a family man.
The withering of his heart as his love for Veronica died.
“Were you able to win her love?” Clarissa’s sweet voice mercifully brought him back to the present.
He shook his head. If only he could forget those words he’d heard all those years ago. But that would never happen, and besides, it was time to change the tone of this conversation. It was his and Clarissa’s wedding day, after all. She should have some measure of happiness today. “But I have Emma. Other than the Lord, she’s the delight of my life.”
“I’ll help you with her.” Clarissa laid her hand on his arm, her voice a whisper. “I’ll do everything I can.”
How could he respond to that? He’d placed all his hopes on Clarissa to help him rebuild his family—on her and on the Lord. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what would.
They moved through the gardens, the cool evening air settling upon them as the sun lowered in the clear sky. Clarissa waved toward the west, shifting the tone as if she wanted to sweep away his disappointment in himself. “There’s my grandmother—just where I thought she’d be.”
Samuel looked beyond the expanse of flower beds with pink and white buds popping out here and there, past the pond with its arched white bridge and nearby gazebo. The entire estate held an air of grandeur faded to a dismal shabbiness, from the chipped paint on the bridge to the unkempt herb garden. Then he spotted a crumbling brick walk leading to a small stone chapel in the Greek temple style, its front open and supported by four white columns. Clarissa’s grandmother sat on a stone bench next to a statue of a bowing angel, facing the diminutive altar.
“My grandfather built the sanctuary,” Clarissa said, lowering her voice, “as a memorial to God’s faithfulness in healing him and Grandmother of the illness that took my mother.”
For all its compactness, the little chapel was as dignified and classic as its occupant.
They turned and started toward the pergola to give Missus Adams her privacy while keeping an eye out for Emma, who was likely curled up somewhere, reading her book. And Absalom. As much as the man annoyed Samuel, he’d rather have him where he could watch him.
“I think Grandmother is serious about going to Memphis, if she can scrape together the money for a steamer ticket.”
The concern, the pain in those big hazel eyes, could have melted Samuel’s heart once. Before Veronica, before his mistakes, before he’d known the power of guilt—and that he didn’t deserve a second chance at love. Didn’t deserve more than a marriage of convenience, a loveless union, a wedding sham.
But even though this marriage was based on necessity rather than love, he now had the responsibility of Clarissa’s family. He mentally reviewed his financial state, including the modest inheritance from his parents. “I’ll be glad to cover the cost of her ticket.”
Clarissa’s eyes turned cloudy, like a thunderstorm on the river. She hesitated, glancing toward the sanctuary and the feisty woman sitting there, holding her cane like a spear at her side.
She faced Samuel again, fear in her countenance. “Must we help her leave me? She’s all I have.”
He might have thought he understood, since Emma was his only living relative. But Clarissa’s pained silence told him her story may have been more complex than his. Perhaps he understood less than he thought. “What happened to the rest of your family?”
Clarissa gazed into the sky, the waning sun setting fire to the gold flecks in her eyes. “When I was twelve, yellow fever hit the town just after we arrived in the spring. My father came down with it first, then Mother.”
Her voice dropped, and he leaned toward her to catch every nuance. “Then she went away to heaven.”
Her sigh came from someplace deep within, a slight duskiness now shadowing the tender, fair skin under her eyes. Samuel shifted a fraction closer to hear her low voice. “And then what?”
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