Chapter Nine
Rosie held Lilliannestled in her arms. Izzy was on the floor, her face a mask of exaggerated enthusiasm as she dangled a knitted rabbit above the baby’s head, eliciting gurgles of delight.
“Almost time for Ana to return,” Rosie murmured, her gaze shifting between the clock and the letter tucked safely inside her apron pocket. The weight of the unspoken words pressed against her chest, but she remained resolute. She owed it to both her sisters to share the news when they were all together.
Izzy looked up, catching the edge in Rosie’s voice. “Everything all right?” she asked, resting back on her heels while keeping one eye on Lillian’s flailing hands.
“Fine, just fine,” Rosie assured with a swift smile.
“Is it Charles again?” Izzy’s brow crinkled with concern.
“No, no, nothing of that sort,” Rosie hastened to say, quelling the urge to divulge the contents of the letter. It wasn’t the right time—not yet.
The front door creaked open, and there stood Ana, her cheeks flushed from the brisk morning air and her hair escaping the confines of her bun in wispy rebellion. She shed her coat, revealing the subtle swell of pregnancy beneath her dress.
“Goodness, smells like heaven in here,” Ana beamed, unwinding the scarf from around her neck.
“Chicken pot pie,” Rosie announced, pride lacing her tone. “And apple crisp for dessert.”
“Rosie, you spoil us,” Ana said as they gathered around the table, clinking their forks against the plates laden with steaming pie. They recounted tales from the infirmary and debated the merits of adding nutmeg to apple desserts.
Once the final crumbs had been swept away, the sisters piled their dishes into the sink. Soapy water sloshed over the sides as Rosie plunged her hands into the suds, passing clean plates to Ana for drying. Izzy, humming a tune, stacked them with precision. They’d done dishes this way together many times over the years, and it felt comfortable.
“Ana, Izzy,” Rosie said, “there’s something we need to discuss.” She dried her hands on her apron.
“Sounds serious,” Ana said, matching Rosie’s somber expression.
“Yesterday, a letter arrived.” Rosie drew the envelope from her pocket, its edges worn from her handling. “It’s addressed to all three of us. From Massachusetts.”
“Massachusetts?” Izzy repeated, her interest piqued.
“It must be from Elizabeth Tandy!” Ana guessed.
“Let’s sit,” Rosie suggested, leading them to the sitting area. They perched on the edge of the sofa.
“Before I read it,” Rosie took a deep breath, “I want you both to know that whatever it says, we’re in this together.”
“Always,” Ana affirmed, reaching out to squeeze Rosie’s hand.
“Of course,” Izzy agreed.
With shared nods of encouragement, Rosie broke the seal of the letter, unfolding the future as easily as the creased paper in her hands.
Rosie’s hands trembled slightly as she held the letter aloft, the weight of its contents as heavy as lead in her heart. She settled into the high-backed armchair, her eyes glancing over to where Lillian lay, swaddled in dreams. The baby’s chest rose and fell in a rhythm that commanded silence and gentleness.
“Shall we?” Izzy whispered, needles poised above the soft blue yarn, a half-finished sock in her lap. Ana, across from her, nodded, her own knitting forgotten for the moment.
“Keep your voices down,” Rosie reminded them softly, glancing at Lillian’s peaceful face before carefully smoothing out the paper.
She began to read, her voice a hushed murmur that wove around the click-clack of Izzy’s knitting needles.
Massachusetts,
October 8, 1898
My Beloved Daughters,
My heart is laden with a multitude of emotions—hope, trepidation, and an overwhelming love—as I endeavor to connect with you, my dear daughters, whom I have yearned to know since I learned of your births.
