That handwriting . . . the tiny precise letters mixed in with the large, sweeping ones. She’d seen it at the boathouse where they met. John had brought along correspondence to work on as he’d waited for her—hours sometimes, depending on when she’d been able to get away—and she’d glanced at the papers on top of the old crates he’d used as a desk.
At the sight of that script, longing swept through her, along with the deep relief that he was alive. Unharmed. Oh how she’d yearned for him. How she’d prayed for his safety. Wished fervently for the news that he was coming home. To her.
“Angelina,” Mr. Whitfield read, “I write this letter regretfully and with the knowledge that my words will wound you. But I must be true to my heart. My time away from you has made things abundantly clear. Our trysts were pleasant, but lack a future. When I return home, I will marry Astrid. Surely you can see that anything else is impossible. You must accept your place in the world, Angelina. Only in this way will you live a satisfying life. Sincerely, John.”
Mr. Whitfield cleared his throat, folding the letter slowly. Angelina’s heart had sunk during the reading and now it lay heavy in the pit of her stomach, misery gripping her.
She raised her eyes slowly to Mrs. Chamberlain’s and Mrs. Chamberlain looked back at her, her lips curved into a small smile. This pleased her. Of course it did.
Mrs. Chamberlain brushed her hands as if all that nasty business between John and Angelina was now over and she could move forward with her life.
But Angelina’s life had ended. Just a few brief lines had destroyed her heart.
Our trysts were pleasant.
Pleasant.
How could this be true? Had the war somehow convinced him that she was not worth fighting for? He’d told her he loved her.
Know who to trust. And who not to trust.
Mr. Whitfield handed the letter to Mrs. Chamberlain and she took it, tossing it into the fireplace, but drawing back quickly when a spark flew at the sleeve of her gown and it caught flame. Mrs. Chamberlain let out a scream and beat at her sleeve as Mr. Whitfield moved to help her.
Angelina’s eyes went to the letter where it had fallen next to the grate and she moved swiftly, taking advantage of the commotion and scooping it up. She slipped it beneath the towel she was still holding as Mrs. Chamberlain turned around, the fire on her sleeve having been extinguished. Angelina looked at her blankly.
“Well, go on then,” Mrs. Chamberlain said, glancing at the roaring fire. “You’ve been dismissed.”
Angelina turned without another word. She walked to the door on legs of jelly, Lawrence Whitfield’s whispered words to Mrs. Chamberlain following her down the hall: “You see, Mrs. Chamberlain, my brother’s foolhardiness is resolved. I look forward to toasting to John and Astrid at their wedding.”
The pressure in her head grew, the tears she’d held back in the parlor now streaming down her face. She gripped the letter tightly, a small, small spark of hope still burning in her belly. She swiped at the wetness on her cheeks and tried to keep that small light aglow in her mind’s eye.
I love you. I will come back to you, do you hear me?
Nothin’ but danger. Nothin’ but danger.
“Lina?” her mama called as she walked past the kitchen, catching a glimpse of her daughter’s expression, her own draining of color. “Lina?” she repeated, though weakly the second time. Angelina ignored her, walking on, climbing the second-floor stairs and knocking on Astrid’s door, entering without waiting for a response.
Astrid was sitting on her window seat reading a book and looked surprised when Angelina entered. “Angelina? What is it?”
Angelina thrust the letter in front of her, the paper shaking in her grip. “Will you read this, Astrid? John’s brother read it to me and states that John’s affection for me has ceased.”
Astrid stared at her for a moment, several expressions flitting over her face. Expressions that Angelina was too distraught to read.
Astrid stood, walking to Angelina and taking the letter from her. She unfolded it slowly, glancing at Angelina as she did so, a frown marring her forehead.
Her eyes moved down the lines as she read and Angelina held her breath, a lump swelling in her throat. Please, please. Tell me they lied, she thought desperately. I trust you, John.
“I’m sorry, Angelina,” Astrid said softly. “It says what Lawrence told you it says.” Astrid handed the letter back to Angelina, stepping closer, wrapping her arms around her half-sister.
Angelina sagged into her, the tiny light inside of her extinguishing, hope draining. She felt empty, devoid, a moan climbing her throat, but not seeming to have any sound.
“It’s better for you this way,” Astrid said, pulling away and gripping her upper arms, her gaze intense. “Safer. My mama . . . you have no idea what she’s capable of, Angelina, the way hate has carved itself so deeply into her. If she sees you . . . hoping for things, planning for things, she’ll hurt you, or your mama, maybe both of you. It’s better this way,” she repeated and Angelina had the distant notion she was trying to convince herself as much as Angelina, but she was too sick with grief to consider it any more.
Nothing mattered, nothing at all, especially her. Especially her. She was merely something to discard. Something to hurt and throw away. Her mama was right, there was no place for love in Angelina’s life. And there never would be.
And Angelina, she couldn’t live a life without love.
She nodded, turning slowly and exiting Astrid’s room. Astrid didn’t try to stop her. She hesitated outside of her father’s room for just a moment before going inside.
She felt nothing. She wanted to feel nothing.
When she stepped back into the hallway, her father loomed before her. “What are you doing?”
She looked at him, her eyes beseeching, hoping against hope to find that tenderness that used to be in his gaze when he’d bounced her on his knee as a child. “Nothing, Mr. Chamberlain.”
His eyes narrowed as he glanced toward his closed door and then back at her. “Well then, get on back to the kitchen, girl.”
Girl.
She’d tried so hard to emulate him, like the other Chamberlains who lived and ruled this house. She’d sat upon her father’s knee, listening as he’d read her stories. She’d learned to speak like them, even to adopt the same mannerisms so they might come to love her.
But her mama had been right. Her efforts were in vain. It didn’t matter what she tried to be . . . and it never would. He’d found her charming once upon a time, perhaps a novelty, but now she was a woman and . . . to him, she didn’t even have a name.
Girl.
She ducked around the man who’d given her life against her mama’s will on a dirty cellar floor and walked slowly down the stairs.
Outside, the breeze was cold upon her skin. She looked beyond to the sugarcane fields, heads bobbing in the distance and her heart sank lower. Lower.
If the world were different, maybe she wouldn’t feel this clawing devastation inside, this vast and unending hopelessness. If the world were different, she’d start walking, and she’d keep walking. Beyond the high stone wall that contained Windisle, beyond New Orleans maybe. She’d go somewhere where she’d be free to make her own choices and live her own life. But that wouldn’t happen.
My time away from you has made things abundantly clear . . . When I return home, I will marry Astrid. Surely you can see that anything else is impossible. You must accept your place in the world, Angelina.
Her place in the world—this godforsaken world that would never change—was as ash.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The upstairs bedroom was spacious and luxurious, Jonah’s feet sinking into the thick carpet as he approached the bed where the man lay dying. Chandler Knowles.
Jonah removed the helmet he wore, the one he’d kept on when the housekeeper had answered the front door. When he’d called, he’d let her know he was coming and was surprised to find himself ushered inside immediately, the woman murmuring that Mr. Knowles was expecting him.
Mr. Knowles’s glossy eyes moved over Jonah’s damaged face, and despite being sickly and bedridden, he managed to cringe harshly. Jonah told himself the reaction did not matter. He no longer cared whether this man respected him or not. Didn’t care if he looked at him in horror.