twisted in her, that she could even consider thinking of this when matters were grave, but her mind seized on the distraction gratefully.

She flexed her fingers slowly against the winter air. It was cold, bitterly so now that the day was progressing, and they could see the grey of storm clouds on the horizon. But Cecelia hardly minded. Grey and clouds might mean a blizzard, and that was something to focus on—getting the goats inside and the barn closed up, the chickens rounded into one of the stalls instead of their coop. A storm meant howling wind and the shutters rattling, something she hated, something that would keep her mind from what was happening. Just like the bitter wind now cut at her fingers so that she was stiff and cold, hurting and wishing she was inside. It was a distraction, and she was grateful for it.

When Abraham helped her down from the carriage at last, the farmhouse looming behind them, he held her close for a moment, and she almost thought he might kiss her. Her mind whirled, but he only stepped back, and even in her half-moment of disappointment, she saw the admiration in his eyes and shivered with happiness. She was young, and pretty, and a man thought well of her—a good young man, too. The reverend’s son.

She did not want to go inside. The kitchen seemed smaller and closer than she remembered. Clara half-collapsed into one of the chairs by the fire and so Cecelia was the one to haul the kettle away for water, and set out refreshments on a plate. They did not need to do this for such an event, she knew that. But pretending it was a social call gave her the courage not to burst into tears.

She delayed as much as she could, but there was no stopping it entirely.

“Dear Lord,” the reverend said without preamble, when they were all seated. “We ask you today to keep Solomon Dalton in your grace and mercy, and see to it that wherever he may be, he is returned to his home safely. We ask, also, that you keep his family...”

The voice twisted around and around in her head, and Cecelia took deep breaths to steady herself, keeping her eyes on the flames and her hands twisting in her lap, nails digging into the flesh until the skin ached. The flames seemed to have burned themselves into her vision; when she closed her eyes and bowed her head, to pretend that she was praying, she saw them still dancing behind her closed lids.

“Cecelia?”

Her mother’s voice.

“What?” Cecelia looked up.

“Do you have any prayers to make?” Millicent’s eyes made it clear that Cecelia should say something profound, but from the way the reverend was clasping Clara’s hand, she was sure her older sister already had said the perfect thing.

And she did not want to speak, anyway.

“Dear Lord.” Her voice came out as a squeak, and faded to a whisper. She must not cry. “Let Solomon be still with us, and safe. Even if we do not know where he is, I am sure You do. Give us...give us courage to wait.” Her voice trembled and she bowed her head again hastily. She did not have courage. She did not, either, have any patience for this being one of God’s mysteries.

“Amen,” Abraham said at her side.

It was over in an eternity and a moment, the reverend’s voice droning and Clara whispering prayers, Millicent’s strong voice belying the terror Cecelia knew that she felt. And Cecelia felt a wave of anger, that they should be trying to impress the Reverend now with their piety, when he should be comforting them instead. As they sat down to a quick meal—“oh, reverend, we must feed you before you head back”—she slipped out into the orchard, no cloak to protect her against the cold, and breathed in a shuddering sigh of relief at the cold air.

She walked quickly, raising her fingers deliberately out of her pockets and brushing them against the bare tree branches, saving the ache and burn of the winter air on her skin. It took all she had not to scream at the sky, demanding answers. He could not be missing. People did not just disappear. They did not vanish into thin air. Someone must know. Someone must.

“Miss Dalton.”

She took a moment to steady herself before she turned, and curtsied.

“Mr. Thompson.”

“Might I walk with you?” Abraham asked her, and Cecelia nodded.

“You look like a winter spirit,” he told her. “No cloak, and yet you are not shivering. Are you hands cold?”

Cecelia nodded again. Words seemed to have deserted he

r.

“Here.” He came to her side and took his scarf, wrapping her hands together in it and holding them as heat began to prickle against the skin. “A little better?”