The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,60
weeks. When she strung the painful events together in her mind, she could see that none of it had happened by accident or her own doing. Minute by minute, God had indeed been faithful to her.
Hope sparked, glowing at first like a tiny ember. Each word Mrs. Dunne uttered fanned her desire to know more.
Lucy grew hot as she slept, and Amelia shifted the babe in her arms. Her sleeve was damp with Lucy’s perspiration. Fiery locks clung to her forehead, and Amelia sobered. The memory of Katherine’s hair clinging to her forehead flashed before her. The same titian hue.
At the memory a particular passage came to mind. “Mrs. Dunne, would you please read the Twenty-Third Psalm?”
Mrs. Dunne didn’t need to turn the page. The words, memorized, slipped from her lips in perfect rhythm. Amelia straightened. She’d not heard nor read the words since Katherine’s last day. Then she had spoken them without faith. How would she receive them now?
As the familiar verses washed over her, she realized she had a choice. She could continue stumbling forward in unbelief, or she could accept that she had a shepherd—and be grateful.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”
Jane believed it. Katherine had believed it.
In that moment, Amelia chose to believe it too.
Graham sank down into the office chair in the library and rested his forearms on the leather inlay of the desk. He studied the gold embossment adorning the edge. He hadn’t noticed the detail before. The desktop, which only hours ago stood littered with papers and books, was now clear.
He leaned back to open the desk drawer. No ledger either. What else was William hiding?
He reached forward for the writing box on the corner. He needed to write Carrington a note about his intention to anonymously buy the land back from Littleton, whatever the cost, then respond to Lieutenant Foster’s letter regarding the additional ship repairs.
The note to Carrington took minutes. He dried the ink, folded the parchment and sealed it, and set it aside for a courier, then pulled Foster’s letter from his satchel. As he reread the assessment of damages, Graham cupped his hand behind his neck and rubbed the tight muscles, willing the memories of smoke and screams to retreat from his mind. Would he ever be free of them?
With the wedding scheduled for Friday, he’d make the long trip to Plymouth the following week to oversee the repairs personally. The success of his missions was entirely on his shoulders. It was his ship, his responsibility.
Plymouth. Another rush of memories bore down upon him. He’d said good-bye to Katherine in Plymouth, but the place stood out in his mind for another reason.
Graham rubbed his hand against the rough stubble on his chin. Stephen Sulter. How long had it been since he’d seen the man? Four years? Five? As a lad he’d learned from Sulter everything he knew about running a ship and being a fair leader. And more. He stared at the blank paper, but his quill refused to scratch across the smooth surface. Why had he avoided contacting his former captain for so long?
Graham knew the answer to that question. Pride. He didn’t want Stephen Sulter to know he had failed.
Sulter no longer lived in Plymouth, of course. The man had left the navy for the church and now served as vicar for a parish in Liverpool. Graham knew he should go see Sulter. But if he did, what would he say to the man? That he’d relapsed into old habits? That as a result, nine men died and almost a dozen had been wounded? The thought of admitting that failure to anyone made him cringe. But to tell Sulter, the man who had helped him turn his life around and become a man of God? How could he face that?
He rubbed his face with his hand as memories of that time in his life overtook the others. Such peace had covered him then. Was it too late to get it back? Would God even forgive him after so much time?
Perhaps he would visit Sulter before returning to sea. Or perhaps it was still too soon.
Graham decided to save his letter to Foster for the morning. He retired to his bedchamber. But try as he might, sleep eluded him. He tossed one way, then the other, unaccustomed to such a struggle.