by Lauren Royal
"Excuse me," she apologized huskily, running from the room.
"You lout!" Kendra threw down her spoon. "This was her first supper in company."
"What did I say?"
"'I'm sorry your father had to be one of them,'" Ford mimicked in a mincing voice. "Hell, Colin, I'm the one who's supposed to be tactless."
"I said I was sorry," Colin protested feebly. He twisted his ring, listening to Amy's footsteps fade as she reached the top of the stairs and turned down the corridor.
"Leave Colin alone," Jason said. "He's confused enough as it is."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Colin demanded.
"Just that you're attracted to Mrs. Goldsmith, and you haven't decided what to do about it."
"What?" Ford burst out in surprise.
Kendra snorted, rolled her eyes toward the arched stone ceiling, then focused on her twin. "You are so oblivious. If something cannot be weighed or measured, it fails to command your attention."
Colin's hands clenched. "I'm not the least bit attracted to Amethyst Goldsmith—"
"Are you lying only to us, or to yourself as well?" Kendra fixed him with a pointed stare.
"She's a wreck," he stated firmly, pressing his lips together.
"So what?" Kendra asked.
"So I'm leaving in the morning, most likely before she rises, and one of you will see that she gets to France, where she will recover in peace and never see any of us again. That's what."
"Now, Colin—" Kendra began.
"Leave it be, Kendra." Jason looked at each sibling in turn, signaling that the conversation was at an end. Then, food being the typical Chase cure-all for most unpleasant situations, he rang for the servants. "I'm ready for that roast venison. How about the rest of you?"
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Amy bit her lip and added another crumpled ball to the small mountain of paper that was growing on the gilt dressing table in her bedchamber.
Why couldn't she get this right?
She flexed her hand. Though the blisters had healed, sometimes it still hurt if she overused it. One more try. She dipped her quill in the ink.
26 September, 1666
Dear Robert,
Perhaps you already know that I lost Papa and the shop in the fire. I am devastated. I've lost everything. My entire life has changed, and I'm afraid yours as well. Please forgive me, but I cannot marry you—
"May I come in, Lady Amy?" Small fingers tapped on her shoulder.
She looked up to see big blue eyes in an innocent face framed by golden curls. "I think you already have, Mary." Smiling, she set down her quill and pulled the little girl onto her lap. "But I'm not a lady, sweetheart. Plain Amy will do."
"You look like a lady."
"Oh, but that's only because I'm wearing Lady Kendra's dress."
When the child hopped off her lap, Amy smoothed the apple-green satin of her borrowed gown. She watched Mary wander to the bed and climb the bed steps, then winced when she stretched out her arms and, with a whoop of delight, flung herself facedown on the costly brocade counterpane.
"I'm wearing Lady Kendra's dress, too," Mary declared, the words muffled against the golden fabric.
"And so you are!" The dress hung loose on Mary's small frame and was hopelessly out of style. But she was thrilled with her new wardrobe. Kendra had found an old trunk filled with her childhood gowns, and Mary had worn a different one every day since her arrival. "And a lovely dress it is. Are you a lady then, Mary?"
"Nah." Mary giggled and rolled onto her back. "Are you sure you're not a lady? You live in this pretty place."
"Not really." Amy's gaze swept the gorgeous gilt chamber. "Before the fire, I lived all my life in London."
"Like me?" The child sat up and pointed a thumb to her own chest—a thumb, Amy noticed, that looked recently sucked.
"Just like you. In Cheapside."
"My house was in…" Her little face scrunched up as she thought. "Ludgate."
"Ludgate Hill? Then see, we were almost neighbors."
Mary's feet swung back and forth off the end of the bed. "And your mama and papa are dead like mine."
Amy nodded patiently. An eavesdropper would never guess they'd had this conversation at least a dozen times already. "Yes, my mama and papa are gone as well."
"And they're never coming back."
"No." She bit her lip. "They're never coming back. But I think about them all the time, so their memory lives on."
Mary jumped off the bed. "How many days has it been?" One little hand reached up to the marble-topped dressing table and snagged a silver comb. "How many days since the fire?"
"How many days was it yesterday, Mary?"
"Um…" She tugged the comb through her curls. "Twenty-something?"
"Twenty-one." Amy took the comb from her, and Mary faced away so she could untangle her blond ringlets. "So today, how many days has it been since the fire?"
The girl raised one short finger, then popped up another. "Two. Twenty-two." Her small voice was full of pride.
"Very good, twenty-two days." The comb made a pleasant swishing sound as she drew it through Mary's hair again and again.
"My mama died of the plague. How many days since that?"
"Oh, sweetheart, I couldn't tell you." Amy sighed. "A lot."
"More than a hundred?"
"More than three hundred."
Mary's eyes widened in the mirror. "That is a lot."
"Surely it is." Amy turned her around and tucked a golden curl behind one shell-pink ear. "And inside, it hurts a little bit less every day, does it not?"
"Maybe. A little bit." Mary's lower lip trembled for a second, then she picked up Amy's letter and stared at it uncomprehendingly. "Who're you writin' to?"
"A man I knew." Amy set the comb back in place. "In fact, I think I'm finished."
She took the letter from Mary's small hand. 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 meet his expectations of a wife.
If he could locate another heiress in the trade to marry.
Amy 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, she 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 Mary waved 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 pulled the girl tight against her, enjoying her comforting, childish scent. "I like it here with you."
"I like it here, too." A sigh wafted from the child's rosy lips. "But I wish I had a mama."
Amy turned Mary to face her and locked her gaze on the girl's big blue eyes. "Lord Cainewood is going to find you a new mama very soon. He promised, remember?"
The child nodded.
"A Chase promise is not given lightly."
"What?" Her tiny brow creased.
"He always keeps his promises."
Apparently that was good enough for Mary. She waved 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 look out 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?"
On the wall beside
her, Amy traced a finger around the oval gilt that framed a painting of a woman. Colin's grandmother, perhaps. Or great-grandmother. Her clothes looked 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 pictures to remember their ancestors by.
When she turned to her, the child's eyes were wistful. "I cannot write."
"Would you like me to write your letter for you?"
She nodded, looking hopeful. "All right."
Amy walked back to the dressing table and, sitting down, set a blank piece of paper on the marble surface. "What would you like to say?"
Mary stepped close and stared at the sheet of foolscap. A delicate breath sighed out through her parted lips.
"Dear Mama, I love you, Mama. I miss you, Mama."
Slowly 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." Amy kissed the top of her curly head. "Would you like to sign your name?"
She nodded quickly, and Amy lifted her onto her lap and handed her 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 couple of stick figures that Amy thought might be Mary holding her mother's hand. She was afraid to ask if she were right or not.
"Here, sweetheart, you can fold it."
Mary did, 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."
The little girl puckered her lips and kissed the letter gently, leaving a tiny wet mark. Amy imagined it was exactly the way she'd kissed her mother. She hugged the girl tight, and when Mary turned in her arms and pressed her lips to her cheek, her heart melted.
"Did Mama get my letter?"
She touched the sweet damp spot on her face, blinking back tears. "Surely she did."
"Even though it's still here?"
"Even though. There is special mail delivery to heaven."
The girl 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."
"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. Amy held her close while she peered 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, sweetheart. In a mill accident."
"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?"
Jason reached out to tweak a curl. "My, you are full of questions, aren't you?"
"Will I have any brothers or sisters?"
"I'm afraid not. Mr. and Mrs. Bradford never had children of their own." Jason's hand went up to smooth his mustache, then he smiled. "That's why she wants a little girl so badly."
"Will she love me?"
"How could she not?" Jason chucked her under the chin. "And you will love her too, Mary, I promise."
"A Chase promise is not given lightly," Mary quoted solemnly.
His jaw went slack in surprise. "What did you say?"
"That means you always keep your promises. Amy told me."
"Oh." Jason and Amy shared a smile over the child's head. "Well, she's right, you know."
"Amy is always right." Mary craned her neck to see out the open carriage window. "Is that the village? Ooh, pretty."
Amy's gaze went to follow hers. "Much prettier than London, isn't it? And cleaner."
"It smells nice, too. Every house has flowers."
Mary watched, rapt, as they passed several more houses and rolled to a stop before a small white cottage with a thatched roof. The coachman hadn't finished opening the door and lowering the steps before Clarice Bradford rushed out to meet them, holding a new rag doll.
Mary bounded down the steps and right into her outstretched arms.
For a long moment they clung together. Then they pulled back to give each other a considered look. Clarice reached trembling fingers to caress Mary's bright curls.
She looked to Jason, who had followed Amy from the carriage into the cottage's tidy front yard. "Oh, she's beautiful, my lord."
Mary's head tilted up, then slowly went down as she took in the glossy brown plaited bun that sat atop Clarice's head, the gray eyes set in her pretty face, her simple tan dress, and the plain black shoes that peeked from beneath her skirts. "You're beautiful too, Mama."
The gray eyes filled with grateful tears. Clarice was an attractive woman, but in that moment she truly did look beautiful.
"Did you make this doll for me?"
"Just for you. I sat up all night working on it." Too excited to sleep, Amy guessed. Yesterday, when she and Jason had approached Clarice about taking Mary for a daughter, the woman had been overwrought with gratitude.
"Thank you, Mama. She's beautiful, too. I'll name her Amy." Mary clutched the doll close as she watched the coachman and outrider carry Kendra's trunk into Clarice's cottage. Her blue eyes widened. "Do I get to keep all those clothes?"
Jason smiled. "With Lady Kendra's compliments."
"And…" Moving closer, Amy pulled something from her pocket. "Lord Cainewood gave me permission to leave this with you, as a memento of our time together. I hope it will help you remember me."
The engraved silver comb sparkled in the sunshine as Mary took it, staring at it as though it were one of King Charles's crown jewels. "Oh, my lady—I mean, Amy! I will 'member you always."
Amy knelt on the grass, and tears came to her eyes as Mary's little arms wound around her neck. She hugged her back fiercely.
When Amy rose, Jason ruffled Mary's curls. "Will you be needing anything else?"
"No." Mary glanced up at him, then over to her new mother. She scurried to Clarice's side and reached up to take her hand. "I'm home now."
When, Amy wondered, would she be home?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Kendra dashed into the library and leaned against the large globe, breathless. "Amy," she panted. "It's Colin." She paused for more air. "He's here. What are we going to do?"
Amy felt as though she'd been punched in the stomach. "God in heaven," she whispered. "He's come to take me away, hasn't he?"
She looked up to the carved wood ceiling, her eyes tracing the intricate design while her mind wrestled with denial. "There's nothing we can do," she said finally, her gaze dropping to Kendra. "I'm lucky he stayed away this long—"
"You fit in here. I don't want you to leave."
Kendra's words warmed Amy's heart. She rose from the chair and gave Kendra a brief, sisterly hug. "Thank you for saying that; you'll never know how much it means to me." She sniffed back tears. "I've enjoyed every minute of my two months here, but this isn't my place. I have another life."
Kendra's brow furrowed in concern. "A life in
Paris?"
"It's not so bad as all that," Amy said, remembering Colin telling her so outside the inn, after the fire. A long time ago, it seemed, but now she believed it. "As much as I love it here, my fingers ache to wield a knife on wax, to cast and polish and engrave."
Her hands clenched, then relaxed as her gaze dropped to the red-carpeted floor and ran along the wide decorative golden stripes, down the length of the long, narrow library to the fireplace. Kendra remained silent while Amy gazed into the distant flames, struggling with her feelings of being uprooted once again.
But she knew it was the only way. Robert must have received her letter and accepted her decision by now…and if not, well, he'd never find her in France. She'd work at Aunt Elizabeth's shop while she prepared to open her own.
She'd vowed that Goldsmith & Sons wouldn't die with her, and she meant to honor that vow.
Her trunk was gathering dust in the corner of her borrowed bedchamber, her inheritance locked inside. More than enough jewelry to stock a small shop, plus gold to pay for tools and equipment—gold that would be faithfully replaced as soon as she was able. She'd never deplete the Goldsmith fortune. Like the generations before her, she bore an obligation.
Kendra heaved a heavy sigh. "If you leave, I'll miss you."
Her doleful tone snapped Amy out of her trance, and she shot Kendra a conspiratorial grin. "I'll hide in here till Colin leaves. Up on the balconies—no one ever looks at the books there except me. You can sneak up food and tell him I've gone to Paris."
Kendra's laugh echoed through the two-story library. "I vow and swear, for a minute there I thought you were serious." She relaxed and leaned back against the brass mesh set into the bookshelf doors, then looked at Amy sharply. "You are fooling, aren't you?"
"Marry come up, Kendra!" Amy offered her a small, wistful smile. "Have you ever heard of anything more ludicrous?"
"I'll find out what Colin wants."
She reached to touch Kendra's arm. "We both know what Colin wants."
"Colin doesn't know what Colin wants," Kendra stated wryly. "I'll just see what kind of ideas I can plant in his head." And with that cryptic statement, she left the room.