The Heiress of Winterwood (22 page)

“Maybe something from God’s book?”

Amelia tensed, then exhaled. “From the Psalms, please.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Dunne leaned over the side of her chair and pulled a worn leather volume from a lopsided reed basket.

“Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly.” The cadence of the woman’s brogue sounded sweet as any song. Amelia closed her eyes to listen.

“His delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night. And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.”

I want to be like that,
Amelia mused.
Fruitful. Like a tree by the water.

“The ungodly are not so: but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away. Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.”

The words rang like poetry, but their meaning sliced deeper than words intended to merely entertain.

What makes a person righteous instead of ungodly?

Lucy shifted in Amelia’s arms, and she looked down at the soft curve of the baby’s lips.

I want to be godly. For Lucy. For myself. I want God to be pleased with me.

“For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish.”

You do know my ways, don’t you, Lord?
Amelia thought back over the past weeks. When she strung the painful events together in her mind, she could see that none of it had happened by accident or her own doing. Minute by minute, God had indeed been faithful to her.

Hope sparked, glowing at first like a tiny ember. Each word Mrs. Dunne uttered fanned her desire to know more.

Lucy grew hot as she slept, and Amelia shifted the babe in her arms. Her sleeve was damp with Lucy’s perspiration. Fiery locks clung to her forehead, and Amelia sobered. The memory of Katherine’s hair clinging to her forehead flashed before her. The same titian hue.

At the memory a particular passage came to mind. “Mrs. Dunne, would you please read the Twenty-Third Psalm?”

Mrs. Dunne didn’t need to turn the page. The words, memorized, slipped from her lips in perfect rhythm. Amelia straightened. She’d not heard nor read the words since Katherine’s last day. Then she had spoken them without faith. How would she receive them now?

As the familiar verses washed over her, she realized she had a choice. She could continue stumbling forward in unbelief, or she could accept that she had a shepherd—and be grateful.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”

Jane believed it. Katherine had believed it.

In that moment, Amelia chose to believe it too.

G
raham sank down into the office chair in the library and rested his forearms on the leather inlay of the desk. He studied the gold embossment adorning the edge. He hadn’t noticed the detail before. The desktop, which only hours ago stood littered with papers and books, was now clear.

He leaned back to open the desk drawer. No ledger either. What else was William hiding?

He reached forward for the writing box on the corner. He needed to write Carrington a note about his intention to anonymously buy the land back from Littleton, whatever the cost, then respond to Lieutenant Foster’s letter regarding the additional ship repairs.

The note to Carrington took minutes. He dried the ink, folded the parchment and sealed it, and set it aside for a courier, then pulled Foster’s letter from his satchel. As he reread the assessment of damages, Graham cupped his hand behind his neck and rubbed the tight muscles, willing the memories of smoke and screams to retreat from his mind. Would he ever be free of them?

With the wedding scheduled for Friday, he’d make the long trip to Plymouth the following week to oversee the repairs personally. The success of his missions was entirely on his shoulders. It was his ship, his responsibility.

Plymouth. Another rush of memories bore down upon him. He’d said good-bye to Katherine in Plymouth, but the place stood out in his mind for another reason.

Graham rubbed his hand against the rough stubble on his chin. Stephen Sulter. How long had it been since he’d seen the man? Four years? Five? As a lad he’d learned from Sulter everything he knew about running a ship and being a fair leader. And more. He stared at the blank paper, but his quill refused to scratch across the smooth surface. Why had he avoided contacting his former captain for so long?

Graham knew the answer to that question. Pride. He didn’t want Stephen Sulter to know he had failed.

Sulter no longer lived in Plymouth, of course. The man had left the navy for the church and now served as vicar for a parish in Liverpool. Graham knew he should go see Sulter. But if he did, what would he say to the man? That he’d relapsed into old habits? That as a result, nine men died and almost a dozen had been wounded? The thought of admitting that failure to anyone made him cringe. But to tell Sulter, the man who had helped him turn his life around and become a man of God? How could he face that?

He rubbed his face with his hand as memories of that time in his life overtook the others. Such peace had covered him then. Was it too late to get it back? Would God even forgive him after so much time?

Perhaps he would visit Sulter before returning to sea. Or perhaps it was still too soon.

Graham decided to save his letter to Foster for the morning. He retired to his bedchamber. But try as he might, sleep eluded
him. He tossed one way, then the other, unaccustomed to such a struggle.

Graham folded the pillow in half and tucked it under his head. If only he were on his ship. The gentle roll of the sea usually rocked him to sleep, lapping waves serving as a soothing lullaby. This incessant ticking of the mantel clock was enough to drive anyone mad.

He yanked the pillow from beneath his head and hurled it to the ground. During the day he possessed greater control of his thoughts, but at night, in complete silence and darkness, his worries magnified.

After pushing himself up from the bed, he snatched the candle from the nightstand and carried it to the fireplace to light the wick. The flame danced in the drafty room. He moved to the window and lifted the curtain to peer into the night. The outlines of the main stable and the groundskeeper’s shed could barely be seen under the cloak of darkness. A few more hours needed to pass before Eastmore’s grounds would awaken.

He dropped the curtain. Reading would distract him for an hour or two.

He knelt before his wood-and-leather traveling trunk, which had arrived at Eastmore Hall a few days after he had, unlatched the brass lock, and propped open the lid. Inside, his belongings were packed into tight, neat rows. On top lay his uniform jacket and buff breeches, tucked away until he returned to his ship. He smoothed the jacket’s lapel and placed it on the ground, along with his breeches, then grabbed a stack of books. As he did, his gaze fell upon a small tortoiseshell trinket box with ivory inlay.

Katherine’s box.

Gingerly he set the books aside. He picked up the box and turned the key in the delicate lock. Inside, every memento told the story of their romance, and just looking at them transformed his frustration into sorrow. He had not looked inside it since placing
Katherine’s letter there two weeks ago. But for some reason, tonight, he felt the need to look at them all, to hold them in his hands. To be reminded. As he anticipated another marriage, even a marriage of convenience, he must find a way to say farewell.

The tiny box was packed as tidily as his traveling trunk. Graham lifted out the pocket watch Katherine had given him on their wedding day. It had belonged to her father. The candle’s light caught the metal surface and flashed into the chamber’s darkness. One day he would give the watch to Lucy, perhaps on her wedding day. He laid it down carefully atop the other items in the trunk. He needed to give it to Amelia for safekeeping. If he never returned, he didn’t want it to find a final resting place on the ocean’s bed.

His heart raced as his rough fingers brushed a tiny parcel secured with brown paper. He loosened the twine and carefully unfolded the stiff wrapping to reveal a long lock of Katherine’s hair, tied with gray ribbon. He flexed his fingers, so awkward and unworthy of touching something so beautiful. If he allowed himself, he could recall the feel of the silky locks sliding through his fingers. Ever so carefully, he held the lock of hair up to the light. The candle’s glow caught the still-vibrant color.

The last trinket in the box was the most precious. Graham lifted out a small portrait in a gilt frame. The passing of time had made it difficult to recall the nuances of Katherine’s likeness, but looking at the miniature brought the memories rushing forth.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his breathing to stay slow. Steady. How he wished the hands of time could be reversed. But no amount of wishing could undo the past. He must care for Lucy now and provide for her welfare once he returned to sea. Would Katherine approve of his marriage to Amelia?

Words from her letter echoed in his mind.
“Do not let your heart grow cold.”

Eighteen months had passed since last he held her. Since he whispered farewell. He had not imagined that time would be the last.

With an impatient jerk of his hand, he swept the moisture from his eyes. With great care he rewrapped the lock of hair, pausing to whisper as he lowered it back to its resting place.

“Farewell, darling Katherine.”

Amelia smoothed her emerald velvet cape as she stood in the darkened hallway outside Helena’s bedchamber. She mustered her courage and rapped her knuckles across the closed door. No response. She knocked again. “Helena, are you in there?”

She waited a few moments before knocking again. Helena had to be inside. Hadn’t she just seen Elizabeth exit this very door? Amelia turned the handle and stepped into Helena’s chamber for the first time in several days.

Helena turned from her dressing table. “What do you need?”

“I came to see if you have changed your mind about the dinner at the Hammonds’. Jane says everyone will be there, and I—”

“I have other plans.”

“What other plans?”

Helena stood. Her amethyst satin gown hugged her figure, and only a gathering of lace at the bodice prevented it from being scandalous.

Amelia gawked at the dress. “That’s a new gown, is it not?”

“I was just about to ask the same of yours.”

Amelia looked down at her deep rose satin and ran a hand down the front.

Helena reached for her shawl. “I remember handpicking that very fabric for your trousseau. What was it you said? Something
about how you thought Edward would like the hue? That Edward always complimented you when you wore that color?”

The insinuation brought a flush to Amelia’s cheeks. “Helena, what’s done is done. Please say you will not make me go to the Hammonds’ alone.”

“You made your decision alone, Amelia—with no consideration of anyone else.” Helena reached down to the dressing table, removed the stopper from an etched perfume bottle, and dabbed it behind her ear. “It seems fitting that you should deal with the consequences alone, does it not?”

Amelia blinked. “Am I to lose you too, Helena?”

Helena moved from the dressing table. The lilac fabric swirled around her legs as she took a few steps toward the window. “I asked you not to make me choose between you and my family.”

A wave of nausea seized Amelia, and her lungs refused to expand. She understood Helena perfectly. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where we will be.”

Helena glanced out the window. “Your carriage is here. You’d best be on your way. You wouldn’t want to keep your
betrothed
waiting.”

Amelia forced herself from Helena’s room. Tears burned her eyes, and she struggled for control. The captain had already done so much for her. How would it appear for her to be a blubbering fool on the way to their engagement dinner?

She should have brought a candle. The sun had long since set, and the hallway grew darker with each passing moment. A sliver of moonlight through the window afforded barely enough light to illuminate the staircase’s curve. Desire to be away from this dark, cold mansion and into the warmth of the Hammond house fueled her descent. If she was honest, though, it wasn’t the Hammonds’ company she longed for so much as another’s.