“You will be going away soon,” she said softly. “To school.”
“Yes. Father says I am to begin at Michaelmas.”
Faith swallowed the dryness in her throat. “Do you remember when I used to sing to you?”
He shrugged. “A little.”
“You loved the song about the lilies. You used to make me sing it three times.”
He smiled—just a flicker—and shifted uncomfortably. “May I go riding now? It is almost too late in the day.”
Tears pressed at her eyes. She would not let them fall. Not now.
“I want you to remember something,” she said, forcing calm into her voice. “When you are at school, and when you are grown… remember that your mother loved you. Deeply. And that love does not die.”
He looked confused, even a little embarrassed, and offered a hesitant nod. “Yes, Mother.”
“And remember to be kind, Barty. You have so many blessings. Do not let the world harden you.”
His eyes drifted toward the window. “May I go now?” he repeated.
Faith reached up and touched his hand briefly. “Yes.”
He bowed again and walked from the room with the same brisk, confident gait as his father.
She closed her eyes. Lord, protect him. He does not know what he lacks.
The maid entered again, her face pale. “Lady Amelia has been sent for.”
Faith nodded and turned her head slightly on the pillow.
There were footsteps on the stairs. A door opened with a rush of skirts.
“Mama!”
Lady Amelia Fitzwilliam—Amy, as she was affectionately called by her mother—burst into the chamber like a storm, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, her eyes red from crying. At fifteen, she was all pale skin and long limbs, her figure beginning to soften into womanhood. She had none of her father’s reserve—only Faith’s intensity, magnified by youth and unguarded feeling.
She flew to the bed and threw herself across her mother’s legs, sobbing.
“No, no, no—you are not to go. You cannot. You promised!”
Faith stroked her daughter’s hair, even as pain lanced through her side. “My darling. Shh. I am here, Amy. Still here.”
Amelia clung to her. “No one will care about me when you are gone! No one. Father does not even see me, and Barty treats me worse. I am nothing to them.”
“No, you are not Barty,” Faith said gently. “You are better.”
Amelia sobbed harder, and Faith held her as best she could.
“You will not be alone,” she whispered. “Not truly. I taught you the prayers. I taught you where to find the truth.”
Amelia lifted her head, her face blotchy. “But you will not be there tosaythem with me!”
“You will say them yourself. You will remember every word.”
“I do not want to be alone. Who will love me when you are dead?”
“You are not alone.” Faith touched her cheek. “God sees. God loves. And I—Iwill always be near.”
