Little Love Affair (Southern Romance Series, #1)

by Lexy Timms

  “He betrayed all of us, don’t you see?” Clara whispered. “Mother.... Mother, please, why are you smiling?”

  “He’s alive,” her mother whispered. Her shoulders were shaking with tears.

  “How can you be pleased?”

  “He’s my child,” Millicent said simply. “I could no more stop loving him than I could cut out my own heart, Clara—and neither could you. You’re blinded by what he did to you, but it’s different for a parent. I thought he had died on a battlefield and I wasn’t there to hold his hand and tell him it would be all right. I thought I had allowed him to march off to war and give his life, and I could never forgive myself. But he’s alive.”

  “Yes,” Clara said after a moment. “He saw Jasper on the battlefield, wounded, and he saved his life. Then he went to fight for them.”

  “But he came back.”

  “He said it was all lies,” Clara said, hating that the words made her mother smile. She wanted to be angry, and now her anger felt very small. Her brother was alive—how could she not be as happy as her mother was? How had she never even considered forgiving him? “He wanted surety and they promised it, but it was lies.”

  The sound of the door below startled her, made her draw herself up. She should be composed when Cecelia returned. It was not Cecelia coming back to the house. There was a buggy outside, and a figure in black galloping across the fields.

  “Holy hell,” Clara whispered.

  “Language,” her mother said absently.

  “No. Mother... Cyrus.” Clara pointed, trembling. “Cyrus heard us. He knows about them. He’s going to the cabin.”

  Chapter 17

  “Someone’s coming,” Solomon observed. He was getting stronger each day and had taken to walking in slow circles around the camp.

  Jasper looked up from his makeshift game traps. The sound of his friend’s voice was a surprise. They rarely spoke any longer. Solomon had hardly uttered a word since the night Clara ran from him, and as he walked, his face often twisted in misery. Jasper, for his part, could not find words to comfort the man. Honor, and the dregs of friendship, demanded that he remain until he was certain Solomon had recovered, but whenever he opened his mouth to assure Solomon that all would be well, resentment twisted in his gut.

  If it were not for Solomon, his mind told him, Clara would not have run from him that night. If it were not for Solomon, he would never have met Clara at all, and he would not be tormented by the memory of her smile and the desire in her eyes. Reason told him that Clara could never have been his. Solomon had been right, and Millicent as well: such a match had never been possible. However if he had come here alone, Jasper wondered passionately, not bringing a man who had betrayed her, would they have had a chance?

  It did not seem right that he could love her so much if they were not meant to spend their lives together. Every day, as Solomon grew stronger, Jasper reminded himself that he must leave, and he felt sick at the thought. He spent each day hoping that Clara would come to him, even as he tried to accept that she would not. Now, at Solomon’s words, Jasper’s heart leaped.

  “Is it Clara?” He flailed his way through the brush and back toward the house.

  “No, it’s a man. Get the musket.” Solomon leaned forward, squinting, then stumbled back from the door. “It’s Cyrus. Jasper...”

  With a sinking dread, Jasper marked the brown hair, the stocky build. Solomon was correct, and there was no time to load the musket. Jasper pushed Solomon behind the house, hearing a muffled exclamation as the man toppled over a shrub.

  “He has a very strong right hook,” came the voice, and Jasper nodded in the direction of the bush.

  “Thank you.”

  “Wait.” Solomon’s head emerged from the undergrowth, branches in his hair. “I should talk to him. He won’t care about you if he sees me here.”

  “Then your family will know,” Jasper said. “You’re still weak. If he’s here for a fight...”

  “You and I both know,” Solomon said quietly, “that I deserve more than a beating for what I did.” He pushed himself up and brushed the branches from his hair.

  “I won’t argue with that, but let me see what he wants first.” Jasper did not like the look of this.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Solomon asked.

  “Are you joking?” Jasper felt his lips stretch in a bitter smile. “I’ve wanted to hit the man since I first saw him.”

  “I should have cut Clara’s hair,” Solomon muttered. “A beautiful sister is nothing but trouble. Fair enough, Perry—go fight. Your funeral.”

  “Don’t ready my grave just yet.” Jasper smiled over at him. “You’ve never seen me box.” His blood was singing; this was the confrontation he had been craving for weeks. He rounded the corner of the house with his hands already balled into fists.

  “You.” Cyrus was just reaching the top of the hill, his hair already plastered to his forehead, and his face was a mask of dislike. “So she was right: you are still here, leeching off the land.”

  “Mister Dupont.” Jasper ducked his head in a mock bow. “You seem to be out of breath. Would you like to wait a few moments before we begin?”

  “I’m not here for you.” Cyrus’s voice was low, ugly. “Where’s Solomon?”

  So he knew.

  “He’s not here.” Jasper hoped Solomon would have the good sense to stay hidden. “He went north.”

  “Where? Washington? New York? When did he leave?” Cyrus stepped closer, his eyes bright with anger. “Tell me.”

  “He left a week ago. He didn’t tell me where he was going.”

  Jasper had never been good at lying, and Solomon had been entirely correct: the man’s right hook was extraordinary, cracking across Jasper’s jaw. He staggered, seeing stars, and it was only instinct and training that had him moving to get out of the way of the next punch. He drove forward, left arm swinging to block the swing of his opponent’s arm and his own fist driving for the man’s face. His blow landed, but a jab caught him in the face, and then another.

  “Tell me the truth.”

  “What’s it to you?” Jasper snarled, circling away.

  “What’s it to me?” Cyrus’s fingers closed around Jasper’s sleeve and pulled him close for another blow. “You know what he did. He killed his own countrymen! He told me to protect his family and then he marched with their enemies! He let them wallow in grief for months, and then he came back to shame them! Don’t ask me what this is to me. I lost a friend. My bride lost her brother.”

  His bride. Jasper gave a wild swing, and satisfaction flowed through him at the satisfying crunch of bone meeting bone. He dodged another punch neatly and directed a jab at the man’s nose.

  “I brought him here,” Jasper panted. Fairness demanded that he not let Solomon be blamed for that. “He would have left them in peace for the rest of their lives.”

  “That still leaves him a traitor!”

  Jasper tried to dodge, but Cyrus was faster than he had anticipated—and not, he realized too late, trained in boxing at all. The man’s shoulder caught him low, across the hips, and Jasper hit the ground with a thud that drove the air from his lungs. He opened his eyes to the coldest gaze he had ever seen, and a knife at his throat.

  “Tell me where he is,” Cyrus instructed.

  Still struggling for breath, Jasper closed his eyes and clenched his hands. After all this, was he going to die for refusing to betray a traitor?

  “I’m here.” The voice was weak, but clear.

  Oh, no. The man had never had a lick of sense, charging to the defense of his comrades across open fields, challenging battle plans...and telling the truth.

  “Solomon.” Cyrus stood, chest heaving, and Jasper pulled himself away with a wheeze.

  “Cyrus.” Solomon stepped forward. “My friend, I am so sorry.”

  “I am not your friend.” Cyrus’s face twisted. “I did as you asked, Solomon. I watched out for them. I comforted them. Did you give a single thoug
ht to what you were doing? You weren’t here to see them grieve, but I was. I wish to God you had died on that battlefield. That, Clara could remember in peace.”

  “Clara...” Solomon closed his eyes. “How is she? And Cecelia?”

  “You don’t have a right to know.” Cyrus shook his head. “They aren’t your family any longer. They’re your enemies.”

  “He followed his conscience.” Jasper picked himself up off the ground at last, dragging air into his lungs.

  “Conscience? Destroying the Union, turning his back on the slaves he helped?”

  “He followed his conscience,” Jasper said again. “It led him back home again. And...” He swallowed. How could he put words to the storm Solomon had set in his soul? Jasper wanted to go home, and could not face his own township.

  He had been so blind, all these years, believing the words he should have known to be lies. Who could look at the beatings, the haunted eyes, and believe that the slaves were happy?

  He opened his mouth to speak, and the words froze on his lips. Cyrus had not moved his eyes from Solomon. His arm came up, shaking, and there was a pistol there.

  “Cyrus!”

  A cry behind them, and the crashing of feet. Clara was there, radiant in a blue gown, her eyes wide and horrified.

  “He betrayed us.”

  “Cyrus.” Millicent’s voice, pleading. “This is my son.”

  “Who’s a traitor! He raised arms against his own people. He gave aid to the army that would have killed you in your sleep if they marched here. He turned his back on everything he stood for, and he left you to grieve his death as if he had a shred of honor. I can’t let him live after that.”

  “Cyrus.” Tears were streaming down Clara’s face.

  “You can’t be asking me to forgive him.” The man’s face was incredulous.

  “I’m not! I can’t.” Her face twisted. “But I can’t watch you shoot him. Please. Please, for me.”

  “Go, Clara.” His finger was on the trigger, and he shot a warning look at Jasper. “Don’t move, Mister Perry. I can shoot before you can reach me, and you know it.”

  None of them expected the blow. The branch came out of nowhere, knocking Cyrus sprawling, and Clara gave a scream, her hand over her mouth.

  It was the younger daughter, panting slightly and with her hair straggling free of its bun. The branch was still clasped in her pale hands. She looked down at Cyrus, her face pale but resolute, and her fingers constricted once more around the makeshift mace.

  “I won’t let you hurt my brother,” she said as Cyrus stirred. “And I won’t let you hurt the man Clara loves.”

  Chapter 18

  It took a moment for Clara to remember how to speak.

  “Cecelia?” she whispered finally. She could hardly believe that this young woman was her sister, but from the pointed little chin to the warm brown eyes, it could be no one else. There were leaves stuck to her skirt and her face was flushed.

  “He was going to hurt Solomon,” Cecelia said blankly, as if the choice was self-evident.

  Clara gave a disbelieving laugh. “Oh, my darling. Were you here all along?”

  “Yes.” Cecelia’s voice was small. “I saw Cyrus coming up the hill, and...I knew Solomon was here.”

  “You knew?” Solomon demanded.

  “I wanted to know why Clara kept coming up here.” Cecelia’s chin came up. “I saw Jasper coming up here every day too—but you stopped.” Her eyes found Clara’s. “You stopped, and you were so sad. So I came up here and I saw Solomon, and the uniform. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Solomon looked away, a hand over his eyes, and Clara twisted her hands together. Rage washed over her again and she was helpless in the face of it. How dare her brother do this to Cecelia?

  “Cee, I was trying to protect you.” She held her hands out, pleading. “I didn’t want you to know.”

  “You don’t want me to know anything!” Cecelia flared up. “No one tells me anything anymore, not since Solomon went away. You all want to keep me from knowing how bad things are, but I see what’s happening, you know.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Clara whispered.

  “What could I say?” Cecelia shook her head. Her brown eyes were full of pain. “I thought perhaps you’d tell Mother, but then you didn’t, and—” her eyes met Solomon’s “—you didn’t want us to know you were here, or you would have come down, wouldn’t you?”

  “Cecelia, I’m so sorry.” Solomon reached out, still shaking with tiredness.

  “I know.” She did not move.

  “Can you forgive me?” Solomon asked her.

  Clara waited, heart in her throat.

  “Why did you do it?” Cecelia asked him finally. “Don’t say I’m too young to know. Tell me the truth.”

  Solomon paused, looking out at the forest as he chose his words, and Clara fought the urge to run away before he could speak. She wanted so desperately to know what he would say, and she could not bear to hear his excuses.

  “Because when I marched,” her brother said at last, “I believed so much in the cause that I never even really believed there were soldiers on the other side of the war. I couldn’t understand why they would fight us, Cee. I thought perhaps I could speak to them, show them they were wrong.” He gave a despairing laugh. “Lord, I was such a fool. The battles...I don’t want to tell you of the battles. Cecelia, I can’t bear you to know what they were like. But I lost my faith. I saw men throwing themselves on bayonets for the south. I saw men die, and I doubted everything. They talked about a world without this kind of struggle. They said there were no poor in the south, no beggars. I wanted to believe them. I wanted to believe there was a reason they were doing all of this.

  “When I found Jasper...” His voice trailed off.

  Clara looked away, her hands clenched. Her heart had leapt when she saw Jasper on the ground, injured. The sight of his face still made her lose her breath; if she looked again, she would go to him.

  She could not. For days she had turned it over in her head, and it always ended in pain and death.

  “Your brother saved my life,” Jasper said. “He found me on the battlefield, wounded, and he might have left me there to die, or killed me himself—but he carried me to a field hospital and made sure I had care.”

  “You asked me to make it quick,” Solomon said. His eyes were distant with memory. “You were holding the cross at your neck and I thought: if I kill him now, his family will never know how he survived the battle. There’s no honor in killing a wounded man, and to leave you there was to kill you.”

  “So you brought him home,” Millicent said softly. She knelt to pry the pistol from Cyrus’s fingers and tossed it aside, then held her hands out to Cecelia.

  “How did you know to bring me here?” Solomon asked.

  “You mentioned fishing on Lost Run,” Jasper murmured. “With your sister.” His eyes found Clara’s and he smiled.

  Her stomach fluttered, and she turned her face away, resolute.

  “But you came back.” Cecelia spoke up again finally. She was looking between Solomon and Jasper.

  “I didn’t want to. I was wounded, and I thought I would bleed out on the battlefield. I was glad that you would never know. I didn’t know how to face any of you again.” Solomon’s eyes met hers. “Cecelia....can you forgive me?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “But I’m glad you’re back. I thought I would never see you again.”

  Clara clenched her hands, looked away. At her side, Millicent was weeping softly. She picked her way over the hillside to her son and enfolded him in her arms.

  “I failed you,” Solomon whispered into her shoulder.

  “You came back.”

  “I fought for them.”

  “Then you came back, and you inspired one of them to come with you.” Millicent’s arms tightened around him. “It hurts me that you could turn your back on us all. But you returned. I cannot ask for more than that. I cannot
turn back time. You, and you alone, will have to atone for the past.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “You will find a way.”

  “There is no atoning,” Clara whispered, and they both turned to look at her. She shook her head, furious. “You can’t possibly make up for what you’ve done.”

  “No one knows that better than I.”

  “And yet you dare ask for Cecelia’s forgiveness? For Mother’s?” The sight of his bowed head filled her with fury. “You left us alone with the farm failing and you promised you would come back, Solomon, but I never thought it would be like this. I grieved you. I thought I would give anything to have you come back again.” She felt tears spill down her cheeks. “Now I wish you hadn’t.”

  Cyrus stirred at her feet and Clara stepped back as he pushed himself up. He scowled at the sight of Solomon.

  “Where’s my pistol?”

  At last—at long last—everything snapped into place. An eerie clarity settled over her head, and Clara reached out to put a hand on his arm.

  “No,” she said softly.

  “Clara...” His face was twisted with pain.

  “I can’t let you kill him.”

  Yes, her mind said. She had saved him when she thought he was no more than another soldier, and she would save him again now.

  “Don’t you see?” Cyrus pleaded. “You were right, Clara. You tried to keep the secret, and I understand. This dishonors your family.”

  “It dishonors Solomon,” Clara said steadily. “You must know, Cyrus, that I gave shelter to both of them. Even when I knew what they were, I gave Jasper work so that he could tend to Solomon.”

  “Clara, you have a kind heart. I forgive you. I won’t tell anyone.” He clasped her hands, and his eyes burned into hers.

  It was all there, just as she had imagined it: the comfort and security of a friend. She would live near her family, and Cecelia would play with her children. The farm would be secure.

  It was not enough. It never had been.

  “Our life would be built on lies.”

  “Does it matter? We could be happy together.”