Chapter 24 First
First
The days slip through my fingers like sand, each sunrise a cruel reminder that Friday inches closer. My trunk waits half-packed in the corner of my room, clothes folded neatly as though preparing for some final performance. Every time I pass it, my chest tightens, and I have to look away.
By Wednesday, the house will be full again. My aunt and uncle, returning from Cheyenne with their endless talk of politics and upheaval, their voices filling every room until there’s no space for mine. Which means these last hours of quiet with Irene are a gift—one I cling to with desperate hands.
We sit together in the parlor, the lace curtains filtering the afternoon light into soft, muted patterns.
Irene’s needles click in a slow, steady rhythm, the only sound in the room besides the faint tick of the mantel clock.
I pretend to read, eyes fixed on the same page, but the words slide past me, meaningless.
My thoughts drift to the hills, the barns, the scent of cut hay—everything I will soon leave behind.
“Are you excited about returning home?” Irene’s question lands gently, as though she’s tossing a pebble into a still pond.
The book lowers from my hands before I even realize I’ve moved. “I don’t know,” I lie, my throat tightening. “I suppose I should be.”
“You don’t sound sure.” Irene’s knitting pauses, her eyes peering at me over her spectacles. “What’s pulling at you, dear?”
The kindness in her voice undoes me. I press my palms together, fingers trembling. “It’s Marcel.”
Something in Irene’s face softens, but she doesn’t speak. She just waits.
“I’ve tried so hard to stay guarded,” I whisper, leaning forward, “to remember what’s expected.
But every time I’m near him, every time I think of him, it’s like…
like I can breathe again. Like the world stops pressing in.
” I swallow hard, my voice breaking. “With him, I’m not a guest in this house or a name on someone’s wedding invitation.
I’m just Clara. And I don’t want to go back to not feeling like her anymore. ”
Tears slip down before I can stop them. Irene rises, crossing the small space between us, and settles beside me on the settee. She slides her arm through mine, handing me a folded handkerchief she must have known I’d need.
“I can’t tell you what to do,” she says softly, “but I can tell you this—what you’re feeling is real. You’re alive in it. That’s no small thing.”
I stare at the folds of the handkerchief, words catching in my throat. “He’ll stay here. I’ll go home. And when I do, I’ll have to pretend this was nothing.”
Irene squeezes my hand. “Sometimes what we carry shapes us more than what we’re allowed to keep. Don’t pretend it was nothing, Clara. Remember it. Even if you can’t take it with you.”
I press my handkerchief to my mouth, trying to quiet the sob rising in my throat. “I love him, Irene. I love Marcel, and I don’t know how I’ll survive leaving him behind.”
Her eyes shine, and she nods, her own voice thick. “Then promise me this: whatever happens, don’t let anyone tell you that what you feel isn’t real. Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Clara. And I daresay he loves you just as fiercely.”
I collapse against her shoulder, letting the tears come. For once, I don’t try to hold them back.
Irene strokes my hair, murmuring little comforts, and when my tears ease, she tilts her head, studying me. There’s something sharp and knowing in her gaze now, a spark that makes me wary.
“You say you don’t know how you’ll survive leaving him,” she says, her voice softer, almost coaxing. “But Clara, you still have time. A few days, yes? That’s more than enough for one thing.”
I sniff, dabbing my eyes with her handkerchief. “One thing?”
“To say goodbye properly,” she replies, matter-of-fact, as though she’s suggesting another luncheon rather than the dangerous edge she’s nudging me toward. “To give yourselves a memory to carry. An evening that belongs to just the two of you.”
I stare at her, the thought hitting me like a jolt. “Irene…I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be—”
“Proper?” she interrupts, a smile tugging at her lips. “My dear, propriety is the shield others use to keep us penned in. You already know your heart. Don’t deny yourself one night of honesty because the world insists on chains.”
Heat floods my cheeks, shame and longing wrestling inside me. “And how exactly would I even manage that? I live under this roof. My aunt will return in two days.”
“Which is why the timing must be just so.” Irene leans closer. “Wednesday, your aunt and uncle won’t return until the afternoon. I’ll see to it that the staff are dismissed early on Tuesday. Everyone needs a break from time to time. That leaves you with an empty house and an open door.”
My stomach flips violently, part dread, part thrill. “You’d do that?”
“Of course,” she says, as though it’s the simplest truth in the world. “I know love when I see it. And I won’t stand by while you let it slip away without so much as a fighting chance.”
I clutch the handkerchief tighter, my pulse racing. “But what if…what if he doesn’t want that? What if he thinks less of me for even suggesting it?”
Irene gives me a look both tender and firm. “Clara Albright, that boy looks at you like a man parched in the desert who’s just found water. He’d walk through fire if you asked him. Trust me, he won’t think less of you. He’ll only thank God for the gift.”
My chest trembles, hope warring with fear. “And if anyone finds out?”
“They won’t,” Irene says simply. Then, with a conspiratorial smile, she continues, “Because I’ll make sure they don’t. Now—finish your tea before it grows cold. We’ve got scheming to do.”
Tuesday evening settles over the house with a heaviness I can’t shake.
The hall feels cavernous, the polished floors echoing every step I take as though amplifying my nerves.
The lamps glow softly in their sconces, casting long shadows across the wainscoting.
My heart hasn’t stopped hammering since Irene told me, with a wink and far too much calm, that Marcel would be arriving shortly.
I sit on the settee in the parlor, fingers fussing with the hem of my dress.
Irene insisted I wear something soft, nothing ostentatious, ‘because men remember the way a woman makes them feel, not the lace on her sleeve’.
Still, I can’t help but smooth the fabric over and over, the restless motion the only thing keeping me from unraveling.
I hear it then—the sound of boots on the porch. The knock that follows is firm, familiar, and it sends a shiver straight through me.
Irene appears in the entryway, her smile blooming wide. She opens the door herself.
“Marcel,” she greets warmly, her tone light and welcoming. “You made it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, his voice carrying a brightness I’ve missed even in its absence. I can hear it in every syllable, eagerness, maybe even something that sounds like joy.
Irene steps aside, ushering him in and I stand. He’s dressed in his Sunday best—clean shirt, pressed trousers. His hat is in his hands, fingers working the brim nervously. But his eyes—Lord, his eyes are fixed on me, and I can’t breathe under the weight of them.
Irene gives us one knowing look, sly and affectionate, before she declares, “Well then, I’ll leave you two to it.”
And just like that, she sweeps out the front door, her skirts whispering against the floorboards, her presence vanishing into the twilight.
Marcel blinks after her, then turns back to me with a bewildered half-smile. “She…just left?”
My laugh is breathless and shaky. “She arranged this. Said it was important I see you one more time before…” My words falter.
He steps forward, closing the distance between us, and my nerves catch fire. “Clara,” he says, his voice low, steady, but threaded with something tender. “You don’t know what this means to me. I thought I’d lost my chance to have just a few more hours with you.”
The truth of it rings through me. My pulse beats so loud it drowns out the ticking clock in the hall. I want to tell him I’m terrified, that guilt claws at me even as longing wins, that I don’t know how to leave him now that I’ve tasted what it’s like to be wanted.
The house feels strange without the staff—too quiet, too intimate.
Every creak of the floorboards as we move toward the sitting room reminds me that we are alone.
Utterly, dangerously alone. Irene’s cleverness hangs in the air like a secret blessing, though my chest still trembles at the thought of what we’re about to risk.
The curtains are drawn, shutting out the last of the light.
Only a few lamps glow, their soft amber haze settling across the room.
I lower myself onto the edge of the settee, hands clasped tightly in my lap, while Marcel hovers just inside the doorway, hat twisting in his fingers.
He looks like he’s trying to decide whether to sit or stand, whether to speak or stay silent.
Finally, he crosses the room, lowering himself into the chair opposite me. His eyes find mine. “I don’t know where to begin,” he admits.
“Neither do I,” I whisper. My voice trembles, but it feels like a relief to say it.
He leans forward. “Clara, I’ve tried—God, I’ve tried—to keep my distance.
To be respectful. To remind myself that you belong to another man.
But every time I see you, I feel like I can’t control my heart.
” His jaw works as though the words are scraping him raw.
“I can’t stop wanting you. And I can’t keep pretending it’s just friendship. ”
Tears sting my eyes, sudden and hot. “You think I don’t feel the same?
” My laugh is bitter, cracked. “I’ve spent every night since the Founder's Dance lying awake, aching because I know this—us—is impossible. And yet…” I clutch the folds of my dress, fighting for composure.
“When I’m with you, I can’t regret a single moment. Even if it damns me.”
His breath shudders. He sits back, raking a hand through his curls. “Say it plain, Clara. Please. Do you feel what I feel?”
I swallow hard, my heart hammering against its cage. This is the line I’ve been too afraid to cross, the words I’ve locked behind my teeth. But I can’t hold them anymore.
“I do,” I whisper, tears spilling freely now. “I feel it, Marcel. I love you. And it terrifies me because I don’t know how to carry it once I leave.”
He exhales like I’ve knocked the air from him. For a moment, he only stares, his eyes shining, his chest rising and falling like the tide. Then, slowly, reverently, he presses a hand to his heart.
“I’ve loved you since that first dance, Clara Albright. And I’ll keep on loving you—even if all I’m left with is the memory of this summer.”
The room fills with our confessions circling between us, with the truth that’s finally free, raw, and luminous.
I press a hand to my mouth, my voice breaking around it. “What will we do, Marcel?”
He rises, crossing the space until he’s standing before me. He lowers to one knee, taking my trembling hands into his own. His voice is low, fervent.
“We’ll take what we can, Firefly. Whatever time we’re given. And we’ll make it enough.”
The moment those words leave his lips, something inside me breaks. All the restraint, all the fear, all the barriers snap under the weight of what I feel for him.
I tug his hands up, pulling him closer, and before either of us can think, my mouth crashes against his.
The kiss is nothing like the shy, stolen touches we’ve shared before.
It’s fire and hunger and longing crammed into a single breath.
His hands rise to cup my face, strong and trembling, holding me like I might vanish if he loosens his grip.
A sound tears from my throat—half sob, half gasp—as his lips part mine, as his tongue sweeps past, tasting me, claiming me. My body arches toward his, desperate, aching, alive in ways I’ve only dreamed of. Every nerve sings his name.
When we break for air, I clutch at his shirt, dragging him back to me, my forehead pressed to his, my breath ragged and uneven. The words come tumbling out, raw and unpolished, torn straight from my soul.
“Take me, Marcel,” I whisper, my voice shaking with need. “Please…I want my first to be you. Forever, you.”
His eyes darken, wide with shock, with the kind of love that swallows a man whole. His breath stutters against my cheek, and he lets out the softest, most broken sound—as if he can’t believe what I’ve just given him.
“Clara,” he whispers, my name like a vow, like a prayer he’s carried for lifetimes. His thumb strokes my cheek, reverent even as his lips find mine again, hot and desperate, every kiss more consuming than the last.
“Are you sure?”
I nod, and in that moment, I know that there is no going back. It doesn’t matter what happens tomorrow, tonight belongs to us. And I will carry it in my bones until the day I die.