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Clara reached into her nightgown and lifted the engagement ring that hung from a long gold strand.

She rested it on the flat of her palm and touched the stones.

Remembering. Would she ever see herself again?

Or would she have to rely on someone someday years hence to announce that her hair had changed from brown to white?

Her finger grazed the smooth center of the ring. What of his many promises?

I will do anything for you, Clara. I will cross the sea and back. I promise to be a good husband to you. I promise we will have a good life. I promise...

You need not cross the sea for me. I’d rather have you by my side, silly man !

Where was he? How long had it been? Day and night were alike, and she knew not how many had passed. Her parents had told her very little. It was always the same, wait for the doctor. Listen to the doctor. Wait until the bruises cleared and the bandage removed. Wait.

Her parents and sisters continued to do as they pleased.

Nothing had changed around them. Parties had been planned and attended.

Callings and teas, paid and served. Without her.

Never consulted, never invited. The otherness was excruciating.

Would she really want to be seen in this state? ‘Of course not,’ she’d been told.

The old doctor that had examined her said such activity would aggravate her weary brain. What could be worse than what she already suffered?

Her eyelids flickered down. She stroked the ring and remembered. The day, the hour, the fall...

Wind and speed flung hair into her eyes as she bounced on the back of a deep brown Morgan, trying to keep up with Father and Christian.

How grand they looked on their mounts. The earlier rainfall had filled the trees with diamonds that sparkled like her engagement ring, as though the earth itself celebrated her news.

Father wanted to show off his new hunting stand. All he wanted to do besides grow tobacco was hunt. Without a second thought, he would drag Christian away from her into the deep woods.

They’d jumped the low stone fence. She would too. Why not? Christian jumped back again and galloped to face her.

He called out, “Catch up with me, Clara!”

She kicked her horse’s side and leaned inward.

His horse sped back to her and made a circle around hers. Too close, she failed to see the thick stone fence. Hooves and legs smashed forward. She’d been tossed into the depths of a nightmare.

CLARA SAT IN A RIGID ladder-back chair with a rank towel soaked in some sharp-smelling medicinal soup. Her eyes smarted and dripped unwarranted tears. Surely enough remedies had been tried? Mother would allow the slaves to dose her with their own concoctions. Of course she would.

Jenny plunked a spoon onto the wooden square table in the kitchen. Rising steam moistened her chin. Hot porridge?

A large apron had been hastily tucked within her clothes. She’d never get used to being pushed and prodded in the direction someone else chose for her. Humiliating. Treated like a child.

Jenny simmered. “I’ll nevah get the cakes done in time.”

Clara reached for the spoon, but Jenny plugged it into her hand.

“Like havin’ another baby ‘round here.”

She felt her face redden.

“Like I don’t have enough to do with that big dinner comin’ up.”

Clara laid her spoon down, appetite gone.

“I’s sorry, Miz Clara. Don’t mind me, I’m a headless chicken today.”

Clara stifled a laugh. Jenny was so tiny, it wouldn’t do to lose her head as well. She was easy to forgive.

“Where did my cookies run off to?” The back door opened and slammed. “Lewis! I gots me rollin’ pin with your name on it!”

Clara lifted her spoon again and tested the perimeters of the bowl, swirling what was no doubt, oatmeal, despite the pungent scent of ham, biscuits, and gravy prepared for the healthier members of her family. How she wished to join them. Did they even miss her?

Her sisters’ voices layered upon each other as they drifted from the dining room.

“England at last!” Alice squealed.

Father’s voice muffled a long affirmative.

Mamma’s accent heightened. “We must go to France first...new clothes... ”

Lucy laughed. “Remember the man in Grandmum’s opera box the last time we were there?”

Clara smiled too. Poor man. Not overly discerning, he’d been smitten with all three sisters at once, determined to capture one of them as his bride before they sailed a week hence for America.

She’d only been sixteen, Alice fourteen—and Lucy barely thirteen.

That was three years ago. And now they had most certainly matured into young women.

Perhaps they could meet Christian in Europe?

He had once mentioned an impending trip to Germany on the day of their engagement.

She’d suggested waiting for their honeymoon.

Did he know how she fared? Perhaps he had found a famous doctor there who could care for her.

Cure her. A smile crept across her face, daydreaming of his heroic efforts.

He would do anything for her. He had promised.

She threw off the reeking towel and rose from the table, excitement welling up.

Hope was a far better medicine! She lost her balance and reached for the table.

Her palm hit the edge of the bowl and oatmeal crashed to the floor—hot goo plopped thickly over her slipper.

At least it was better than the horse droppings she’d plunged her foot into the day before.

Clara sat waiting. Helpless. Jenny lost no time cleaning up for her.