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P ain shot through her foot as Clara fell over a large rectangle, knocking the breath from her lungs. She gripped the sides, scanning with her fingertips. Leather. Latches. Key hole. When had the trunks been hauled from the attic? Why so soon?

Marie pulled her up—led her to the stairway. “Stay down below or you’ll ruin my packing. I’ve precious much to do without you sitting on madam’s hatboxes or lumbering into a trunk.”

Somewhere, Alice laughed. Marie wouldn’t think to ask if she’d hurt herself.

Moving slowly lest she have another encounter, Clara limped to a stiff chair in the kitchen and rested her elbows on the table.

As a child, she’d been regularly kicked out of this busy place.

Now it was a refuge where mother rarely ventured—this place of slaves and servants.

A room of scent and spice. A haven to be inconspicuous.

Mrs. Ramshaw was taking tea with Mother in the parlor.

Poor Lucy had been roped into playing the dutiful attending daughter.

Jenny bustled about her work. “Dat rain don’t damp my spirit none. Cools me down and I gets a heap more done.”

Clara dreamed. The ball was a mere two days away. Having the dress was no guarantee that she’d be allowed to attend. Why hadn’t her father been honest when he permitted her to have the gown made? His kindness looked little different from cruelty.

She heard something wet and sloppy boiling in the cookpot.

“Have a taste of this Miss Clara.” A steady blowing sound .

Then a warm spoon met her lips. Apple butter, “Nice, Jenny.”

“You know your mother won’t be taking any of this to England. Maybe I should give some to dat lady, Mrs. Ramshaw. She ain’t left yet, so I betta hurry.”

“Mrs. Ramshaw?” That lady had once told her to change her bonnet ribbons from red to blue, that red ribbons reminded her of harlots.

Shocking language from such an old lady, but no one ever explained why harlots should own the color red.

Mother had overheard and Clara had to change her ribbons that very day, never mind that it was the Sabbath.

A heavy step announced Lewis. “Miss Clara, you is needed in the parlor.”

The woman wants to stare me down, good heavens.

Well. Let her get a good eyeful! Clara took Lewis’s arm and let him lead her, though she knew the way well enough.

His large hand gently patted hers. Like a father might.

Ridiculous thought...but enough to make her eyes smart.

It seemed as though her parents only cared what prestige she might bring to the family—with her beauty and marriageable connections.

Was she worth nothing more? They walked in amid a flow of words.

A forceful current set to pull her under.

“As I was saying, we shan’t waste our time. I believe we must put good effort into living.” Mrs. Ramshaw’s platitude nailed the thought in place. But efforts were often thwarted.

“Clara, you remember Mrs. Ramshaw?” Mother’s voice, all-politeness.

“Blindness doesn’t make me forget people, Mother.” Clara clasped her hands together and curtsied. “How do you do, Mrs. Ramshaw?”

“Young miss,” a tea cup rattled, “we are to be housemates for a time. What do you think of that?” Her voice lilted with joy. “I assure you I don’t believe in boredom and we shall enjoy ourselves nearly every moment possible. ”

She felt breathless, confused. “What do you mean?” She reached for the back of a chair—anything to feel anchored.

“Is this true? Mother—are you certain I cannot travel with you?” If her efforts at the ball failed.

..if she failed... “There are blind women aplenty in Europe. I must go with you.” At least give me a chance. ..

“Clara.” Mother gripped her hand in a too-tight warning. “Not at all. I’m positive there are as you say, blind women aplenty across the sea. They aren’t, however, risking their lives on a ship.”

Clara found this laughable. Mother didn’t actually care about her or how her life might be lived. Mother’s only concern was for social perceptions. Ironic that she could sense this truth, without having to see it.

“Clara, this is best. Mrs. Ramshaw has graciously offered. You were originally going to Belle’s for the duration of our trip...” She let that terrible nugget of truth sink in.

Mother knew how she felt about Belle. Living there would have been torture.

Their days together at the Greenville Institute for Young Ladies had been telling to the woman she’d become.

So full of herself, so bent on turning every man’s head.

Belle’s fortune could sink in the Kentucky River, for all she cared.

“Marie is packing your trunk at this very moment and you will join Mrs. Ramshaw this very day.”

To Mrs. Ramshaw’s of the rather small house on the hill above the old quarry? Near town, but away from home... Why couldn’t the old woman reside here? Mother probably feared her nosing into some private family business.

“What a relief to have this settled. Attending the McPherson ball directly before we sail is rather dizzying.”

“Do I go to the ball, Mother?”

“Perhaps it is too risky. Going may make your condition worse.”

Another disappointment? Life couldn’t get any worse. She had a bad taste in her mouth. The kind that apple butter couldn’t soothe.

CLARA RALLIED AGAINST tears as they jostled along. Mrs. Ramshaw’s voice turned musical, “I never knew water to hurt a soul. An October rain is refreshing and I daresay will do this dusty shawl some good and save it a washing.”

Clara disliked the sensation. How could her mother be so worried about her delicate health and in the same moment, send her off in an open rig during a storm?

If father had been home, he wouldn’t have allowed it.

An open rig, for heaven’s sake! Mrs. Ramshaw was a strange one.

Of course, this lady was the kind that no young person her age paid any mind to.

A widow that seemed more like a spinster.

That thought pricked as she recalled Alice’s recent taunting and her mother’s own words.

No man would want her. Might she end up alone as well?

The old lady’s elbow nudged against hers in the close seating. The nag kicked mud upon her cloak, no doubt. Would anyone care to clean it off for her?

A chill wind drove the rain directly onto her face. At least a hot crock of Jenny’s apple butter sat wedged between her feet.

Mrs. Ramshaw’s chin strap slapped wet upon Clara’s lips and fell away. “Your sisters will no doubt visit before they sail for England.”

Was that an attempt at cheer? After all, Marie had packed her trunk, which meant that Alice likely circled her best laces and shirtwaists like a vulture on a dead animal.

Marie would do anything for Alice. Lucy would have been too reserved to rescue much.

Did Lucy pack my letters for me? If Alice reads them .

.. Clara sighed. Christian’s messages to her had been sacred.

She hardly knew how to think of them now, after his reluctance to fulfill his promises.

To cherish or burn them? Time would tell.

“You’ll be much easier to nurse than a baby, I daresay.”

“A baby, Mrs. Ramshaw? I should think so, though I do not believe I am in need of a nurse. ”

“I thought perhaps I might teach you some things.”

“I have completed my studies to my father’s satisfaction.”

“But there are always things to learn, you know. Knitting. Do you know how to knit?”

Just then, the rig lurched forward and stopped at a steep tilt. Clara gasped as she held to the side of the buggy.

“Well,” the old woman had not even squealed. “We’ve a broken wheel, imagine that. I suppose we shall have to get muddy. Nothing a hot bath can’t fix. You do enjoy a hot bath? I imagine the steam helps your eyes.”

“I trust there is not a ravine beneath me?” Clara quavered. The same nightmare that met her time after time. Swallowing depths, a darker darkness...

“Indeed not. Jump down and you’ll be right as rain. Or wet as rain, rather.”

Clara tentatively pressed one foot after the other down into the sinking mud as water oozed into her shoes.

“That’s it. I’ll have to send someone after the horse, poor creature.”

“I shan’t waste my time on knitting.” She spat. “ Such tasks are for the underclasses and slaves to do.” Clara despised how she sounded to this woman, a poor scapegoat for her anger towards her family.

“Then what shall you, as you call it, waste your time doing?”

Rain drenched her bonnet and soaked her cloak. This deluge would be the death of them. “Am I my own master after all? If so, I should like to go home, please.” At least she already knew the layout of her house.

“Tut, tut. None of that now. You know it’s already been settled. Make the best of it.” A damp arm linked into hers and drew her down the path to town.

THE FIRE WASN’T HOT enough. Clara shook, her teeth clenched against the chilling wind. Mrs. Ramshaw seemed to think it fine to leave a door wide open?

“Pot’s a bit warm from this morning. Another boiling kettle will make for your nice bath. I daresay you can still undress yourself.”

“Not with the door still open, if you please.”

“You left the door open, my dear. I have neither maid nor slave, you must learn to care for yourself in the small ways as well as the other.”

The other? “Might I have some privacy?”

“I was raised up with four sisters and three brothers. And I’ve nursed a good many people in ill times. A body’s a body when it comes to a need.”

“I wish to be alone.” She was not going to disrobe in front of Mrs. Ramshaw.

Horrors. What would mother say if she could see her now?

A march through freezing rain and mud and a rudimentary tub in the kitchen, no less.

At home she had her bath in the privacy of her room, behind a curtained partition.

A male voice sounded from the front of the house. “Halooo! Mrs. Ramshaw? Are you home?

“One moment!” Mrs. Ramshaw took Clara’s hand and placed it on the edge of the tub. “Keep it there for a moment.”

Water poured, steaming fresh on Clara’s hand.

“Get in when you are ready. There is a table to your right with a cup of tea on it. Another table to your left holds a cake of soap and a Turkish towel. I’m warming a spare nightgown by the fire.”

Mrs. Ramshaw’s steps moved from the room, a door closed behind her.

A cool breeze blew against Clara’s wet dress.

The door remained open. If she moved her hand and stepped in its direction, would she knock into the hot stove?

Bump the tea table? Didn’t the old fool understand what it was to be blind ?

She moved slowly, wishing she hadn’t left her cane by the door. She held her hands out and felt the heat from the stove. Before she knew it, the backdoor breeze had led her to the right place. She shut the door quietly and felt for the lock. There was none.

Disrobing proved to be a frustration. Marie had knotted her corset.

Her bath water was growing cool. Indeed, if she had a pair of shears, she’d cut the cursed thing off and toss it to the fire.

By some miracle, her nails eased the strings from each other and she slipped into the tub only a moment before Mrs. Ramshaw reentered.

“You must send for one of our slaves to assist me, Mrs. Ramshaw. With the family leaving for England, I do not think they need so many about the place.”

“No, that’s out of the question. If you need anything, Clara, only ask. I am able and willing to serve you.”

Clara’s face burned. That bossy woman tamped down every request as if she were a child.

“Good news from the minister. Mr. Kilgore, his cook’s husband, has gone for the rig. We shall be independent women, you and I. Free to go and come as we please. And best news yet, the crock of apple butter will be saved.”

Mrs. Ramshaw was free to go as she pleased. Not Clara. This was her new prison.

She reached for her tea as the warmth of the bath began to sooth the chill from her body. Warm fluid slid down her throat. Hot, sweet, perfect. Never had she so enjoyed tea.

Silent tears dripped down for only a moment. A weak hope dawned. However this event had come about, perhaps it was a good thing. Perhaps it was good that her family was going to England on an extended trip. She didn’t need the constant gossip, reproof, and pity.

She needed to find a way to procure her freedom. To see again. Being here may yet prove providential .

“Thank you. The tea is perfect.”

“You can have some more when you get out.”

A gentle hand unpinned the simple bun and brushed her hair far more gently than Marie ever did. “Your trunk will be here in an hour. We can fix your room to your liking after your tour. I will tell you everything there is to know about this old place.”

Clara, donned a nightgown that fit as if it belonged to her, sat on a feather bed with the scent of soft mint all about her.

“I’ve never cared for gaudy wall papers. This room’s walls are white-washed. Trim painted green. The braided rug on the floor is many-colored. I’ve had several compliments on it.”

“Jenny’s granddaughter is working on a rug for her cabin.”

“How old is she?”

“Never asked, but she’s had gray hair as long as I can remember.”

“I meant Jenny’s granddaughter.”

“Somewhere around thirteen, I think.”

“I’m curious. Does your father allow them a sabbath?

Clara thought for a moment, then nodded. “They have a church service sometimes, with the neighbor’s slaves. And as long as the singing stops by the time we get home, Mother doesn’t mind either.” Nothing strange about this.

“I’ve never owned a human being. Now, your wash stand is against the wall, across from the foot of your bed. I’ve set your chamber stool in the closet. We’ll use the set of pegs for your clothing and your trunk for the rest.”

“Is there a writing desk or bookshelves?”

“Do you think Marie packed for reading and writing?”

“Oh. I suppose not.”

“There is a soft horse hair chair by the fireplace, though it worries me. I’ll need to get a screen made for your safe keeping.”

“What color is the chair? ”

“Blue silk—faded by sunlight. It has a few stiff places, but a cushion should take care of that.”

Good. A room of her own and a chair to sit in. Was there more to life than that? The thought of a personal quiet space made her smile.

“I’ve been busy seeing you comfortable on your first evening here, I’ve quite forgotten about supper. Why don’t you have a rest until its ready?”

Mrs. Ramshaw could use a slave. They made life so much easier. Perhaps a little gentle convincing might change her mind.