Then, at last, owning their own farm.
She slipped the letters from her pocket. Two. The one Esther had left for Hamilton. And the one she had found in his haversack, muddy, crumpled, bloodstained, and addressed to Esther.
God forgive her, but she’d read them. Hamilton’s a direct confession of love. Esther’s containing Mary’s worst fears—his amputated leg did not dissuade her but deepened her resolve to make a life with him. She would not desert him.
Mary tapped the letters against her hand. Esther Longfellow may declare one thing, her mind full of lofty, romantic ideals, but Mary knew the truth.
The girl would break her boy’s heart. Esther was her father’s daughter, after all.
Mary inched toward the fire. How could Esther, a girl raised in the luxury of Slathersby Hill, live on a working farm?
Her only consolation was if Hamilton married Esther, Sir Michael might tear up his fraudulent document. Unless Sir Michael cut off all capital as a way to control her.
But Esther would grow bored and complain, stirring up Hamilton to provide for her, to enlarge their living quarters, thus putting them into debt.
She may have been raised in the upcountry, but she was a member of the British aristocracy and so accustomed to a certain standard of life.
Esther had grown up with Sassy and Isaac seeing to her every care. Even Kitch catered to her. Her girlish notions of love had blinded her into believing she could do away with such refinements and toil alongside her husband from dawn to dusk.
A husband with all of his limbs would be taxed by the fields, the woods, the wind and rain. But one leaning on a crutch would face twice the hardship.
Nay, the girl did not grasp what lay ahead for Hamilton. She would soon find herself more a farmhand and nursemaid than wife and lover.
She’d break his heart. Of this, Mary had no doubt. And inflict a pain more severe than losing a limb. One from which he may never recover.
Mary considered the letters once again. Dare she act upon her own will?
“Mrs. Lightfoot? Can I disturb you for some help?” Mrs. Nelson called from the door, retreating before Mary could answer.
“Certainly.” She walked to the fire pit with a final glance at the letters in her hand.
“Want to throw something on the fire, Mrs. Lightfoot?” This from fresh-faced Simms.
“Indeed, I do.” She passed the boy one letter. “Can you toss this in for me?”
The boy nodded, taking the note without a word, and flinging it into the flames. Mary considered the second letter and returned it to her pocket.
The deed was done. As the letter burned, she’d sealed her own future.
24
CHLOE
The heart of the film stopped beating when Jesse left. The flow, the rhythm, the inspiration, everything, vanished.
Zarzour’s proclamation had pierced its very soul, and Jesse had left it to bleed.
In a rocking chair on the veranda of the Kingsley home, Chloe sat in costume, the blue dress she’d loved so much on the first day, waiting in the predawn light for her ride to the battlefield.
Today was her last day of shooting. And perhaps her last day in films. Ever. She wasn’t simply quitting. Or prepping for some lavish, dramatic pity party. She was waking up. Understanding. Coming to a heart-wrenching revelation.
The movies did not love her. She was in the wrong business. Her lofty goals of entertaining the masses with touching, inspiring, romantic stories endured the final blow when Jeremiah handed her the revised script.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are. I’ll give it my all.”
He embraced her, kissing her forehead. “You are too good for this town.”
