But now her wedding day was almost here. Every morning she woke up wishing it were no more than a bad dream. She had to find the courage to call off this wedding before it was too late.
Now.
"Are you finished yet?" she asked, her voice sharper than she'd intended.
Mrs. Cholmley sighed and stood up, flexing her arthritic joints. "All done," she said, smiling in a sympathetic way that made Amy feel even more guilty. "You nervous brides." Clucking good-naturedly, she drew off the wedding dress. Amy's maid pulled her periwinkle gown from the wardrobe cabinet.
Underskirt, overdress, laces, stomacher, stockings, shoes…dressing seemed to take forever. At last Amy went down the corridor toward Hugh's room. The closer she got, the faster her heart beat and the slower her feet dragged.
She paused in the doorway and stared at her father's back, struck as always by how empty the room felt without her mother's presence.
"Papa?"
Hugh jerked, startled. He stood slowly and turned to face her. "What is it, poppet?"
A familiar, dull pain briefly squeezed Amy's heart as her gaze dropped to the miniature of Edith, its oval gold frame cradled between her father's work-worn hands. "She was lovely, wasn't she?"
"Yes, she was." He smiled down at the picture. "You have her delicate chin and her beautiful amethyst eyes."
"And your unruly black hair." Hugh didn't react to her gentle teasing tone. "Sometimes, Papa…sometimes I think that if you could wear out a painting by looking at it, Mama's image would have disappeared from the canvas months ago."
He looked up, offering her a wan smile. "We shared a rare love, poppet."
It was a perfect opening; she couldn't let her courage fail her again. She lifted her chin. "Papa, I…I always dreamed of a love—"
"Have you seen those ruby earrings your mother wore to see Henry V the week before she—she—"
Amy crossed her arms, sympathy and impatience warring within her. Impatience won. "Papa, I need to talk to you."
"I just want to see them," he said gruffly.
She knew his moods, and there was no arguing with his retreating back. Determined to say her piece, she picked up her skirts and followed him down the two flights of stairs and into the workshop.
While he started unlocking their safe chest, she tied on an apron and sat at her workbench. More to calm herself than to accomplish anything, she unfolded the sheet of paper Lord Greystone had sent her and smoothed it flat against the table. She squinted at the drawing while she steeled herself to broach the subject again.
The last bolt clunked into place, and she heard Hugh throw open the lid and begin removing trays to access his private collection in the bottom. She dragged a candle closer to study the Greystone crest, listening to the soft metallic sounds of her father sifting through centuries of treasures.
She had to just say it. "Papa—"
"Mmm…I've always loved this piece."
Exasperated, she turned to watch her father sit back on his heels and hold up a pendant. It sparkled in the lantern light.
Drawn despite her low spirits, she rose and moved to him. "Let me see. Who made it?"
"Your great-grandpapa, a master with enamel. Look."
"Ahh…" Amy studied the piece, a merman, his torso consisting of one huge baroque pearl. His tail was an enamelled rainbow of colors set with cut gemstones. The merman wore a miniature necklace and bracelets and carried a tiny shield and saber. The entire, elaborate pendant was less than four inches tall, including three pearls that dangled from the bottom. "It's exquisite. I remember it now."
"He was inspired by Erasmus Hornick's design book." Hugh still had the treasured book, an ancient leather-bound volume from Nuremberg that Amy was almost afraid to touch. "But the workmanship was his own. He outdid himself with this one—in nearly a hundred years, no one in the family has ever been able to bring himself to sell it."
"I'm glad."
He replaced the piece and hunched over the chest, resuming his search for the ruby earrings. He was mellow, she thought. Maybe now…
"Papa—"
"Your talent came from him, you know. Through the generations. A gift—and an obligation."
She swallowed and took a deep breath. "Papa, I—"
"I know what you're going to say, Amy." His knees creaked as he stood up. "You think I don't know how you feel? It's naught but nerves. Every bride has them."
Amy shot him a hurt look, shocked that he'd known all along that she wanted to call off the wedding, yet chose to do nothing about it. Her own father.
She returned to her workbench and set Lord Greystone's ring into a clamp attached to the table.
"You bear a responsibility. Here, in this shop, our people have worked for generations, for you. You can do no less for your own children. And you cannot do so as a woman alone."
Amy heard her father's footsteps, then a small clink as he placed the earrings on her work surface.
The pear-shaped, blood-red rubies were bezel set and pavéd with diamonds on long, graceful drops. Amy's heart clenched as she remembered how her mother had protested they were too fancy, but then held her head high that night at the theater, to show them to advantage.
"Life is fragile, poppet." Hugh's voice cracked. "I want to see you settled before something happens to me, too."
The rubies seemed to wink in the candlelight, a poignant reminder of her mother and her mother's expectations. Her throat closed with emotion. She had to force the words out. "Nothing is happening to you, Papa."
Looking away from the earrings, she dug in a drawer for a stick of engravers' wax and heated one end in the candle flame, then rubbed it over the top of the ring.
"This family has hoarded gold, coins and gems for centuries—centuries, Amy—making certain no Goldsmith
