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H arrodsburg, Kentucky

Clara Stanton sank her teeth into a bright, apron-shined apple. Juice slid from her chin dripping onto her book. She rubbed the sticky drops away with her sleeves and arched her back. She hadn’t noticed how hard her seat had become.

The August day had blown soft and pleasant all morning, bereft of the stifling heat that had plagued them most of the summer.

The air itself seemed to sigh relief. The breezes had carried her here, beneath the shade of the towering maple and within sight of Mother’s rose garden.

Clara lowered her eyes to her novel once again.

Silly Miss Margaret! Who gets swept off her feet by the first gentleman that winks over the gentle swish of a fan?

She lowered the book and thought of her own engagement.

She closed her eyes to picture him. Any day now, Christian Grant would ask for her hand in marriage.

He spoke of it in every letter. Whispered of it each time they chanced to meet.

A true romance—not the mere fluff of novels.

She smiled. Mother would be very pleased.

Very pleased indeed. She closed the book and tossed it aside.

A good dose of Jane Austen, if you please.

Large, warm hands slipped over her eyes. “Guess who?”

She pried them away. Christian. “Mr. Grant. You are flirting in plain sight.” Her heart skipped a beat when her own eyes met his. “I didn’t know you were coming today.” She sunk willingly into the rich brown orbs.

His lips lifted into a warm smile. Dark hair spilled over his brow and his clean-shaven jaw sent her heart racing. He lifted a hand to touch the stray curl that hung behind her ear. “Couldn’t stay away.”

“You may have to ask Father before I talk you into an elopement,” she whispered.

“You will have the finest wedding in Kentucky, no doubt.” He took both of her hands in his and lifted her to her feet. The mindless novel slipped to the ground with the abandoned apple core.

“Really?” She didn’t care how eager she appeared.

“Your father and I have agreed to terms.” He smiled, standing straight and solid. “Good thing tobacco brings a fair price. These fields show great promise, on the other hand, if this had been a bad summer...” he shrugged his hands wide open. “You’d be my greatest loss.” He laughed.

As if their love could have anything to do with tobacco fields. She swatted his arm.

He pulled her close to his chest then set her back slightly. Gazed at her soberly, joking set aside. “You will agree to marry me?”

She nodded. “I thought this day would never come.”

He slipped his hand into his pocket and lifted up a ring, a promise, between them. Emerald and sapphires caught the sun. Never had she seen such brilliant colors. Never would she again.

What once was real had become naught but a dream. Her world dimmed. It browned then blackened as the dark truth squeezed her heart empty of the happy memory. And she was alone.

Breath barely escaped the tight press in her chest. She swiped at her eyes, clawing, seeking to force away the murky, suffocating deep that never lifted, like the fog that enveloped the far away streets of her Grandmum’s precious London.

She grunted and moaned awake from the drowning panic.

Blinked aware to ever-darkness. Endless night.

Her sister’s voice whined close by, the words cutting her fully awake. “She’s doing it again, Mother. If I have to lose more sleep because she can’t get over it...”

Such a hurtful tone. Can’t get over it ? Blindness. The word carried a snake’s hiss at the end. Vile, repulsive.

Mother scuffled nearby. “Shush, Alice. You know what a bear your father is when awakened at such an hour.”

Ropes beneath the mattress pulled as Clara turned on her side. The bed jostled as Mother jerked the blankets away from her stifling hot body, the humid night invading sweat-drenched sheets. She shuddered at the sudden, forced exposure.

“Clara.” Tension transferred from Mother’s long, tight fingers to her forearm—pain filled the tug forward.

Would she ever forgive her for the accident?

“Let me help you downstairs.” Kind words shaded with cruelty.

“Sleep on the couch so your sisters can get some rest.” She paused then added, “You’re not the only one in this house, you know. ”

Indeed. She needed to be kept far from the sensitive ears of her family. The guestroom was too close should she sink back into her constant dreams. Clara swung her feet over the bedside and landed on the cool, wooden floor. Someone rustled forward. Most likely Marie.

Strange how one so completely blind could be spun dizzy with the dreaming and the waking. As though a tea cup rested immobile in her hands, the liquid gyrating from the force of her spoon. Still, yet reeling.

“Madame, I will take her. You must be fresh for the party tomorrow, yes?”

“Thank you, Marie. You must take care to listen a little better,” she chided .

“Of course, Madame.” A bite laced her words. “May I bring you a cup of tea?”

Clara nearly answered, but the offer obviously hadn’t been for her.

“In two hours.” Her mother’s voice never lost its British accent, she practiced a clipped tone in fear of being mistaken for a common Southerner.

Lucy mumbled from her side of the room. “What’s going on?”

Alice whined again. “It’s Clara. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m sorry Alice. Sorry Lucy.” Clara’s apology fell limp. Her sisters simply didn’t understand.

Marie tossed a fringed wrap around Clara’s shoulders and led her out of the bedroom and down the stairs with one arm looped around her back. Slipping, she stumbled down a few steps and lurched grabbing Marie.

“Miss Clara.” Marie spat her words, leaving moisture prickles on her exposed skin. “You will break both our necks.”

Mother had this maid for no other reason than to stay in good style. Certainly not for her sweet temperament. If it were up to Clara, she’d send her back to France on the next ship. A slave wouldn’t dare be so impertinent.

She lost balance again and grabbed the banister like a lifeline.

Indeed, it was. A sturdy guide against the anchor of night.

Where was the sun? The fine words of a novel?

The loving words of her fiancé? Those around her had not been plunged into darkness as she was.

No escape. Odd woman out. She jerked free from Marie. “I will go myself.”

“Fine.” Marie withdrew her hands. “Break your own neck, perhaps the family will be less burdened, no?” Marie turned and stomped away. Back to her own comfortable bed.

If Mother knew of Marie’s nasty behavior, would it matter? Clara sat on the next step and slowly slid down one, two...her fingers slid into a set trap—cold and beaded. She shook it off with an abrupt cry. No one came to her.

Her heart raced, wide awake now. Wait. It wasn’t a trap.

She groped for what she’d flung away. Beads.

A necklace of some sort. Her fingers slid down each hard lump.

At the end was a cross. A small form stretched from point to point with Christ, visible to the touch, pulled toward agony.

This token for prayer lost on the stairs. Marie’s rosary, undeniably.

For a moment, she allowed her fingers to linger on this forgotten form, suspended in humiliation. Too much pain. She turned her mind from it, set the beads aside. Marie could find them on her own.

When she finally reached the bottom step, she stood.

The couch would be in the library. After the breakfast room, beyond the morning parlor, behind the dining room—just follow the columns.

How many times had she been reminded how simple everything was.

She massaged her pounding temples with one hand and knelt to the ground.

She’d have to scoot there. Sometimes Lewis left the cellar door open for cool air to circulate the house.

She’d have to move slowly, gauging the thick dips in the shoe molding that skirted the walls, careful not to fall into the cool, spidery abyss.

Perhaps her family would be better off if she did.

As Marie said. Maybe she’d be better off too.

She resorted to hands and knees, like the cat she pretended to be when she was a child. The wild freedom of girlhood and her current captivity wrestled together as she inched forward. Just breathe . Her nightgown tightened against her knees. She shifted and fell hard on her elbows. Ouch.

A gentle grunt sounded down the hallway. “I gets you Miz Clara.”

“Lewis.” Her stomach flopped at being seen. “I should not have sent Marie away. ”

“Don’t you come no further. Mind I lift y’?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Old, sinuous arms enclosed her, held her fast to his chest. His big heart thrummed. “You comin’ ta sneak Jenny’s cookies?” He chuckled.

“No, no cookies.” Gone were her jests of whether or not a slave could be seen in the darkness. He could see her, and she was grateful. “I am to sleep on the couch.”

“A couch a fine place to rest.”

He carried her to the library and set her on the long horsehair and silk couch as gently as mamma did her teacup among fine company. “Thank you, Lewis.” She swiped at an errant tear. “Don’t eat them all. You know how mad Jenny gets.”

She yawned. Sleep had been difficult after she woke from the accident, so desperate was her mind and soul to see again. Perhaps no dreams would be best. If only the vividness had been real. But dreams came as they wished with no regard to her pain.

Lewis draped a soft coverlet across her. She buried her face into the back of the couch.

“G’night, Miz Clara.” His heavy steps clunked down the wide hall.