Page 37

Sara flitted around the dining room, straightening the silverware and shining imaginary spots from the plates.

She stood back, examining her handiwork with a critical eye.

The delicate china she’d uncovered in the mahogany buffet gleamed, the edging of deep-blue flowers and elegant twining vines a splash of color amid the white table linen.

It was her wedding day.

The thought made her dizzy with panic. James would soon return with Andrew and the minister. Her eyes swept across the table one last time before a sudden thought had her scurrying back to the kitchen.

“Do we have fish forks? I think we’ll need them for the stewed trout,” she said, bursting into the room. A wave of heat hit her, the air heavy with the smell of roasting meat.

Mrs. Hobbes paused at the stove, lifting up the corner of her apron to dab at her forehead. “I’m sure we do, ma’am.”

“I’ll get them,” Sara said hastily. “You’re busy.”

“You’ll need the key,” Mrs. Hobbes said.

Sara’s eyes darted to the ring of keys that dangled from the housekeeper’s apron.

Mrs. Hobbes followed Sara’s gaze, her shoulders stiffening. She motioned for Sara to follow her into the dining room where an ornate rosewood box held the silver atop the buffet.

Instead of opening the box, Mrs. Hobbes held out the keys. “Perhaps you’d like to keep them now?” Her voice was cold and formal.

“No.” Sara spoke more sharply than she’d intended. “Just because I’m marrying James—er, Mr. Kinney, doesn’t mean anything will change.”

Mrs. Hobbes gave a short, humorless laugh. “Of course, things will change. You’re the mistress of this establishment now.”

Sara chewed her lip. A wall had sprung up between her and the housekeeper ever since they’d announced their marriage.

Now, when she entered the kitchen, Mrs. Hobbes stopped working to inquire what madam needed and how she might be of service.

Sara missed the tentative bond of friendship between them.

“I know you must think I’m no fit wife for Mr. Kinney, but I’ll be a good mother to Evie,” Sara said finally, her voice throbbing with feeling.

She searched the older woman’s face, looking for any sign of softening.

“I’ll be a good wife, too.” Her voice lowered, for she was less certain of herself here.

“You misunderstand me, ma’am.” Mrs. Hobbes gave a sharp shake of her head.

“I don’t doubt your fitness, not one bit.

I’ve seen something of the world. Worked in a big house myself when I was younger.

I know as well as you that you’re no servant.

” She leveled a severe look at Sara. “You’ll make Mr. Kinney a fine wife.

.. if ever you find the courage to be yourself. ”

Sara inhaled sharply. “I don’t know what you—”

Mrs. Hobbes held up a staying hand. “Never you mind. I’ve gone and said too much.” She turned her attention back to the silverware and held up a set of thin silver forks. “Now, are these the ones you’re looking for?”

Sara nodded, watching as Mrs. Hobbes bustled around the table and set out the forks. She made a futile effort to calm her racing heart. Mrs. Hobbes might have her suspicions, but that didn’t mean she knew who Sara was. Or who she used to be.

“Perhaps you should be dressing, ma’am,” Mrs. Hobbes said, pausing and looking at Sara’s dress with a significant lift of her eyebrows.

Sara started and smoothed a self-conscious hand down her old skirt. “Yes. Of course.” She turned and went up to Evie’s room, her steps slow and heavy.

She’d had one dress fitting already with a seamstress Mrs. Hobbes recommended, but it would be two weeks or more before a gown was ready. Until then, she’d wear the navy calico. A far cry from a wedding dress, but it would have to do.

Evie met her at the top of the stairs, hopping from one foot to the other. “Is it time to get ready? I’ve got a surprise for you.” Her eyes sparkled. “Well, Papa and I have a surprise for you.”

At the mention of James, Sara raised her brows. “Really? What is it?”

“Close your eyes.”

Evie grabbed her hand and tugged her into her room. “I hid it under my bed.” She tripped over her words in excitement. “I promised not to say anything.”

“Let me guess,” Sara said with a smile. “The next volume of Ivanhoe .”

“No.” Evie giggled, putting her hands on Sara’s arms to guide her into position. “Stand here. Now... open your eyes.”

Hanging from the wardrobe was a gray dress, the silk shimmering pearly blue in the sunlight. The skirts were fashionably full, and the sleeves trimmed in rich braid a shade darker than the gown. Evie clapped her hands in approval.

“Do you like it?” Evie watched her face closely and Sara forced her frozen lips into a smile.

“It’s... beautiful.”

Evie clapped her hands. “I told Papa you’d love it. Try it on.”

Sara complied, her movements slow, her mind still trying to grasp the gift. The soft folds fell around her, the fitted bodice forming to her figure. “I don’t understand,” she said, plucking at the sleeves. “It fits me perfectly.”

Evie nodded, her eyes dancing. “Mrs. Hobbes got your measurements from the seamstress. Papa took them to Cloutier’s.” Her voice lowered to a reverent whisper as she mentioned the name of the most exclusive dressmaker in Toronto.

Cloutier’s. The name brought back a host of memories. Interminable hours spent poring over fashion plates and standing for fittings. All for a wardrobe of dresses she would never wear.

“Look, Sara!” Evie was pulling a box out from under her bed.

She opened it and lifted out gloves, a fine paisley shawl, and an elegant bonnet with a wide gray ribbon and a single silky ostrich feather that curled along the brim.

Underneath, Sara caught a glimpse of fine lawn and the long, curving lines of a new corset.

She reached out a hand, running the heavy silk between her fingers. How long had it been since she’d worn something so beautiful? So... costly?

“I can’t accept this,” she said. An urgency gripped her. She couldn’t go back to that life. She didn’t want to be that girl who’d had every choice taken away, her future controlled by men who didn’t understand her. “Unbutton me, Evie.”

“What? No. You have to wear it. Papa—”

“Your Papa has no business buying me clothes.”

“You like the dress,” Evie said, her voice flat. “It must be Papa you don’t like.”

“No.” Sara answered too quickly. “That’s not it. It’s just...”

“It’s what?” Evie asked.

Sara looked down at the hurt and confusion on Evie’s face.

She was pushing away the child she loved because she was afraid.

Afraid she’d be rejected anew by the world she once belonged to.

Afraid to trust another man. She took a long, steadying breath.

Her new life beckoned. She couldn’t hide under her mobcap any longer.

“Never mind me,” she said, reaching out to press a kiss to Evie’s forehead. “I’m being foolish. Come, let’s get your hair brushed.” She guided Evie to the dressing table.

Evie sent her an uncertain glance in the mirror. Sara attempted a smile.

“After the wedding...”

Sara’s hands stilled. “Yes?”

“After the wedding, will you be my mama?”

“I’d love that.” Mama. She glanced up at the portrait of Amelia on Evie’s wall. “But what about...?”

“She’s my mother.” Evie’s voice held no trace of doubt. “That’s what I call her. In my head.” Evie leaned back against Sara, tucking her head under Sara’s chin. “But I call you Mama.”

Sara pressed a kiss to Evie’s head, her throat tight.

As soon as Sara finished the braids, Evie jumped off the stool and reached for a stack of papers. “Am I done getting ready? I want to finish my new story.”

Henry’s afternoon lessons had ground to a halt when he rebelled against the alphabet book, saying he wasn’t no baby and reckoned he could teach himself just fine. In response, Evie created her own stories featuring their favorite characters from Ivanhoe .

Sara sent her off with a nod and leaned forward to secure her coronet of braids.

It was the first time she’d attempted anything other than a tight knot of hair at the base of her neck, and her fingers felt thick and clumsy.

A loose strand curled around her finger, the thick ringlet reminding her of the first time she’d put her hair up in artful curls that had taken her maid an hour to arrange.

She gave a ruthless tug, forcing the errant strands back into submission and securing them with a jab of the hairpin.

She stood back to examine the effect. The gray silk shimmered around her, the bodice tight, her narrow waist emphasized by a wide satin belt and gilt buckle.

There was nothing showy or overdone about the gown, yet after so many years in simple sack dresses, she couldn’t stifle the fear that she looked ridiculous.

She reached up to adjust the wide, rounded neckline and froze.

In the mirror, her hands were still rough and red, and the contrast of her chapped skin against the silky-smooth fabric struck her.

She wasn’t Sara O’Connor, not in this dress.

Nor was she the pampered girl she’d once been.

She was becoming someone altogether new.

She’d lived for years now feeling as though she walked in a dark alley, unable to see the path ahead. Alone. Granny said God was with her, but Sara hadn’t believed her, not until Evie Kinney had taken her by the hand. Not until she’d heard James’s voice in that filthy alley in the wharf.

You’ll make Mr. Kinney a fine wife...

if ever you find the courage to be yourself.

A final look in the mirror revealed a woman she didn’t recognize, a woman who had worked too hard for this chance at happiness to let doubt overwhelm her.

Thank you. I see how you protected and guided me, though I thought myself abandoned.

Help me to embrace this new life before me. She straightened her shoulders.

Today, she would take her place as the lady of the house.