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M rs. Ramshaw had one more dish to fetch so Daniel gazed freely at Clara’s face.

At least ten extravagant candles lit the room in a mismatched grouping of candlesticks, one he could swear was meant to hold yarn.

The golden flames highlighted Miss Stanton’s cold, pensive expression with a warmth she needed within.

This girl was not at all happy with her circumstances. He couldn’t blame her. How would he respond if he’d become blind? He shook that thought. His very livelihood depended on the healing words of God. Words that made the blind to see and the lame to walk.

He attempted conversation. “I heard that your family sails for England in two days.”

“Yes.”

“What will your father do with the household while away?”

“I am not sure.”

Mrs. Ramshaw entered with a basket of hot, steaming biscuits and plunked them on the table. His mouth instantly watered. No mood could remain hopeless in the presence of hot biscuits, pork roast, and whipped potatoes. His guilt about spilt punch evaporated in the presence of good food.

Mrs. Ramshaw placed a large biscuit on his plate and one on Clara’s. “Mr. Stanton has sent half of the slaves to the neighboring farm and the other half will be ruled by an apprentice overseer. A young coot with less sense than a pigeon. ”

Clara stifled a snort. “I see you are well versed in my family affairs.”

Mrs. Ramshaw perched on the edge of her chair. “Your mother told me about it, dear. As for the young coot, I know his parents.” She patted the young woman’s hand. Clara hid it beneath the table.

A good thing that Mr. Stanton takes his leave. So abused she could no longer hold her bowels... He couldn’t shake Mrs. Ramshaw’s raw truth about these men, these community leaders. Though many women suffered, these had no escape... Daniel cleared his throat. “Shall I pray?” The food was cooling.

“By all means.”

He bowed his head with Mrs. Ramshaw. Then childishly peeked to see if Clara had bowed. He did so because he genuinely cared for the state of her spirit. Thankfully, she had, but her blind eyes remained wide open. Staring. He supposed it made no difference. But did the girl pray?

He certainly did. Words, short and sweet. One should not spoil a rich blessing by preaching sin and sorrow over it. Or mulling over a sorrow he couldn’t immediately fix. He filled his plate perhaps more than he should have, but Mrs. Ramshaw didn’t mind. Knew him to be the hungry man that he was.

Clara didn’t eat much and took only small bites. Her head slightly tipped as if not wanting to be seen. He wondered if she had enough food. Sometimes girls were finicky like that. Francine didn’t eat before balls and galas. Perhaps Clara still harbored nerves from the event.

Mrs. Ramshaw spoke through a biscuit. “I planned on reading to Clara, but I find the print too small. I was hoping you would oblige.” Crumbs tumbled down her bodice.

“Only if Miss. Stanton wishes.”

Clara lay down her biscuit. “I used to read a great deal before the accident. ”

Was that a hint of hope? A reminder of better days?

“ Pilgrim’s Progress ,” Mrs. Ramshaw said. “Nothing else can suit a young woman.”

Daniel shook his head. “What? And have her miss out on great literature?”

“I suppose The Wide, Wide World mightn’t harm her.”

“I believe, Mrs. Ramshaw, that we must ask Clara what she prefers.”

More discussion over and about her. Finally, and acknowledgement of her presence. Clara had laid down her fork and rubbed her hands together. “I dare not inconvenience you. A minister such as yourself must have a great deal to occupy his hours.”

“I am often on the run, from one sick parishioner to another. But I am also frequently here on Sunday afternoons.”

Did he really want to commit to reading to her every Sunday? One day, he would declare from the pulpit that preachers needed a day of rest too.

Clara remained silent.

“It shall be no trouble, Miss Stanton. I insist on knowing what you would like to hear.”

“I have read all of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen. Shakespeare...”

“I’ll go by the booksellers and see if there’s anything tempting. I promise no book of sermons. I’m sure you get enough of that on Sunday mornings.” He smiled and wished she could see him.

She nodded. Not with a frown, but with that same thoughtful expression. And another minute bite of potatoes.

Mrs. Ramshaw poured more gravy on her own pile of potatoes. “I should like to know why a book of sermons is not acceptable? Indeed. I should find them very interesting.”

“They are only interesting to the interested, Mrs. Ramshaw. ”

Clara allowed the hint of a smile to cross her face. The old lady took a bite of potatoes. Daniel loosened his necktie.

CLARA COULDN’T WAIT to get into her nightgown and away from the pities of the preacher and Mrs. Ramshaw. The mention of reading forced upon her another loss she had not yet confronted.

Her ridiculous attempt to charm Christian at the ball left her with nothing but humiliation. Was Christian even there? Did he see her and avoid her? She’d heard no word of him except paired with Lucy’s name in the lounge. Perhaps he stared at her silently from a secret place.

And now the old biddy and preacher wanted to guide her with good books of their choosing. So much for them, they can do their Christian duty. She should be grateful, but she nearly hated the thought. More reliance on others.

It was well enough for the characters in books to have tales end well. None of the heroines had become blind. They always, always got what they wanted in the end. They had stamina, fortitude, and blessed sight. A handsome man to love and to love them back.

Her hands missed the hard covers and many pages of a dream world that felt so much like her own.

“Please come as often as you can, Reverend Merrick.” Mrs. Ramshaw held Clara tight by the elbow in the foyer.

“I’ll stop by tomorrow for our book discussion, Miss Stanton.”

A large, warm hand lifted hers in a weak squeeze. “Did I forget to mention how lovely you two ladies looked this evening? Forgive me for failing to do so.”

Mrs. Ramshaw removed her hand from her elbow. “I am no flower, Reverend Merrick, and my black silk is as old as my husband’s been in the grave. Clara, however showed unusual beauty this night. I don’t believe any other debutantes matched her. ”

“Indeed. Quite difficult not to notice.”

“You don’t have to flatter me, I’d rather have truth or nothing at all. I can handle the fact that—"

“I wasn’t raised to flatter a girl, Miss Stanton. And now I wish you both good night.”

She curtsied by instinct. Felt the heat of shame creep up her neck. The door thudded.

Mrs. Ramshaw gently patted her back. “Now. I’ve got the brick warming your bed and your gown warming by the fire. Need you a cup of tea?”

“Mrs. Ramshaw?”

“Yes, Clara?”

Clara opened her mouth to speak but there was too much to say.

Her words drowned by familiar dark pain.

She shook her head and the old panic rose to the surface before she could tamp it down.

Her breath became short, her chest squeezed.

A forever nothingness...forever. “I can’t live.

.. I can’t... I can’t live blind.” She heard her own whispers.

No matter how soft, they were spoken aloud. True and unchanging.

She sank to the floor and gripped the old woman’s skirts. With ridiculous shame, she wept into them like a slave child does to its mother.

The old woman managed to get down to the floor with her.

She didn’t speak for a while and when Clara’s sobs softened, she heard Mrs. Ramshaw weeping too.

The only consolation was the pair of arms that held her tightly.

Clara felt the realness, the empathy of the lady’s tears.

As if Mrs. Ramshaw suffered the same affliction.

No one had held her like this before. Not even her mother. ..

Clara finally pulled away. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Unlike her parents, Mrs. Ramshaw offered no wisdom or remonstrance for her lack of complete composure. She simply led her to the practical warmth of bed and nightgown.