Your devoted friend,
Ivy
She folded the letter and slipped it back into her pocket. She would add to it tonight and leave it outside on the table for Inga to carry to town tomorrow.
“I-vee.” Jewel held up her slate. “Look.”
The G was shaky, enormous, and backward. But it was also unmistakably a G.
“Oh, Jewel.” Ivy put her arm around the girl's shoulders and squeezed. “That is beautiful.”
Jewel leaned into her, warm and trusting.
She pressed her cheek against the top of the girl's head. Her hair smelled of the lavender soap Ivy had brought from New York—one of her few indulgences—packed alongside the fabric scraps, the teaching books, and her dreams.
They sat that way for a long moment, the governess and the child.
This is enough, Ivy told herself.This must be enough.
10
Outside sweeping the front porch, hearing a distant shout of “hal-oo!” made Torin jerk his head up to see a man striding down the road. Not believing his ears, he tensed—a protective reflex, never entirely gone. Still holding the broom, he walked to the edge of the porch and then recognized the approaching walker.
Hank.
Relief and pleasure flooded through him in equal measure. With a smile, he waved, leaned the broom against the porch rail, and leaped down the steps, moving to meet his friend. He hadn't seen Hank in several weeks, and he was surprised by how keenly he'd felt his neighbor’s absence.
His friend wore a broad grin and had a rolled paper tucked under one arm and a cloth-wrapped parcel in his free hand. “I come bearing gifts.” Hank held up the parcel. “Elsie's cinnamon cookies. She made me promise to deliver them personally and not eat a single one on the ride up.”
I hope he left plenty for us.“And did you keep that promise?”
Hank's grin widened. “I keptmostof it.”
Torin shook his head and clasped Hank's hand, pulling him into the rough, one-armed embrace that had become their greeting over the years. “It's good to see you, brother.”
“And you.” Hank stepped back and studied Torin with the frank, assessing look of a man who'd known him through every season of his grief. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded once. “You look well. Better than well.”
Torin ignored Hank’s implication. “Come inside. Ivy and Jewel are at their lessons.” “Plan to make myself at home.”
“I wouldn’t have expected otherwise.”
At the sound of the door and hearing their voices, Jewel came barreling down the hall. “Han! Han!”
Hank hastily handed the roll of paper and parcel of cookies to Torin.
Jewel threw herself at him with the full-bodied enthusiasm she brought to every reunion, as though weeks apart were an eternity barely survived.
Hank scooped her up and twirled. “Jewel Baby! I’ve missed you. Have you been good for your papa and Miss Ivy?” He kept holding her in the air.
“I can count totwenty.” Jewel held up her hands, fingers splayed, as if twenty could be demonstrated with ten digits, and waved them around, knocking off his Stetson. “And I writ-ed Aay, Bee!”
“Wrote,” Ivy corrected gently, coming up behind them. She smiled at Hank. “Mr. Canfield. How nice to meet you.”
“Miss Jackson.” Hank only nodded, his arms being occupied with Jewel. “Elsie sends her regrets that she couldn't come along. She's dying to meet you properly—said to tell you that the next visit, nothing will keep her away. But she and Constance Taylor are up to their elbows in silk and pins. Andre Bellaire commissioned two gowns for his daughter, and the man won't hear of anything less than perfection.”
Ivy's brow lifted with interest. “Isn't Mrs. Norton about to have a baby?”
“In a few weeks.” Hank lowered Jewel to the ground.
