The parchment was thin and of obvious poor quality. Its contents had been secured not with a large seal and expensive wax, but with a small teardrop from a cheap, tallow candle. Worn indentations in telltale patterns indicated the paper had been previously employed for some other task, and later repurposed in the form of this letter.
A note from her family. Nora clutched it to her chest in relief.
“Thank you,” she whispered to the footman.
He bowed in acknowledgement before disappearing with the now empty tray.
Nora spun in a circle before sudden fear gripped her heart. What if this was not happy tidings from the farm? What if something had happened to Grandmother or Grandfather, and she was too far away to help?
She pulled a footstool as close to the fire as she dared and broke the droplet of wax with trembling hands.
The writing was definitely her brother’s hand. His penmanship was the only one she could easily read. Not because his handiwork was more refined than their grandparents’, but because Carter made it purposefully less so.
Big, printed letters instead of tightly flowing script. Large spaces between each word. Nora swallowed. Grandfather would have an apoplexy to see Carter “waste” precious paper so, but whatever was in the message, Carter had wished to ensure Nora capable of reading it.
She tamped down her fears and focused on the first line.
To my brilliant and talented sister,
As she was alonein the receiving parlor, Nora did not bother to hide an amused roll of her eyes. Carter had always begun correspondence to her in this manner. According to her brother, it was to remind Nora of her own worth.
Perhaps that was true. But the familiar greeting also served another—arguably more important—purpose.
It centered her on the task of reading. Reminded her which way the “b” and “d” pointed. And it allowed her to begin each letter with at least one line of easy comprehension—of success—before the arduous, humiliating work of making it through the rest of the words, letter by dancing letter.
Nora straightened her shoulders. She hated feeling so stupid. So helpless. So frustrated with her inability to simply scan the contents to find out if Carter had written with news of her grandparents’ health, or perhaps some insight into how the sketches she had mailed to their farm might have ended up in a London printing press a hundred miles from their home in the West Midlands.
She would have to decipher this line by line. Word by word.
You must be the queen of the ball by now.
Wasn’tthat just like an adoring younger brother? Nora lowered her eyes with a sad smile. She was glad he did not suspect the truth.
She was queen of fetching items from other rooms, of helping the baroness in and out of chairs, of enduring long stretches of being no more noticeable than a speck of dust on the carpet by sketching better versions of her life in the sanctity of her own mind.
Recasting reality so thatshewas the one who received fancy invitations. So thatshewas the popular debutante laughing with her friends. So thatshewas the lady whirling gaily amid a crowded dance floor.
Instead, despite finding herself in the most populous city in England, attending the biggest crushes of the Season, Nora was far lonelier than she had ever been back home on their simple sheep farm. There, she had been an important part of everyday life.
Grandmother’s fingers are doing much better.
Nora doubted this.In her six-and-twenty years, she had seen more than enough elderly farmers progress from spry and capable to bent husks of the people they had once been.
Already it took a full hour each morning for Grandmother to uncurl her warped hands. The once slender fingers were now disfigured by painful, swollen knots at each joint. Her reward for long years of dipping candles, chopping vegetables, scrubbing pots, washing linens, churning butter. The list of chores was endless.
As soon as Nora was big enough to wield a broom, she had helped out as best she could. Her grandparents were her entire world.
When she and Carter had been orphaned, they had taken both children in without hesitation. Never mind that there was never enough money. There was always more than enough love.
Grandfather shouts louder every day, although he denies it.
Her heart gave a homesick pang.Both of her grandparents’ hearing had steadily declined over the last several years. Grandmother tried to mask the issue by speaking softer and softer in an attempt to blend with those around her, whereas Grandfather simply increased his volume as if it were not he, but rather everyone else, who had gone deaf.
If only that were the extent of their problems. Just a matter of raising one’s voice.
Nora’s shoulders slumped. They needed so much more. Grandfather’s eyesight and poor hip were even worse than Grandmother’s arthritis, rendering him little able to tend the crops anymore. Nora had taken over Grandmother’s duties, and Carter had taken over all of Grandfather’s, but mere labor wasn’t enough.
The farm needed money to stay afloat.
