tomorrow will be fine.”
“Wonderful, Mrs. Ford. I’ll see you at two.”
Sophie nodded, and she and Christine made their way back to the house.
Miriam joined them for dinner and Sophie enjoyed her immensely. She was a woman in her mid-sixties and full of energy. Christine had moved in with Miriam after Peter died, and it seemed to work out well for both of the women.
The rest of the evening was spent in the parlor, the same room she was brought to after she was found. Was it really only a few days since she arrived in the nineteenth century?
As the night came to a close, Christine and Miriam said their good-byes. Sophie wasn’t sure what she was going to do until two o’clock the next day, having already finished her novel, so she snuck back to the library for another look and then made her way to her room.
Once inside , Sophie tried her best to concentrate on her pages swimming before her, but she had miscalculated exactly how much light a candle actually gave off. Not quite enough to read—actually, not quite enough to do anything other than avoid tripping over one’s own feet. After about thirty minutes, she gave up.
Blowing out the candle, Sophie climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling for what seemed like an eternity.
CHAPTER NINE
The soldier had been closed away in the south guestroom for four days and Amelia thought her head would explode with curiosity. Her mother watched her like a hawk and she hadn’t had the chance to sneak away.
Today would be the day. Her mother was going into town to do some shopping, and Amelia planned to feign a headache and a cough. She stood by the fire and made certain she was close enough for the heat to form sweat on her brow, just in case her mother needed further convincing. She heard the knock at her door and buried herself further under her quilt. She started to cough, quite convincingly if she did say so herself, just as the door opened.
“Amelia?”
Cough, cough.
“Dear? Are you coming to town?”
Cough, sniffle, cough. “Mama, I don’t feel well,” Amelia rasped.
Her mother hemmed quietly and made her way to the bed. Amelia felt the cool hand on her forehead. “Dear, you’re burning up.”
Cough.
Mrs. Powell sighed. “I don’t think you should come with me today. I’ll let Della know she needs to tend to you as well.”
Sniff.
“You’ll stay in this bed, Amelia.”
“Yes, Mama,” she rasped.
Mrs. Powell stared down at her for several seconds before turning and walking out the door with a swish. Amelia waited for as long as she could before throwing the covers off. She eased out of bed and tiptoed to the window. Her mother’s carriage was already halfway down the road and would be out the front gates within minutes. She was safe.
A knock at the door had her flying back under the covers just as Della came in with a tray. “You’s mama said you’s sick, Miss Amelia.”
Amelia poked her head out from under the sheet to see the raised eyebrow of a woman not at all convinced she was telling the truth. Amelia giggled and jumped out of bed. “I never can fool you, can I, Della?”
Della set the tray on the bureau. “What you up to, chil’?”
“I want to see the soldier and Mama won’t let me.”
Della crossed her arms over her thick chest. “I don’ blame her.”
“Did you find out anything else? What’s his name, Della? Where’s his unit?” Amelia pulled off her nightgown. “Oh, and did the doctor get the bullet out?”
“Your daddy said he’s a lieutenant ‛cause of the bars on his jacket, but the man only remembers that his name is James Emerson.” Della picked up Amelia’s discarded nightgown. “He don’t know where he from or nothin’ else about his life. He’s healin’ jus’ fine. He don’t talk much, but he’s polite when he does.”
Amelia clapped her hands. “So, he’s a mystery.”
“Yes’m.”
“Please help me dress, Della. I want to see him.” Amelia started to pull clothing from
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