Adam's Promise by Julianne MacLean

face in his chest and wept.
    â€œWhen will you be leaving?” he asked, his own voice trembling.
    â€œThe end of the week.”
    â€œThe end of the week? So soon?”
    â€œYes, sir. I thought it a good time, since Madeline is here and taking such good care of things.”
    â€œBut she’s not staying. She’s leaving in a few days.”
    Agnes blew her nose. “Yes, but I doubt you’d have any trouble convincing her to stay, if you explained the situation.”
    â€œI’ve already offered her a position, and she’s dead set against it. And she’s headstrong, Agnes. Surely you’ve seen that.”
    â€œI have, but she’s only headstrong in the face of what she doesn’t want. And she wants to stay here.”
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    â€œI just know. Any fool can see it.”
    â€œAny fool but me. Honestly, I’ve tried to convince her.”
    â€œI reckon you’ll have to try harder, sir.”
    Â 
    That evening, after the supper dishes had been washed and put away, Madeline ventured into Adam’s study to look at his books. It would do her good, she thought, to immerse herself in an intriguing story for the next few days, to help pass the time.
    Candelabra in hand, she made her way down the dark center hall, the heels of her shoes tapping lightly over the wood floor. The door to Adam’s den was open, but inside, the room was black, the curtains drawn and keeping out the moonlight.
    She carried her candles in to the tall bookcase on the far side of the fireplace and held the light up to the spines of all the books, delighted by the simple pleasure of smelling them.
    There were so many. Surely every one of Shakespeare’s plays. She had not yet read King Lear. Perhaps she would begin with that one.
    As she knelt down and let her fingers graze over others closer to the floor, she found new temptations—Homer, Hobbs, Norton, Milton, as well as a number of other authors whose names she did not recognize.
    She pulled out something by Samuel Richardson—a thick novel called Clarissa, or The History of a Young Lady. Madeline set her candles on the floor and opened the book. Just then, she heard footsteps come into the room. She stood quickly, stepping sideways in a panicky effort not to singe her skirts on the candles.
    Carrying his own candelabra, Adam slowly approached and bent to pick up hers. He set it in a safer place upon a desk.
    â€œDid you think I was a ghost?” he asked.
    She smiled. “I wasn’t sure. You surprised me.”
    â€œI do apologize. I thought I heard you come in here. Have you found anything that interests you?”
    Heart still racing, Madeline cleared her throat to speak. “I was just about to look at this one.”
    He came to stand next to her and held his candles over the book she held. “ Clarissa. Are you sure? I believe it’s the longest novel in the English language.”
    Madeline laughed.
    Her reaction seemed to amuse him. With a smile, he said, “It’s no joke, my dear,” and furtively slid the book out of her hands. His were large and strong, yet graceful as he ran his fingers over the lettering. “Do you know anything about it?”
    â€œNo, nothing.”
    â€œThe characterization is magnificently sustained, but it’s very tragic. I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone. It all depends upon your tastes.”
    â€œI’m open to anything if it’s well written. I’ve read my share of tragedies.” I’ve lived my share, too.
    â€œWell, don’t let me influence what you choose. Taste in literature is very personal.”
    He handed Clarissa back to her. Their hands touched briefly, but he shied away, as if her fingers were hot to the touch. Madeline thought of their conversation in the kitchen that morning and colored fiercely. Did he regret confiding in her, and had he been uncomfortable with the way she had held his