Chapter Two
Faith
He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
I’d thought so the first time I laid eyes on him at the orphanage, too. But until now, I’ve only been able to admire him from afar. This close, I can gaze directly into his face and see the individual flecks of gold in his otherwise dark brown eyes. His deep, kind voice makes my tummy flutter, and his nearness causes my breaths to come rapid and shallow.
My stare drifts from his dark dreamy eyes to his short black locks. There are also tinges of white throughout his hair that give him a distinguished, almost fatherly, look.
When he gazes at me with concern, I feel like a little girl who’s being doted upon by her daddy. This thought prompts me to flush from head to toe, and an unfamiliar heat starts to gather between my thighs.
Do I dare go inside with Mr. Freemont? My gut tells me he’s an honorable man. He won’t hurt me. But I feel so flustered in his presence that I’m worried I’ll keep stuttering and blushing. He’ll probably think there’s something wrong with me.
“Please, Faith, come inside. I insist.”
Without giving me a chance to decline, he places a hand at the small of my back and guides me to the front door. More flutters in my tummy. More flushing. More aching between my thighs. His touch and his increased nearness, not to mention his enticing woodsy scent, turn my brain to mush.
He opens the door and urges me to walk inside. I struggle for air, not quite understanding how I can experience such a strong visceral reaction to a man. But then I’ve rarely been around men. The women who run the girls’ orphanage are strict about keeping all the girls away from boys and men. Still, the few men I’ve been around have never made me feel like this, with my heart pounding faster while I’m scarcely able to breathe.
He removes his coat and hangs it on a nearby rack. “Would you like me to take your cloak?”
“No, thank you. I’m still warming up,” I say.
His house has a cozier feel than the Ashlor mansion. The walls are a warm gold that reminds me of the sun, with accents and molding white as fresh fallen snow. Polished wooden floors are covered with bright blue rugs, and the most vibrant and unique paintings—scenes I realize must be from the Old Days—cover the walls. I approach one with a scenic landscape of rolling hills and flying crafts. Hard to fathom such inventions used to exist. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all make believe. Electricity, cars, planes, rockets, and other flying crafts. I walk to the next painting and study the strange structures in the lush green forest. I’ve never seen buildings so large or with so many windows.
“That’s a depiction of the first colony on Mars, after the terraforming was completed in 2045. Not long before the Solar Storm of 2089 that marked the end of an era of great advancement for mankind.”
“There were really people on Mars? In an actual settlement?”
“Yes. Over a thousand. I like to look at this painting sometimes and image the descendants of the first thousand are alive and well, thriving on an alien world.”
“Do you think the people of Earth will ever visit Mars again?”
“Perhaps one day.” He comes to stand behind me, to stare at the painting in question from over my shoulder.
I breathe in his intoxicating scent, a mix of leather and sandalwood and unadulterated maleness. I’m not sure what he does for a living, or really know any other details about him, but I think he’s kindhearted. Now that I’ve learned his identity, I instinctively trust him.
During the plague that swept through town last winter, he was the only person to bring supplies to the orphanage, including much needed medicine. He could have stayed home and away from possible infection, but he’d still come to the orphanage when no one else would, no doubt risking his life for others.
His act of kindness last winter saved many lives, perhaps even my own. I’d been in the beginning stages of the illness when he arrived, and the medicine he’d brought helped ease my sore throat and aching muscles. Two days later, my fever broke and I made a full recovery, along with most of the other girls. Shutting my eyes, I try to block out the anguish that sweeps through me at the memory of those we lost last winter, especially my dear friend, Sarah.
“Faith? Are you all right?” He turns me around, and I lower my head, not wishing for him to see me upset. If I cry, he probably won’t want me here anymore. If I wasn’t such a crybaby, I wouldn’t be an orphan. If I’d only been good and quiet after my mother died, my aunt and uncle wouldn’t have gotten rid of me.
She’s a crybaby. An annoying little brat. I can’t stand the noise anymore. One more sleepless night and she’s off to the orphanage, blood relative or not.
Words I heard yelled in the midst of my sorrow after losing my mother come rushing back. My uncle hadn’t liked me much. I’d been but six years old when tragedy struck and I had to go live with my aunt and uncle, but I’d been old enough to understand the reason they dropped me off at the orphanage on a cold, snowy day. They already had four children of their own, and in addition to being a nuisance, I’d also been another mouth to feed.
You’re going to live here now, Faith. Stop that crying and go on inside with the other children. This is what’s best for all of us.
“Faith?”
I open my eyes and try to force a smile, but my lips quiver and a shudder runs through me. At least no tears escape my eyes. At least I’m able to blink the pain away. If only I’d been able to do that when I was younger. If only someone had warned me if I wasn’t good and quiet, I would truly be sent away, tossed aside as if I’m nothing.
“If you feel like crying for some reason, sweetness, it’s best to let it all out. You’ll feel better for it afterward.” His words take me by complete surprise. Compassion flares in the depths of his dark eyes, and the gold flecks gleam in the light of the sconces. “It’s all right.” He reaches for me, brushing the hair from my face and cupping my right cheek.
“Why are you being so nice to me, Mr. Freemont?”
He strokes my hair again and steps closer. He’s so tall I’m forced to crane my neck up to hold his gaze. Handsome, older, wiser, and gentle, he’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a daddy, or a husband. I have a difficult time deciding which one I’d rather him be. All I know is I like the way he makes me feel, and he makes me feel things I’ve never experienced before, like the increasingly hot and urgent ache between my thighs.
He doesn’t answer my question, though his expression becomes pained for a moment, as if a dark memory has suddenly flitted through his mind. I want to know what he’s thinking about, but I don’t dare ask. Instead, I blink away the remaining moisture in my eyes and offer him a tiny smile. In an instant, the clouds in his eyes disperse and he looks upon me with affection.
My heart does a little dance.
Though I’m slightly familiar with him, he’s still very much a stranger. Maybe I should fear his reason for looking at me as if he cares for me, but he doesn’t raise the hairs on the back of my neck as Mr. Ashlor did. Still, though I believe Mr. Freemont wishes to help me, I also suspect he wants something from me, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what that something might be.
He clears his throat and steps back, then nods at a nearby hallway. “Please come with me, Faith. The kitchen is this way.”
I walk with him, feeling as if I’m floating in a dream. But I quickly remind myself that I won’t be here for long. Mr. Freemont probably just likes to help people. That’s all he’s doing with me. Helping me clean up and then he’ll send me on my way. Back to the orphanage. I’m foolish to think he was actually looking at me with affection. I must have been mistaken.
The kitchen is large but homey. There’s a plump older woman standing at the stove, stirring a pot of something that makes my mouth water. My stomach chooses that moment to growl. I flush and lower my head, not daring to presume that I’ll be offered a meal or anything beyond a rag to clean the dirt off myself.
“Good afternoon, Master Freemont. And who might this lovely young girl be?” The old woman turns with a smile and wipes her hands on her apron. Her gaze is kind and welcoming. I instantly like her and feel at ease in her presence.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Summers. This is Faith. Faith, meet Mrs. Summers.”
I dip into a slight curtsey. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Summers, Faith took a tumble in the street and needs our assistance. Would you mind fetching some medical supplies?”
“Of course, Master Freemont. I will return shortly.” She turns back to the stove, places a lid over the steaming pot, and then departs the kitchen.
“You really don’t have to go to any trouble for me, Mr. Freemont,” I protest. Despite his kindness, I’m starting to feel on edge and out of place. I’m dressed in rags compared to Mr. Freemont. The social divide between us looms over me like a rolling, black cloud that billows larger and larger the longer I stay here. “I am fine, I assure you. In fact, I ought to return to the orphanage now before the snow starts.”
I move to leave the kitchen, but Mr. Freemont’s stern voice halts me.
“Little girl, you will sit your bottom down right now. No arguments.” He pulls out a tall stool that’s pushed up against the island in the center of the kitchen. He arches an eyebrow at me, and I feel thoroughly scolded by his abrupt strictness.
“Mr. Freemont…”
“Sit. Now, young lady.”