Chapter 20 Cruel
Cruel
The porcelain cup trembles ever so slightly in my hand, though I pray Irene doesn’t notice.
Sunlight spills in through the wide windows of the sitting room, gilding the edges of the teacups, catching in the silver hair at her temples.
She’s perfectly composed, as always—ankles crossed neatly, fan tucked against her lap, her gaze fixed on me with the warmth of a woman who sees far more than she lets on.
The butler steps into the room with the day’s mail arranged on a silver tray. “For you, Miss Albright.”
I thank him, though my voice is thinner than I intend, and take the bundle. My stomach knots as soon as I see the familiar hand. Phillip’s.
I set the rest aside and stare at the envelope, its weight far heavier than it ought to be.
“Well,” Irene says gently, arching a brow, “you’ve gone pale as chalk. Who’s it from?”
“Phillip,” I answer, though the word scrapes against my tongue.
Her lips curve, not unkindly. “Ah. The dutiful fiance.”
I slide my finger beneath the seal, the paper giving way with a reluctant tear.
The words inside are neat, practiced, and every letter is carefully shaped.
He writes of business opportunities, his father’s lumber interests, the grand home we’ll live in one day soon, the names on the guest list for the wedding.
And at the end, a single line meant to be tender.
I trust you are well, Clara. I look forward to your return to Cheyenne in the coming weeks, I count the days until I see you again.
I fold the letter back into its envelope with shaking hands. There is no rush of affection, no warmth blooming in my chest. Only a dull ache of obligation.
“Irene…” My voice falters, barely carrying across the table. “I feel nothing for him. Not a thing. And yet, I’m expected to stand beside him, smile, and pretend my whole life is stitched together happily in that union.”
Irene sets down her cup and leans forward, her eyes sharp and kind all at once. “Then you are discovering what most women do sooner or later, Clara—that the world rarely asks what we want. It only tells us what we are meant to do.”
The words sink into me like stones dropped into a deep well. I stare down at my lap, at the ring glinting mockingly on my finger. “How am I to live like that? Loving a man I don’t love, giving him a life I don’t want?”
Her fan opens with a soft snap, stirring the air between us.
“You endure, my dear. Some women find joy in duty, others in rebellion, others in the small mercies they carve out for themselves. Life isn’t often generous enough to give us what we dream of.
Sometimes it gives us only slivers—and we must decide whether to hoard them like treasure or let them slip away. ”
Tears blur my vision, though I blink them back before they can fall. “It feels cruel.”
“It is cruel,” she agrees without hesitation.
“The world does not bend easily for women. We do what we must because often there is no other choice. But—” she tilts her head, her expression softening, “—that does not mean we must surrender our hearts entirely. Love has a way of finding us even in the most inconvenient places.”
Her words linger, both dangerous and comforting. Because already my heart has chosen—against reason, against duty, against the weight of everything pressed upon me.
And it chose Marcel.
Irene reaches across the table, laying her hand over mine, the fan forgotten. “You need not confess it aloud, Clara. But you should know this, the cruelest thing you can do is silence yourself completely. Guard your heart, yes. But don’t bury it alive.”
I nod, unable to speak, the echo of Phillip’s letter cold in my hands. For the first time, I understand the truth. I could marry him tomorrow, next month, or in ten years, and it would still feel the same. Empty. Colorless. Dutiful.
And yet, one look, one smile from Marcel leaves me breathless.
The church bells toll over Hawthorn, their sound rising bright and insistent in the summer air. By the time Irene and I reach the chapel, most of the town has already gathered. Hats tipped, fans fluttering, children tugging free of their mothers’ hands before being corralled into neat rows.
The building smells of hymnals and beeswax polish, its high windows letting in shafts of light that turn the dust motes into drifting gold.
Irene leads me confidently down the aisle, her presence commanding as ever, and we slip into a pew halfway down.
She arranges her gloves in her lap, fans herself with practiced ease, and casts me a sidelong smile.
“Eyes forward, Clara. People will be watching.”
I nod, though my pulse is anything but calm. Because I know.
Irene’s words from earlier in the week echo in my mind. Love has a way of finding us even in the most inconvenient places.
Across the aisle, near the middle rows, Marcel sits with the Hayes family.
Shoulders squared, hat resting respectfully on his knee, every inch of him scrubbed neat for the Sunday service.
The other ranch hands fidget in the heat, collars tugged, ties too tight, but not him. He’s quiet, composed. Steady.
As though pulled by an invisible thread, his head turns, and our eyes catch.
His mouth lifts into the smallest smile, yet it strikes me harder than any sermon ever could.
My heart stumbles in my chest, remembering the touch of his hand steadying mine by the creek, the softness of his voice when he called me dangerous, the way silence bloomed between us as if even the land itself held its breath.
I drop my gaze to the hymnal, trying to compose myself, but the heat in my cheeks betrays me. Curiosity wins when I steal another glance. He’s still watching. His smile has deepened now, his eyes lit with something that burns straight through the crowded chapel and lands squarely in me.
Around us, the congregation rises for the hymn, voices swelling, children squirming, paper fans stirring the heavy air. I open my mouth to sing, but my voice falters. Because what stirs in me is not the words on the page, but something untamed and secret—something only he and I seem to hear.
It’s dangerous, this exchange. Reckless. But in that instant, it feels more sacred than the hymn itself. A song meant only for him.
The congregation settles back into their pews, the creak of wood and rustle of skirts filling the air as the minister clears his throat at the pulpit. I smooth my gloves, trying to still my hands, though the tremor in them betrays me.
Marcel shifts across the aisle, folding his broad hands together, head bent in what looks like perfect reverence. But when he dares the smallest glance up—just a flicker, a heartbeat—our eyes collide again. My breath catches, too dangerous to ignore.
Before I can look away, Irene’s fan taps lightly against my arm. I turn, startled, and meet her eyes. One brow arches, her lips pressed in the faintest line that says everything without a word. Behave.
Heat floods my face as I quickly lower my gaze to the open Bible resting in my lap. The words blur, not from lack of faith, but because every part of me is caught in the storm of his gaze.
Irene leans back, satisfied she’s reminded me, and resumes fanning herself with measured ease. To anyone else, she looks like the picture of Sabbath composure. But I know better. She misses nothing.
I force myself to focus on the sermon, the minister’s voice rising and falling like a tide.
Yet no matter how many times I fix my eyes forward, I feel him.
His presence hums across the aisle, quiet but undeniable.
And though I sit straighter, hands folded properly in my lap, my heart sings with a rebellion no one but Irene could ever suspect.
The greenhouse sits at the edge of the gardens, its panes clouded by years of sun and dust, though the roses climbing its frame still bloom defiantly. Irene ushers us there after church with an ease that feels rehearsed.
“Marcel, would you be a dear and have a look at this door? It sticks terribly.”
He nods, his voice even. “Of course, ma’am.”
But Irene only smiles—far too brightly—before glancing at me. “Clara, why don’t you keep him company? I’ll be inside, attending to my correspondence. Don’t rush, the house is well in hand.”
And just like that, she disappears, skirts swishing toward the back steps, leaving me alone with Marcel in the muted green light.
He tests the door, pulling it open without the faintest resistance. His lips quirk. “Doesn’t seem broken to me.”
I roll my eyes despite the thundering in my chest. “She lies so easily, but I have trouble being mad at her.”
“I can’t be mad at her either,” he laughs softly. His gaze flicks to mine, holding, lingering. Then he steps inside.
The air is damp and sweet, thick with the scent of soil and bloom. I follow him, trailing my fingers along a wooden bench where clay pots wait in neat stacks. On it rests the letter Phillip sent—the one I’d carried here earlier, thinking I’d find a moment alone to read it again on my own.
Marcel notices it before I can move it. His brow creases. “From him?”
I nod, throat tight. “Yes.”
He doesn’t touch it, only looks at me with something raw in his eyes. “Does it make you happy to read his words?”
I shake my head before I can stop myself. “No. Not even a little.” The confession scrapes out of me. “But it makes me feel guilty not to feel what I should.”
Marcel leans against the workbench, his hand brushing a stray petal aside. “Is he a good match for you? I’m sure he has more to offer you than I ever could.”
Anger rises in my chest. “Do you think that’s all that matters to me?”
He shakes his head, his fingers reaching for a rose bloom. “No, but a small, stupid part of me wants to make sure you’ll be well provided for…in the future.”