Chapter 25 The Interim
He'd been gone only a week when she overheard Aaron's name whispered by the servants. Stopping short at the sound of it, she stood just outside the kitchens, listening to the animated yet half-whispered conversation of her new staff.
"It was only a matter of time before he found us," Bennett's hoarse whisper rose about the others, and she knew with chilling certainty to whom he referred.
"But an order was filed against him coming here," Mary, the new cook gasped, obviously having already been apprised of their situation. Ceara had thought her to be the quiet and unassuming one.
"That would never stop him," Bennett hissed. "He's got most of the law in his good graces no doubt through an unseemly means."
"I heard him tell her that he knew where you all were," Ceara was astonished to hear Drea add in a loud whisper. What on earth had prompted her to come all the way here? she wondered, leaning closer when the young woman continued. "I had to come warn you as soon as I knew!"
"Then it was a good thing you went against Master Aaron's wishes and did so," Mary whispered hesitantly. "Yet surely all of us can handle one bad relative?"
"He wouldn't come alone," Drea whispered meaningfully, causing a momentary hush to fall upon them all.
"No," Bennett sighed, "he would bring her just to make Mistress Florence upset again."
"But she's so much stronger and happy now," Mary reasoned, "and surely Miss Ceara won't tolerate that to hap—"
"What won't I tolerate?" she demanded, finally revealing herself. Their gasps of surprise and averted glances seemed adequate punishment, she decided as she folded her arms at her waist. Still, to disobey Aaron's wishes bordered upon rebellion, even the mild sort she suspected. "I couldn't help overhearing my husband's name mentioned."
"Please, Miss Ceara," Bennett pleaded, his face ashen, "we have nothing but the utmost respect and fondness for Master Aaron."
She lowered her arms to her sides, nodding her acknowledgement. "I know you do, Bennett."
"So do all of us," Drea said nervously as she curtsied. Waving off the formality, Ceara approached the table around which they gathered and sat down. "Now be seated, all of you, and tell me exactly what everyone so upset."
Bennett lifted his chin. "We beg your pardon, Miss Ceara—please forgive our rudeness."
She gestured for them to sit. "There is nothing to forgive," she announced, nodding to the elderly butler. "But please continue, Bennett—I share your concern if it is indeed true that Aaron's stepfather is planning a visit."
"Drea has been kind enough to ride all the way here to warn us of the possibility," he said apprehensively.
"Please forgive my buttin' in, Miss," she interjected, "but I think you understand the reason I felt I had to."
Ceara held her gaze and exhaled a tense breath. "I do—now tell me what has happened since we left."
She began to pace the room while all eyes followed her, beginning to recount her tale. "Things went bad quickly after ye all left," she related. "Miss Alberta moved in only three days after the Missus left, but she stayed the first night and snuck out before dawn."
Bennett dropped his forehead to his upraised hand, closing his eyes as Mary gasped in horror.
"I've tried to find another position but so far nothing," Drea continued. "Of course my main concern is for Todd, but the gossip is all over town! I feel like a marked woman just living there!"
Ceara stared at the tabletop, praying for Florence to be spared this news.
"She ordered a new gown made," Drea continued, "and Todd overheard the stableman say he was ordered to ready the coach for Saturday evening. We only found out the destination after I secretly bribed him."
"Good thinking," Bennett sighed, suddenly looking up sheepishly at Ceara, who despite her anxiety nearly laughed at the apparent contradiction in his behavior.
"It cost me more than a half-day's work, but I'm sure it will be worth the sacrifice!" Drea complained.
"I will see that you are reimbursed," Ceara assured her, earning their undivided attention. "As for this Miss Alberta…I'm not quite sure of her role in all of this, especially since you all seem to have known her for some time."
"That is regrettably true," Bennett stated.
Drea threw him a sympathetic look and pulled out a chair. "I was just a young girl when I first saw her, not more than Master Aaron's age—"
"This conversation might be better shared by Mistress Florence," Bennett decided, and Drea pursed her lips immediately.
"There you all are!" Florence breathed as she entering the room, only to stop short and gaze around her. Her color paled as she raised a hand to her throat. "What's wrong? Has anything happened to my son?"
"It's not Aaron," Ceara assured her as the staff abruptly got to their feet. Drea curtsied as did Mary, while Bennett bowed at the waist. She found herself getting to her feet as well.
"We were just getting ready to prepare lunch," Mary hinted, turning away at Bennett's gesture.
"I'll help you," Drea offered, following the older woman across the room toward the oven.
Florence turned to Ceara, raising her brows. "What has happened, Ceara?"
Holding her gaze a moment, she gestured to the chair which Bennett drew out for her. "I think we had better sit down."
She threw him a troubled frown. "Let me guess, Bennett—this involves William Crote."
He looked close to blushing, but nodded. "I'm afraid so, Madame."
"Drea rode all the way here to state that she believes he is planning a visit this Saturday evening," Ceara said carefully.
Florence sat down slowly, meeting Drea's forlorn look across the room. "I must admit that I'm curious as to how things went after we left; tell me everything. It won't be anything I haven't already feared or suspected."
"Are you sure, Madame?" Bennett said gently.
"I'm sure," she nodded, motioning Drea back to her side. "I won't even be shocked if he brings Alberta with him."
Sensing some eerie connection between Aaron and this woman Alberta, Ceara bent close to ask about it, but Florence nodded, patting her hand.
"I regret not apprising you of certain things, Ceara," she said quietly, "but they would be best discussed in private."
Feeling even more alarmed, Ceara nodded. "All right."
Florence glanced up at Bennett. "As for this Saturday evening, I would like our uninvited guests to find the finest meal and service ever given," she announced, nodding to Drea. "You my dear must stay for lunch today—and if it is all right with Ceara I would like to extend to you the position of our head housekeeper, if you might consider coming to work for us."
"Oh Mum!" Drea exclaimed, "I would be honored, even if the ride is far!"
"Don't misunderstand, Drea," Florence smiled, "ours is a live-in position, so you will have to move here with that precocious son of yours—I've missed him a great deal, incidentally. Had Aaron not infuriated my husband so he would have broken all your contracts in the same manner he did Bennett's."
"Todd would love to live here, away from the bullies town," Drea said happily. "And he so looks up to Master Aaron!"
"My son will be immensely pleased, and when he returns he can tell you that himself," Florence said confidently.
Drea bit her lower lip, looking suddenly troubled. "We're so sorry he had to return to duty, Mum, Miss Ceara too."
"We miss him terribly," Ceara stated, absently resting a hand over her abdomen, though she had yet to feel any movement as confirmation of the presence of their child. But the proof was confirmed by the continual absence of her monthly flow, as well as the sick stomach she now suffered each morning that thankfully her husband would not witness. It was just too embarrassing, she thought with an inward grimace.
"Then it's settled," Florence said, quickly changing the subject. "But say or do nothing until Saturday morning, when I will expect you to move here with your son. I will deal with Mr. Crote when he arrives for dinner."
"Thank you, Mum," Drea said, going to the stove at Mary's prompting to help her ready for lunch. "God bless ye."
Florence looked pointedly at Bennett. "Have Donald take your place on Saturday, but make sure he's well trained to deal with my former husband," she ordered. "You have that night off and I suggest you keep out of sight, at least while they're here."
Bennett looked immediately relieved, and bowed with his thanks before heading off toward the hall.
Florence turned to Ceara with a grim expression. "Well that's done," she said softly, covering her hand with hers. "Now we shall have our private chat in the parlor, dear."
"I will come for you when lunch is ready, Mum," Drea said over one shoulder, her smile bright.
"Thank you, Drea—I look forward to your moving in here. Have Mary introduce you to Donald, who will be sure you have help moving your things."
"Of course, Madam—my thanks to you again."
Aaron pressed deeper into the recesses of the closet, holding his breath as footsteps upon the floor planks came closer and halted. Closing his eyes and praying not to be discovered, he listened to the sounds of the others filing out of the tavern and bidding each other a good night. Yet one lingered behind, and he could smell the aroma of his fine cigar as its smoke filtering through the door separating them. His heart pounded in apprehension as he waited, preparing himself for the worst.
Hanging would be a better fate than that rat hole of a cell, he reasoned, remembering his time as a prisoner of war. As for the present, trials for treason were not worth the effort, leaving his end a predictable swing from the gallows performed with punctuality for thriftiness' sake. Though this was Loyalist territory, the British occupation of New York wore long upon its citizenry. As he pondered these things, the other half of his thoughts scrambled for clues as to who might have given this prominent Loyalist a reason to linger behind and perhaps doubt the safety of their meeting. No other reason could explain his tarrying, in Aaron's thinking.
"It's too risky," the man stated half-heartedly as his steps sounded back toward the direction he'd come. "Probably no fine whisky hidden here after all," he drawled.
Aaron pressed his ear to the closest wall, listening intently as he traveled slowly down the opposite corridor then stopped. The side door to the alley squeaked open, then banged closed and he was alone in the deserted tavern. Hanging his head in silent thanksgiving, he slumped against the wall in relief.
"No one suspected," he marveled, lifting a hand to massage his temple. His head ached and he prayed he was not coming down with the sniffling and coughing that plagued the general public. He'd put in a long day's work before coming here to blend with the crowd, later slipping away undetected to this hiding place.
Just to be on the safe side he waited another quarter hour before emerging from the closet to take the same route his predecessor had gone. Once the door opened he was greeted by a storm of icy rain and stood staring dejectedly at its nearly sideways fall, blown wildly by the wind. Finally mustering his strength he dashed down the alley to the trash barrel behind which he'd hidden his cloak. Drenched before he could fling it over himself, he ran along the less traveled streets under cover of the shadows, making his way back toward his rented room. It was a carefully mapped out route he'd taken a week to plan, checking it day and night to be sure of the hours it was patrolled by Regulars.
Glancing from side to side to check a crossroad, he curved his arm backward to raise the level of the notebook he kept tucked inside the lining of his coat. The tight fit of his left boot confirmed the presence of the stolen letters he'd slipped inside, confiscated from beneath the owner's second desk drawer. But the greatest booty his night raid claimed was the map he'd found hidden behind a painting on the wall and was now rolled tightly around the seam of his hat. Smiling despite his drenched clothing, he crossed the intersection, marveling at how his rivals managed to stay in business given their sloppy handling of such crucial information. But then again they did not suspect him of working for the opposing side.
By the time he climbed to his fourth story room his clothing clung to his shoulders and thighs, making him shiver for reasons other than his old affliction. Had his boots not been of superior quality his feet would have also suffered the same fate, for puddles of rain and melting snow lined the streets and walks of the neighborhood. His cloak, though of fine enough weave, was unable to repel the heavy rainfall; he made a mental note to bring along an oilcloth on his next outing, should there be one.
Feeling exhausted, he latched the door and turned to peel off his sodden clothing. Hanging it out to dry around the inefficient stove that was meant to warm his room, he considered this assignment more risky than being his former station in the wilderness. At least there he could enjoy the beauty and solitude of the forests and mountains, for which he longed for often than he cared to admit. There he'd grown accustomed to moving from place to place unhindered and far from many watchful eyes. Here one never knew what to expect or who was watching, nor for what reason. Burke apparently thought he needed the change if for no other reason than to keep his skills sharpened. So far he would play the role of a Tory silversmith looking for better clientele in the city, someone who put his politics beneath the desire to make a fortune among an upper class clientele of the King's best officers garrisoned here.
Sitting to pull off his boots, he thought of the changes his work necessitated, dictating that he work in cooperation with the clandestine gang handpicked for patriot intelligence in the city. Not only was city life challenging, but working with men who had been in the same position for far longer and did not always handle the strain required the utmost patience and discretion. Tempers flared and in this place the rebel caused seemed a very dim hope against Britain's best. He often wondered if he might be better suited to heading south to the front lines, for he'd heard of his old enemy Bloody Ben's success in routing patriot forces at Cooper River. Revenge was a powerfully motivating force, and he had to keep telling himself that justice was not his responsibility in the greater scheme of things. For now his eyes and ears would prove crucial in monitoring the occupied city, as were any plans he might enforce to help thwart the occupying army. For all he knew New York might be the next battleground, so he would do his best here until ordered to do differently.
Standing and reaching for a towel, he dried off his skin and padded barefoot to the bureau to pull out a nightshirt. Though he craved a hot drink he found himself too tired to go below and prepare one, so instead he lowered himself onto his narrow bed and glanced toward its crude linens.
Definitely not the lap of luxury, he thought, glancing around his accommodations as a series of shivers overtook him. The attic room was cold and draughty despite being in a more respectable part of the city and near the shops and marketplaces the British officers liked to frequent. Though spring had technically arrived he thought the weather too cold, though still warmer than it would be back home. With that thought he settled himself in bed, pulling up two extra quilts and closing his eyes.
Willing the quick arrival of sleep as he had every night since leaving, after some time he was nevertheless left with the same frustration—missing his wife. With a groan of protest he turned to his side, punching the pillow for comfort as he lectured himself to avoid dwelling upon the past, particularly the exquisite pleasure of her embrace. Squeezing his eyes tighter his mind nevertheless swam with visions of her, as with the memory of her fragrance and sound of her voice.
Giving up, he turned again and stared at the dim glow from the woodstove, knowing sleep would be hard in coming. This need for her was growing and threatening everything he must do until the day he could see her again. He hadn't a furlough scheduled until another month, and began to contemplate an early retirement just to alleviate his misery in being parted from her. Even during the day he found himself distracted with thoughts of her should a reminder of her present itself in passing someone in the crowd who resembled her coloring or had a voice like hers. His only consolation was her first letter, which had arrived two days after his departure. She'd given him the disturbing news that his stepfather had made a call, obviously having located the address he'd worked so hard to hide from the man. Even worse, he'd brought Miss Alberta with him to, in Ceara's words, 'flaunt her' in his mother's face. But he knew better: Alberta had manipulated his stepfather into accompanying him. He worried what she would do or say to Ceara, and deeply regretted not having shared his troubled past encounters with the woman.
Flinging an arm across his face he groaned in remorse, yet part of him considered it wise that he had concentrated upon Ceara and the future instead of the past. Now, forcing himself to get up and retrieve her letter, he held it over the fading glow from the stove and read it yet another time. Only now he studied a different section of her letter, discerning the thinly veiled longing written therein. He'd posted his answer the day after receiving it, and looking up he nodded in approval for in it he'd expressed his feelings to an extent he never would have felt comfortable with before having met her.
"My heart is filled with longing to see you again," he whispered at his lonely accommodations, gazing toward the window. Gusts of wind splashed rain upon the panes, rattling the glass and piercing through the walls at whatever weak spots it could find. Yet he smiled, confident that his saying so would warm her heart. As he returned to his bed he reminded himself not to worry about her health, though her lack of explanation concerning her pregnancy bothered him. It had not taken them long to conceive, he was thankful, yet his being called back to duty left her alone and denied him the pleasure of watching her glow and change with their child's development.
Pursing his lips with frustration, he faced the fact that since he'd become both husband and father he would never be the same again. How he could continue working so far away he knew not. Given his past troubles with his stepfather, the irony of his desiring to return home to family did not escape him. But since Ceara his life had changed dramatically. He now had a reason not only to live but to also entertain the possibility of true happiness. They had a place to call home, and there he intended them to form good memories, those vastly different from his mother's oppressive marriage to her second husband. Because of Ceara he'd found a way to inherit his father's estate, and not for the first time thanked his own father for the wisdom of that stipulation. His parents had shared a good marriage there, and he could think of no better place to begin again, with his own wife and child. With that thought in mind he began to relax, his eyes watching the dimming glow of the embers of his old stove.
Alberta Forsythe stared coldly across the table at her,causing Ceara's stomach to knot with tension. Absently sliding her hand beneath the cover of her linen napkin, she curved it protectively over her child and held her gaze. Alberta's incredibly green eyes drifted away to Florence, who was masterfully guiding the conversation from a discussion of the meal toward the reorganization of the New Hampshire Line. Ceara studied her in profile, proud of her new mother-in-law as she aptly presided over the evening, completely disregarding their uninvited guests' intrusion. Her quiet strength was evident in the way she kept a calm expression on her face and was not afraid to establish eye contact with two people who had essentially become her enemies. The tension in the dining room was stretched tightly between the two women, yet Ceara sensed the real threat was in the darkly mocking behavior of the one may present for the meal: William Crote.
Ceara tore her gaze from Florence's calm demeanor to study the man she had previously only known from his shouting. She had been somewhat surprised by his handsome visage and impeccably dressed presentation, despite her newly acquired knowledge that he was a prominent banker in the colony and very influential in political circles. Switching her attention to Alberta, she judged the elegantly attired blonde to be his junior by at least a decade and a half. It puzzled her why Alberta's gaze upon him was filled with a hungry possessiveness she almost pitied, had the woman not been so blatantly rude.
"Well you seem to have settled in quite well here," he declared, finishing Aaron's second to best wine with a flourish and placing his glass upon the table.
"We have indeed," Florence stated, dabbing her lips gently with her napkin and placing it at the side of her place setting. Ceara watched her glance toward their server, a man who helped Bennett manage the household whose name was Donald. He too was not young, but middle aged and reportedly had a family of four to support. Well trained as he was, he nodded very slightly to her and began to clear the table.
"My husband is regrettably unavailable tonight," Ceara could not help stating, the first full sentence she had voice since their arrival. Hating the fact that no one, not even Florence, had mentioned their true host, she met William Crote's glare with what she hoped was cool indifference. "His presence is truly missed."
"Yes it is," Florence sighed after a moment's shock and hesitation, her gaze returning pointedly to Alberta.
"How unfortunate," she smirked, draining her own wineglass and motioning for more. But as Donald began to reach for the decanter her escort shook his head and he retreated. "It would have been interesting to see him, after all these years."
"Aaron is doing what he's always done best," William declared sarcastically, smirking at Ceara, "vanishing without a trace."
"My son has pressing responsibilities which demand his attention," Florence warned, reaching for Ceara's hand as she turned to face her. "We miss him a great deal and long for his soon return."
"Soon?" William choked as Alberta laughed huskily, his eyes pinning Ceara with disapproval. "Don't count on that, young miss—though why he would leave such a beautiful little wife all alone is beyond comprehension."
Nearly spitting in anger, Ceara pushed back her chair as Donald helped her. "You both come here uninvited and avail yourselves of our hospitality for the last time," she said as calmly as she could manage. Nodding to Florence, she thanked Donald and turned to leave the room, having tolerated all she could for one evening.
"Well, well…she has spirit," Alberta drawled after her, "that is one thing in her favor."
Groaning under her breath, Ceara stormed down the corridor and into the kitchens, alarming the staff who stopped what they were doing and stared at her. "Oh! I could throw something!" she growled, stomping toward the fire to warm herself. Her gown was new and of summer weight in anticipation of the coming spring, but she felt freezing.
"Here, Miss Ceara," Mary soothed, draping a shawl over her shoulders and patting her upper back. "Sit right here and say or do whatever you want—we feel the same way."
"Indeed we do," Bennett said quietly from his rocking chair. Over his lap was the latest billet, and he looked very much at home. "You are exceedingly brave for entertaining them."
"Bennett!" she gasped in a whisper, "I thought you'd be far from here tonight!"
"Don't worry, Mistress—neither of them would lower themselves to come here," he said with a faint smile.
"Thank the Lord!" she breathed, gathering the shawl close. "I don't know how Florence manages it so well."
"She's stronger than we all think," he winked, "especially with you and Master Aaron at her side."
"I certainly hope so," she shuddered. "Mary, why don't you make an appearance just to encourage her?"
"I will, Miss—and I don't care if they object or not," she nodded just as Donald appeared looking distressed.
"Oh there you are, Miss Ceara," he sighed in relief. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No Donald, you've done wonderfully," she waved in dismissal. "Just serve dessert and we'll all pray they leave soon."
"I'll help you," Mary stated, lifting the tray of sweets she'd prepared. "Take that pudding for me, won't you?"
"Gladly," he said, glancing at Bennett with a look of pure respect. "How you did it all those years, I'll never know."
"Nor will I," Bennett answered, returning to his reading.
Ceara brushed her hair with countless strokes, distracted by memories of what Florence had told her earlier that day.Staring at her own reflection, she compared herself with Alberta's statuesque figure, fair hair and glorious eyes. The woman's behavior was rude and provocative, unlike anything she'd ever seen from a supposedly respectable woman. Feeling slightly ill to think of what had once transpired between her and Aaron, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
Aaron was only fifteen years of age, she still heard Florence's voice after their hushed and private talk in the library. During her account Ceara had glanced toward the piano, picturing him playing for her in that same room. Apparently he'd been playing the night it happened, having already achieved success as a concert pianist and composer even at that age. But according to Florence's account he'd never played again—not until he had played here, for her.
"Oh Aaron…" she whispered, tears filling her eyes. Too on edge to sit any longer she got up and paced the room, trying to understand him in light of what Florence had said. "Why couldn't you tell me, especially since you knew what I suffered myself? We aren't so very different my love, you and I…"
Moving toward the window she sat upon the cushion there, gazing out at the night sky which she knew he loved so much and longing for him anew.
His father and I were at a holiday party at her estate, Florence had tried to explain, her expression filled with pain. Had I known she snuck out, I never would have left him alone...
"But why?" Ceara had asked her then, and repeated now in a whisper as she began to pray for him again. Aaron was very attractive, but a woman in her 20s seducing a young man of 14?
They were only seven years apart in age, Florence had said. She was stunningly beautiful but spoiled…all the boys and the men wanted her—all except my son. And Aaron was much more mature than the men her age.
Ceara reached out to touch the cold glass, looking beyond her fingertips to the fields dotted with remaining snow. She prayed he would come back sooner than expected, so great was her need to see him and hold him in her arms.
She knew where William kept the liquor. Aaron was so absorbed in his music, he did not realize she was in the house. The drawing room was isolated from the rest of the house, and though Bennett was there he never would have interrupted his playing. She mixed liquor into his drink so that it was not noticeable to the taste. Aaron had never had alcohol before, and drank it only for politeness' sake—he told me later that he continued to play, hoping that ignoring her would bore her and she would leave. When she did not he asked her to leave, but she insisted she just liked listening. Even then, Florence had sighed as she gazed at the piano he'd bought her, his music had a way of entering the soul, stirring it to great emotion…
"Yes, your music is remarkable," she whispered to him, wherever he might be. Perhaps he was gazing up at the same sky, as she was now.
He wept when he told me, Florence's whispers continued. She was unusually strong for a woman…she knew no boundaries for decency when she wanted something. He told me how his mind swam and he felt sickened by the drink. This did not stop her, and she prevailed upon him, laughing at him when she was finished and he lay ill upon the floor. We did all we could to see her punished, but the law was on her side…
"How could I have let her come here?" Ceara moaned, though Florence had insisted that they would never have any peace until William came and saw whatever it was he wanted to see. She promised to tell Aaron herself, assuring her that he would understand why they had to allow the visit. But Ceara was not so sure. Covering her ears with her hands, she wept as the memory of the account haunted her again.
You must understand his torment, Florence had stated, taking her hands between her own. He could never tell anyone, so great was his humiliation. F or years I despaired of seeing him have a healthy relationship with other women, thanks to Alberta— but now he has you. I see how you love him, and it is obvious how much he loves you. He will be angry that I allowed her in this house and near you. But you must know the truth, Ceara, for she will lie to you in order to lead you to doubt his love, but you mustn't believe her lies…
Taking several deep breaths, she tried to dispel the nausea churning her stomach. Her heart pounded and she laid her forehead upon the cool glass. Anger welled up inside her at the injustice of the situation. Her own molestation had been traumatic as well, but the hunter who rescued her had taken it upon himself to shoot her attackers dead. Sad as it was, she had felt a sense of justice in that, something Aaron would probably never have. Not as long as Alberta was near.
Wiping her eyes she got up and collected herself. Going to the secretary she took out Aaron's letter and walked to their bed, pulling of her robe and stepping up with the aid of the stool. Settling herself on his side of the bed, she turned toward the light and unfolded it, reading it again in an effort to comfort herself. She studied his bold handwriting, noting with admiration the perfectly executed penmanship of which she had previously been unaware. Upon reading it again she concentrated upon the words that revealed an important clue into her husband's heart. This was the remedy she needed, and as she smoothed her hand over her abdomen she felt hope once again. This time she read it aloud in a soft voice.
My dearest C,
I trust that this post finds you in good health, and that our little one enjoys the same, cradled within your loving care (how I envy him). Here the days are long and filled with activity, for the market for good craftsmanship is a knowledgeable and demanding one. Nights are longer still in a cold and lonely place I refuse to call home. Only the memory of our time together brings some solace, though in truth I would rather have you near in more than dream or vision. Know that I think of you while awake and asleep where you haunt me and tempt me to abandon the prosperity of this enterprise in hopes of seeing one glance from your eyes or hearing one note of your voice. You have caused me to anticipate a reunion which cannot come soon enough.
Please give my fondest regards to F., and of course to N…
Your loving husband,
A
Pressing it over her heart, she lowered the light and sighed dreamily, remembering not only their first time in each other's arms, but their last as well. Closing her eyes, she prayed the Psalms over her husband and baby Noah, resting in faith for a better future for them all.
c. 2008 by Christine Levitt