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W hile Clara tried to view herself as feminine and capable as ever, she spent much of her time idle, allowing Jenny to dote on her, serve her and take her for walks around the town square. Often she felt like a show horse being led about for the entertainment of others.

This particular morning, the dew had been extra heavy and November’s chill enough to make Mrs. Ramshaw’s bones ache.

As a result, Jenny spent her morning over the kitchen kettle making chicken and dumplings, the poultry a present from the Stanton farm.

Clara sat in boredom smelling the wafting savory scent.

It was destined to be a lonely day. Reverend Merrick, her reader was not due for a few more days and waiting on the outcome of the story was a downright frustration.

Seeing—strike that—hearing him was somewhat pleasing as well.

Jenny shuffled close by. “Yo family must be clear across the ocean by now.”

“Another week and they’ll be at Grandmother’s.”

“Does yo grandmother talk like yo mother?”

Clara put on her best English accent. “Quite the same, enough to mistake them for one another.”

“I’m glad you ‘merican, Miss Clara. Sounds better.”

“I don’t know, I rather think an English accent is quite dignified. Makes a man more handsome. ”

“How a man sounds when he speaks don’ mattah. It’s what he does with his speaks, ain’t that the truth.” Her voice sounded serious.

“Can I tell you a secret? I very nearly hate Christian, Jenny. I know it is terrible of me.”

“That preacher’ll be onto you about forgiven ‘im.”

“You know, don’t you? That he’s after Lucy? My dear family still wants the rogue around despite what he did to me. They invited him to sail to England with them.”

“I hears a lot, Miss Clara. I hear moren’ I want to sometime. And I hear other things too. Things ‘at people don’t always say.”

Clara put her hands behind her head and raked her fingers through her long hair. She hadn’t bothered to put it up. She felt a bit girlish—like an old fashioned bride wearing her hair down one last time.

She twisted one end and let it drop. Her parents probably preferred her dead and a wreath made of her crowning glory.

She imagined her hair twisted into submission—as delicate flowers encircling a shadow likeness set within a deep shadow box to hang on their wall, a symbol of mourning but with the subject already forgotten.

A knock sounded.

“I gets it.”

Jenny wasn’t gone but a moment. “Dat Belle McPherson is here to see you.”

Clara started. She hadn’t received a caller since the accident, if you didn’t count Reverend Merrick.

“Jenny, I must be a mess.”

“Here, I winds your hair right quick. Don’t move now.”

“It’s my old gown. She’ll think I’m a beggar.”

“You a Stanton girl, ain’t no mistakin’ that.”

A moment later, Clara sat in the parlor with her visitor, whose greeting flowed as thick as honey. An invitation for a fly to drown .

“I promised your mother I’d come see how you were. Honestly, I don’t know how time has escaped, it’s been a month since the ball.”

“How are you, Belle? Was the ball successful?” Not that she cared a whit.

“I’ve had more callers than I wish, to tell the truth.”

Clara couldn’t help picturing her insipid smile. “Oh? Anyone I know?”

“James Taylor, for one.”

“Oh, how did you manage that?”

“Father gave him a good price on tobacco.”

Was courtship always a business deal? “Do you like him well enough?”

“Well enough, but I won’t marry him, not when I’ve so many superior choices.”

Choices...one of those freedoms fortune had stifled in her case. “But James Taylor’s mansion rivals the George estate in Richmond. I’ve been to both. Trust me, you’ll want the Taylor’s.” It was also farther away.

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“I recall, once upon a time, Belle, that you were very fond of Mr. Taylor’s trim mustache and dark sideburns.” Indeed, half the girls at school had been swept away by his handsomeness.

“A childish era of my life, I am sure. Of one thing I am certain, when I am engaged, I do not intend to lose him.”

Such a cruel comment. Clara controlled her voice. “That is the general idea.” Engagements were almost legal, nearly binding. Unless the woman objected... In her own moment of weakness, she’d released Christian. Freed him from forever being bound to her darkness.

Belle must have leaned forward, because now her hand touched Clara’s arm as if in secret. She recoiled from her touch. “Do you think Lucy will do it? Consent to marry Christian? ”

“I really can’t say.” Clara crossed her ankles. If only Belle would leave. She’d done her duty. The interrogation had gone on long enough.

“Well, Clara, you are like a heroine in a tragic drama.”

Clara trembled and hoped Belle didn’t see. Heroine? She was anything but.

“I saw your cane the night of the ball. When I’m old I want one just like it. The silver work is glorious.”

Another killing compliment. “You can have mine now, if you wish it so dearly.”

Belle ignored her. “What cunning slippers you have! Reminds me of Daniel Boone.”

Clara felt the heat rise to her face. She’d forgotten she was wearing her rabbit skin scuffs. She stood, “Thank you for calling, Belle. If I don’t see you again soon, I’ll understand that you are busy with beaus.” With an effort, she forced herself to stand and perform a parting curtsy.

“Good afternoon, Clara.”

Clara listened to Belle’s gown rustle through the door. The finest fabric matched the finest features. Belle’s physical perfection always won the silly society games. Won the affections of any and every available young man. The other girls were second choices. Or third.

Where did that leave her? Played a fool and no one would ever forget.

Clara felt for her cane. She hated it. Belle wanted one when she was old, did she? Clara whacked it on the stone hearth. It did not break. She whacked it again and again until Jenny ran in. She tried to take it from her hands, but Clara threw it into the fire.

Fury burst forth. “If you pull that cane out, I’ll have you whipped!”

Jenny released her. “Oh, chile. ”

Clara leaned against the warm side of the hearth, miserable and tired. More alone than ever.

Mrs. Ramshaw’s cold voice penetrated. “When I was a child, I spake as a child, understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. You shall have to get along without your cane now. What a terrible decision you have made.” Her words remained strong.

“Now I’ll have to scrape charred silver out of my grate.

If you weren’t blind, I’d make you clean it up yourself, Clara. ”

“Do you never have moments of anger, Mrs. Ramshaw? Am I not allowed to have feelings?” She pressed a hand against the thorn in her heart, drawing blood down her soul.

“Your folly has proved you have that freedom.”

She tossed her head back. “Perhaps you did not know that Belle McPherson was here.” Couldn’t she understand how fresh her loss was?

“And she told you to beat your cane upon my hearth and burn it then threaten my friend with whipping?” Mrs. Ramshaw’s voice shook.

Guilt surged. Clara had never intended to harm Jenny. Was an empty threat, that’s all.

Mrs. Ramshaw continued. “I know she’s flighty, but I can’t imagine a well-mannered girl suggesting—or doing—such a thing.”

Clara opened her hands in the air, empty of excuses or explanations. She had no answers, didn’t Mrs. Ramshaw already understand? She felt her way to the stairs, brushing past her.

Mrs. Ramshaw’s voice followed her. “Of course, none of us here knows what it’s like to be blind. Still it’s quite plain in Scripture: ‘Be angry, yet do not sin.’”

“Have I sinned?”

“You can ask yourself that. ”

Noiselessly, Clara closed her bedroom door. The quiet day had turned into a roiling headache.

HOURS LATER, CLARA crept downstairs. Supper was being laid on the table. Mrs. Ramshaw read patiently with Morrie.

Clara cleared her voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry, nor acted in such a rash way as this afternoon. I beg your forgiveness.” The old woman remained silent. “You probably think I’ve gone crazy. You must know that my heart is still broken.”

She faltered. Easy tears dripped down her chin. “I feel I must be honest with you. Perhaps you don’t know, Mrs. Ramshaw, but my sister Lucy is set to court and marry Christian. I accidentally discovered this the night of the ball. I don’t know how to endure the shame.”

Mrs. Ramshaw sat her down at the supper table in the kitchen. “Aren’t you merely repeating gossip? Things get mighty twisted when they are spread around.”

“Lucy confessed it before we left the MacPherson’s. Jenny knows it to be true as well.”

“Wretched. Well. If he would have your sister so soon after rejecting you, he is a rogue. He would have done you ill, mark my words. And I fear he’ll do your sister ill. We’ll write Lucy a letter and warn her.”

“You speak truth. I have already warned her.”

“Surely your heart should be on the mend with such information?”

“It’s not so much about Christian anymore, but the fact that my love was dispensable. Disposable. I am unloved with little chance of recovery.”

Clara heard a stifled cry at the end of the room. Morrie, who was usually as quiet as a mouse, wretched into a nearby bucket.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Ramshaw said .

Jenny dished chicken and dumpling on the plate before Clara. “You ain’t the only one, chile.”