Page 22 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

Thank you. I don’t understand this kind of generosity, but I thank you—you and Father John. It’s a little overwhelming, to be honest. I questioned Father John about it.

“This doesn’t make sense. I don’t need to get a job? This is costing that foundation a fortune. What’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one. Consider it grace—a gift unwarranted and undeserved.”

“Everything comes with a price, Father John.”

“Not everything, Sam. Not always. The foundation’s director has never extracted a price before, never even accepted thanks. Your personal letters are the most he’s ever become involved.”

“You don’t know him?”

“I feel I do, but, no, I’ve never met him.”

“Then I’m coming after you if this turns weird.” I raised my eyebrows. I was both making a joke and letting Father John glimpse my skepticism. It didn’t work—moving the right eyebrow made me flinch and simply reminded me why you and Father John are doing this—and how much I need it.

Father John caught it all and smiled at me. “Don’t fret. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Thank you.”

That was a couple days ago, and now I’m packed, just some clothes and a whole bunch of books.

I move tomorrow morning. And I attended classes these last three days.

Thank you for the cab money. I have savings and could have paid for it myself, but I didn’t think of it.

Your foundation’s check reminded me that I have options.

I’m not a total victim, despite how I feel. Thank you for that too.

I said good-bye to my Buckhorn Boys this afternoon. I think most felt relief that I won’t tutor anymore. I’ve been a more regular academic influence than most of their teachers. Only Jaden, I think, might miss me.

“Sam, I only got to division. There’s lots of math left.”

“You’ll be fine, Jaden. You’ve got a sharp mind. Keep at it.” I hugged him. I hugged all of them, whether they wanted it or not.

Hannah laughed at me. “Is that more hugging than you’ve ever done in your life?”

She meant it as a joke, but it stopped me cold. I don’t like hugs. I don’t like physical contact much. I have few childhood memories of it being gentle.

Hannah looked horrified by her comment. “Sam, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I didn’t think.”

“No. It’s okay. I guess it’s a disadvantage to be so guarded. You miss out, don’t you?” Maybe I’m more like Jane Bennet than I thought . . .

Hannah pulled me back. “Wait here, I’ve got something for you.” She ran to the office. When she returned, I plastered on a quick smile.

“I hope you like it.” She handed me a small, wrapped package.

I tore the paper and found a soft blue leather journal with beautiful, thickly-lined pages.

At the top of every few pages was a quote by Jane Austen.

I flipped through and found my all-time favorite: I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation.

It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun .

Mr. Darcy spoke those immortal words in answer to Lizzy’s question about falling in love with her. I sighed and showed Hannah the page.

“I don’t know the book like you do, but those are the best words ever.” She sighed too.

“Does Matt say such things to you?”

“He’s not that eloquent, Sam. But I can tell he feels them. Someday you’ll have that. And knowing you, you’ll hold out for that one guy who not only feels them, but can say them.” She gave me a tight hug. And I didn’t pull away.

I didn’t think it’d be so hard to leave, Mr. Knightley.

Maybe the Great Beat-down (humor keeps fear at bay) made me more emotional, I don’t know.

Maybe it’s because this time I know it’s permanent.

There’s no turning back. Grace House has been good to me: “I have lived in it a full and delightful life, momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified . . .” Lately Jane Eyre’s melancholy and complex emotions resonate strongly within me.

It’s my last night here and, in many ways, I feel the same apprehension Jane felt before her marriage to Mr. Rochester. She had nothing to fear—she didn’t yet know about the crazy wife in the attic. But like Jane, I too “look with foreboding to my dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day.”

Always ready for dread, but hoping for adored . . . Sam