Hope Between the Pages by Pepper Basham (ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📕

“He has no inheritance and you have no legitimate claim to anything of his.”

“I have his heart and his dreams.” I thrust the declaration through my burning throat. “That is enough.”

“Yet he did not plan for your future.” She edged a step closer, her long fingers fisting and unfisting like tentacles. “Which makes me wonder if he ever had any real intentions for you, other than a mere fling as so many young men are wont to do in these times.”

My pulse thrummed behind the buttons of my shirtwaist, but I refused to give her the benefit of seeing the concern on my face. Doubt webbed through her words, but I closed my eyes, my hand brushing the pocket that held Oliver’s most recent letter. I knew the truth. I’d felt the truth of his love.

“I’m not concerned for my future, Mrs. Camden. I’m not afraid of work.”

“Of course. Return to your stock.” Her sneer curled. “But you see, we have another problem. Should my son, Robert, fall prey to the same fate as his younger brother, there will be no male heirs for my husband’s estate, unless…” Her gaze roamed down my body, splashing icicles in its wake. “By some horrible turn of events, you, even now, carry Oliver’s child, a son, and can eventually prove his legitimacy, and therefore he would be the heir to my money?”

My palm flew instinctively to my stomach.

“I will ensure my grandson is raised as an Englishman under my care, not by some American servant. And I, unlike you, have the documents of proof to use as I will.”

I had no idea if I carried a child, but even the thought of one in the clutches of such a woman gripped me from neck to knees. “You can’t do that.”

“Can’t I?” Her unsettling laugh resounded again. “What power do you have in England, Sadie Blackwell? You’re a penniless foreigner who used to be a servant. I hold all the money and all the influence. Even that little gatehouse that you call home reverts to this estate now that Oliver is gone.”

“Mrs. Camden, ma’am.” The butler emerged in the doorway, his usual pallor ruddied and breath erratic, likely from his search for me. “I didn’t know she’d take to looking for you.”

“Ah, perfect timing, Drake.” Mrs. Camden strode to the butler and plucked a few envelopes and papers from the tray in his hands, sifting through them before holding them out to me. Her lips took a sinister turn. She recognized her status. She held all the cards. “As I understand it, your sister is not well.”

I glanced from her to the papers in her hands, and grasped them when she held them out to me. The top one was a telegram. I read over the words, my knees weakening.

Lark in hospital. Wolfe dead. Come if you can.

“It seems to me it would be in your best interest to find your way back to your home, Miss Blackwell. You are certainly not welcome here.”

I stepped back, and though my eyes stung and my heart pulsed a battered rhythm, I raised my chin and met her gaze. “Mrs. Camden, I would have cared for you with such generosity if you’d given me the chance. We could have helped one another grieve, but no matter what you say or do, I am not the one who lost Oliver. You are.” I pressed my fist to my chest. “He is with me here and chose to be so. You can berate me, hate me, and cast me away, you can even steal my letters, but you can never take him away or the memories and love I have from him.” I smiled even as tears blurred my vision. “In the end, your money and power and hatred can never give you back all you’ve truly lost.”

I had made it halfway to Helen’s house at a hard walk when someone called my name. When I turned, my heart broke all over again. Victoria, hair down and flying around her shoulders like a runaway angel, dashed toward me, her face red from crying, her eyes glossy and pleading. She raced into me, holding to my waist, burying her head into my stomach, sobs shaking through her little body.

“You can’t leave too. You can’t,” she murmured into my shirtwaist.

Had she heard the argument? I sighed down to my knees and brushed away her hair from her damp cheeks. “Oh sweet girl.” I pulled her back into a hug. “I would stay if I could.”

“You cannot let Mother make you leave.” She burrowed deep against me. “She makes everyone leave.”

I squeezed my eyes closed against the new tears and begged God to protect Victoria’s heart, her future. To hold her close, so that she would know love in all the right ways. “I want you to know that I you.” My voice rasped, and I cleared it. “That you are loved just as you are, Victoria.” I pulled back and held her gaze. “You are every bit as intelligent and creative and joyful as your brother, you are all of those things. Don’t forget it. Ever.”

She sniffled, large tears pouring down her cheeks.

“And stay near your granny as much as you can. She will speak truth to you. You know that, don’t you?”

The little girl nodded, her chin dimpled into a dozen creases.

My attention fell to the charm bracelet on my wrist, an idea forming. Something tangible. “I have something for you. Something to help you remember good things. True things.” With a twist of my fingers, I plucked the book charm from my bracelet and pressed it into Victoria’s little palm. “Don’t forget that your story is special and important, and yours to write. You can be brave, even when it’s difficult, and you’re sad or frightened.”

“I can’t write stories,” she murmured between sniffles.

“Yes, you can. Your best one. Your life.” I kissed her fisted hand. “With your kindness and your compassion and joy,