His gaze bounced between the stack of notes in one hand and the scripture in his other. “I don’t understand it. There’s so much. More than a poor widow could possibly possess.”
“I don’t know your mother, but I do know women. If she took the time to write you a note inside the front cover, chances are she wrote one at the back as well. I know I certainly like to have the last word.”
Setting the money aside, he flipped to the end. Why had he not thought of that sooner? Why had he not dug into this book the minute his mother sent it? Oh, how much misery might have been avoided.
Sure enough, written on the last page was a message in his mother’s hand, flowing smooth and strong.
My son,
I trust that since you’ve made your way to the end of this book, your faith has been kindled afresh, and there is nothing greater I could ask. Use this money for good, yours and others, for it is all the worldly riches I inherited quite unexpectedly when your uncle died. I saved it for you, my son, in hopes that by uncovering the money, you have also discovered something much more valuable.
Ever and always, Mother
He gaped as he reread her final words. She was right. He had found something more valuable than the funding for a new practice. In one hand he clutched the worn Bible, and with the other he entwined his fingers with Amelia’s. The money lay forgotten on the couch cushion.
For he held all that was important to him.
THIRTY-TWO
“My heart, which was before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy.”
One month later
The route to the graveyard was a familiar friend, one Amelia could navigate even were it the pitch of night instead of early morning. The black gate guarding the dead of St. Andrew’s stood wide open, and as she strolled through, a wheeled chair ground into the pea gravel, grating to the ear.
Amelia stepped aside and dipped a small curtsey. “Good morning, Mrs. Ophidian.”
“Good?” The old frog cackled. The dog-faced maid behind her did not. “A true word, Miss Mims. Every day that begins staring death in the faceisa good one. Makes a body realize the only thing keeping you on this side of the dirt is God’s grace alone.”
An accurate sentiment, if a bit odd. Amelia tightened her grip on her bouquet. “Indeed. I did not realize your husband was buried here at St. Andrew’s.”
“He is not.”
“Oh, well…” She cleared her throat, unsure how to salvage that blunder other than to cut things off altogether. “I shall let you be on your way, then. Good day.”
She made to pass by, when surprisingly strong fingers reached out and grabbed her arm.
“Tarry a moment, if you please. I have a story for you.” The steel in Mrs. O’s gaze was as strong as her grasp.
“Of course.” Forcing a smile, Amelia pulled away.
Mrs. O folded her hands in her lap, apparently satisfied she wouldn’t make a run for it. “There was once a young woman,” she began, “right around your age. Every bit as vigorous. Determined as a north wind. Until one day, someone she loved very dearly died prematurely…”
Her words faded off. So did her gaze, until she directed a fierce stare right into Amelia’s soul. “Grief is a strange thing, Miss Mims. Sometimes it’s shy. Quiet. Crouching in a shadowy corner so that you don’t even know it’s there. Other times it attacks like a thick, damp pneumonia, smothering the life from you. Most of the time, though—and this is the worst, mind—sorrow is a grey man, hanging off your arm like a needy old uncle you wish to tell to go away, but you know your words will be wasted. He won’t leave. He has nowhere else to go.” A great sigh lifted her chest.
“So you give in. Shut yourself away with him. Dine with the grey man every blessed night and greet him the moment your eyes flutter open in the morning. Before you know it, years have passed. Many,manyyears. And one day you look at the old hag in the mirror and wonder why you wasted your life on the bones of someone who’d been buried decades ago.” She sat back in her chair, an expectant tilt to her head.
“I…er…” Amelia swallowed. What was she to say to that? “That is a very sad tale, Mrs. Ophidian.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” For a moment, the woman’s gaze burned like hot embers, then she swiveled her head to her maid. “Well, Simmons, are you going to just stand there or get me to the feed store? My darlings at home shall starve if I don’t place a new order for birdseed.”
The maid showed no emotion whatsoever, just readjusted her grip on the chair handles and started pushing.
Amelia stepped aside. “Thank you, Mrs. Ophidian.”
Mrs. O winked at her as she passed.
More affected than she cared to admit, Amelia worked her way to the tree line, where an ornate fence marked off the Balfour family plot. The morning breeze shushed through the branches of a nearby pine tree, whispering like an old friend. Or a brother. Amelia listened hard. If Colin could speak to her now, what might he say? Her smile tasted bittersweet, for in her heart, she knew exactly what his words would be…an echo of Mrs. Ophidian’s, no doubt.
