Free Surrender the Wind by RITA GERLACH

surged in her eyes and trembled on the tips of her lashes. “I wish God would take me to heaven.”
    Her tears and words sliced through Seth like daggers. When she fell asleep exhausted, he quietly left the room and went downstairs. Running his hand across his face, he stood by the fire to think.
    “Is Miss Caroline asleep, sir?” Claire asked in a soft voice, by the door.
    “Yes, and soundly, I think.”
    “I’ll say good night, sir.” She went to leave the room, but paused by the door. “We’re all grateful you’ve come to Ten Width. You being here will help Miss Caroline. She's been through a difficult time.”
    “I’ll need your help, won’t I, Claire?”
    “Yes, sir. Your room is ready. It's the first door on the right down the hall upstairs.” Claire held out her arm in that direction. “It was the squire's room. Shall I show you to it?”
    “No, I’ll find it,” he said.
    Claire gave him a quick curtsey and left.
    After he kicked a coal back into the fire, he walked over to the window. He gazed outside at the rain and gloom. His heart grew heavy and he was homesick. He turned. Juleah's head of dark curls lay pillowed upon her arms on the settee. For a moment, he stared at her with some consternation. Why was she sleeping here? He dared not wake her, not knowing what a man should do in such a case.
    A north wind swooped down hard upon the house, against the windows now dark and covered with rain.
    Curled up in the folds of a woolly blanket, Juleah looked beautiful and peaceful. He gazed at her face, at the soft eyelids, the dark lashes that brushed against her skin as she breathedthrough parted lips. He imagined she had been untouched by hardship, unacquainted with hunger. Life had to have been easy for such a woman. Her hands were soft, absent of scar or callous. By them, he supposed she had never done a day's work in her life, never hauled water from the river or kneaded bread dough, never washed her own clothing or scrubbed a floor.
    No, not with those hands. She had been pampered and waited upon, and it was in such a woman's mind that life should not be any other way.
    The room grew colder, and he placed more logs on the fire. Within moments, warmth permeated and held, and the scent of cedar filled the air. Before he left, he reached down and brought the throw closer around Juleah's shoulders without touching her.
    His mind restless, he headed for the room once occupied by his grandfather. He held the candle high to study the room. He supposed it had remained as Benjamin left it, his books with worn covers, a great oak clothes cupboard, and a model sailing ship in a hand-blown bottle on the mantel. A large four-poster bed stood in the middle of the room against the wall. Faded curtains hung from its canopy and a satin bolster stretched across the head.
    He opened the cupboard stuffed with clothes. They were worn and outdated and smelled of dust and age. The presence of the man remained, something Seth could feel and see while he looked at the coats and linen shirts that hung from the rod. He would have Claire clear them out in the morning and give them to the poor.
    He pushed the door shut, turned, and stared at the bed where Benjamin had died. He could not think of that. The room already had a sense of loneliness, as if the walls had been etched through the years with the names of those who hadcome before him. They left, each one at the appointed time, leaving behind a beloved spouse, children, or lovers. Lives lived out through the years in forlorn hope and solitude. Yet, there were happy times, love shared, and children, like his father, born in this room.
    He set the candle on the table and began to undress. He put his boots at the foot of the bed and decided to keep his breeches and shirt on for the night. The fire crackled in the hearth, yet the room was frigid and numbed his fingers and limbs.
    Before he settled down, his eyes caught something lying across the back of a chair, something