“Surely it is.” Finished, Amy turned her back around. “And inside, it hurts a little bit less every day, does it not?”
“Maybe. A little bit.” Mary’s chin trembled for a second, then she picked up Amy’s letter and stared at it uncomprehendingly. “Who’re you writin’ to?”
“Someone I knew in London.” Amy set the comb back in place. “In fact, I think I’m finished.”
She took the letter from Mary. It would have to do. It was blunt, but she couldn’t seem to get the words right no matter how hard she tried.
Perhaps Robert would be relieved. He might think that her promised value as a bride had been reduced by the loss of the shop. He’d be free to wed elsewhere, free to find someone who could be the sort of wife he wanted.
That is, if he could find another eligible heiress in the jewelry trade…which might prove difficult. But Amy had enough difficulties of her own to be getting on with.
She lifted her quill, dipped it in the ink, and put a period after the last word she’d written. Please forgive me, but I cannot marry you. Mary’s thumb went into her mouth as she watched Amy sign her name: Amethyst Goldsmith, very neat and formal.
After blotting the ink with sand, Amy folded the letter. She wrote Robert’s name and his father’s address on the back, then set it aside, adding no return address.
There, it was done.
And Robert wouldn’t be able to find her.
“How about this one?” The thumb popped out and jabbed at another letter. “Who is this one to?”
“My aunt in Paris. I’m going to move there and live with her soon. But not too very soon, I’m hoping.” Amy smiled at Mary’s wet thumbprint on her letter. “I like it here with you.”
“I like it here, too.” Mary’s rosy lips pouted. “But I wish I had a mama.”
“Lord Cainewood is going to find you a new mama very soon. He promised, remember?”
The girl nodded.
“A Chase promise is not given lightly.”
“What?” Her small brow creased.
“He always keeps his promises.”
Apparently that was good enough for Mary. She jabbed the letter again. “What did you say to your aunt?”
“I told her how sad I am about my father.” Amy rose from the dressing table and wandered to the diamond-paned window. Below, a servant hurried across the quadrangle, carrying a basket of laundry, leaving footprints in the damp grass. “Sometimes it helps you feel better to write a letter about your sadness.”
“Like if I wrote a letter to Mama?”
Beside the window hung a gilt-framed painting of a woman. Colin’s grandmother, perhaps. Or great-grandmother. Her clothes looked to Amy like they belonged in the previous century. “You surely could write a letter to your mama. It might make you feel better.” Neither she nor Mary had paintings to remember their ancestors by.
“I cannot write.”
Amy turned to the girl. “Would you like me to write your letter for you?”
She nodded, her eyes shining.
They seated themselves together at the dressing table and Amy set a sheet of foolscap on the marble surface. “What would you like to say?”
Mary stared at the blank sheet. “Dear Mama, I love you, Mama. I miss you, Mama.”
Amy dipped her quill and wrote, her throat closing painfully as the words scrolled onto the page. She swallowed hard. “Anything else?”
“That’s all I can think of,” the little girl said gravely.
“It’s a perfect letter. Would you like to sign your name?” She handed Mary the quill. With a look of utter disbelief on her face, Mary thrust it joyfully into the ink, splattering the page, then scribbled something that Amy took for a signature. For good measure, she added a very crooked heart and a pair of stick-people that might have been Mary and her mother, holding hands. Amy was afraid to ask.
In fact, she was afraid to speak at all. When she did, her voice came out raspy. “Here, sweetheart, you can fold it.”
Mary folded, and if the edges didn’t line up, well, it certainly didn’t matter. “Will Mama get it in heaven?” she asked.
“If you give it a kiss, she’ll get it right away.”
Her rosy little lips puckered and kissed the letter gently, leaving a tiny wet mark. Amy imagined it was exactly the way Mary used to kiss her mother. Tears pricked her eyes. She found her arms wrapping themselves around the girl and squeezing tight.
“Did Mama get my letter?”
“Surely she did.”
“Even though it’s still here?”
“Even though. There is special mail delivery to heaven.”
Mary nodded. Children were so trusting. “Will Mama write me back?”
“In your dreams, sweetheart,” Amy promised, needing to believe it. “When you go to sleep tonight, your mama will visit your dreams and remind you how much she loves you.”
TWENTY-ONE
“I’VE NEVER been in a fancy carriage.” Mary bounced on the leather seat. “It goes slow. Why didn’t we ride a horse?”
“Your friend Amy doesn’t like horses,” Jason said. “We would have had to leave her at home.”
“No, I want Amy.” Mary jumped up and onto Amy’s lap, then turned to peer across at Jason. “Did you really find me a mama?”
He angled sideways to stretch his legs in the cabin. “I surely did, Miss Mary.”
“When will I meet her?”
“In a few minutes, as soon as we get to the village.”
Mary’s thumb went into her mouth, then slid back out. “Why does she want a little girl?”
“She lost her husband last year, and she needs someone to love.”
Amy knew Clarice also needed the money Jason would provide for Mary’s care. It was the perfect solution all around.
“If her husband is lost,” Mary said, “why does she not just look for him?”
Amy stifled a laugh. “He died in a mill accident, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” The girl’s legs swung back and forth, kicking Amy’s shins until she lowered a hand to stop them. “Why do big people say that someone is lost? Why can’t they just say he is dead?”
“My, you are full of questions, aren’t you?” Jason said.
“Will I have any
