The peace deposited in Esther by the divine visitation began to wane. “Can you tell him I’ve gone away? I sail from Charles Town on theGloriouspacket in five days.”
The woman regarded her for a tense moment, then stepped aside for her to enter. “Do you care to leave a note?”
“Do you not hear me? I am leaving. For England. No, I do not want to merely leave a note.” Esther pressed past the woman into the small sitting room, the highs and lows of the morning tugging her every which way. “Hamilton! Where are you?”
“Esther, hush. He’s sleeping. Which he desperately needs to do.”
“Upstairs? In his room?” Esther glanced at the stairwell, then darted toward the steps. “Hamilton!”
“Esther! Leave him be!” Aunt Mary ran after her, their footsteps hammering in alternating rhythm.
She knocked on the closed door, then burst inside. Dark and warm, the air was depressed with the scent of human waste in the pot and unwashed flesh.
“Hamilton,” she said, trembling, unable to move forward or turn in retreat. “Are you awake?” He did not stir. “I’m leaving. Father is sending me to England. He fears the rebels. Or so he says. But I rather think he’s in some trouble with Lord Whatham. I dare say Quill Farm is somehow involved.” His shoulders rose gently as he breathed, but he did not turn toward her. “Hamilton!” Esther hammered the floor with her heel. “Do you not hear me? I am leaving. Going away. Who knows when I will return?”
She waited.Please answer me.
“You best go, Esther.” Mrs. Lightfoot touched her arm.
“Will you not speak to me? After all we’ve meant to one another? You claim to no longer love me, but I do not believe you. Hamilton?”
One second. Two. Then three.
“You heard my aunt. Go.”
“I will go only if you turn over and face me.”
“Esther! I said go!”
She whirled out of the room and tripped down the stairs, bursting from the house into the clean, morning air. Isaac stood ready at the carriage door.
How could he treat her so? Is that all her friendship, her love, meant to him?
“Esther, wait, please.” Mrs. Lightfoot ran after her. In the sharp, morning light, her weariness was evident. Her tired eyes, unkempt hair, faded dress, stained apron. “Forgive him, he is not himself.” She pressed a tightly folded letter into Esther’s hand. “God bless you, my dear. Truly. God bless you.”
When the carriage pulled away, Esther slid from the seat to the carriage floor, weeping.
Hamilton Lightfoot did not love her. He’d tried to tell her, but she refused to believe. Now she had no cause to doubt.
Tousled by the rough road, she mourned her fading childhood, the present she could not control and the future she could not see.
Father willed her to leave Slathersby Hill. Hamilton willed her to leave him. And the Man she’d encountered in the library—Jesus, to be sure—asked more of her than any woman could bear.
To leave herself—her dreams, hopes, and desires—for Him.
Love required her complete surrender. But in turn—oh, pray to heaven, in return—love would bring her everything.
25
HAMILTON
He heard the clap of the front door and the hammer of horses’ hooves, the sound of a carriage disappearing down the road.
Tears stained his pillowcase. He’d barely had the strength not to turn over and beg her to stay.
But he could not, would not, ruin her life. Aunt Mary was right. He could offer her nothing. If her father was sending her away, ’twas for the best. She belonged in England with her peers.
His door creaked open.
