THIRTY-FIVE

Once again, another year was nearing the end. This one had started out with my resolve to be “a better person.” The very phrase now mocked me. And yet, there were times, when I was wholly in the present, in the way my mind seemed to connect with Chance’s, twining around each other, I did feel better.

Katherine also made me feel better, in an out-of-breath, exhilarated kind of way.

Thinking on Constance, still away, did not make me feel better.

Christmas was yet two weeks hence, but there was snow on the ground, and the soft whiteness of it, in contrast to the strong gold and red and green decorations coming at one from all directions as one bustled past the shops, invited the wistful thought that an abundance of festivity could somehow heal.

I could have kept to the carriage the whole way, but I had sent it on, preferring to walk a bit. Despite the bracing chill, it was a good decision, for I got the chance to hear the carolers sing a hymn to Jesus outside the sweet shop.

Somehow, it seemed like a good omen.


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I was still removing my gloves in the foyer when Lucy handed me the post. When I saw the familiar handwriting, I dropped my gloves and the rest of the letters on the hall bench, retreating to the back parlor for some privacy. When I had come in the front door, I had been thinking how thirsty I was. But I forgot thirst now, forgot base comfort.

There was no salutation, the letter opening like an abrupt lovemaking. Well, for a long time now, such formalities had been only an occasional thing on both our parts. Odder was the absence of a loving signature.

Chance wrote:

                  

I have heard rumor that, in honor of the clean slate a new century holds forth, Queen Victoria has proposed to release some prisoners on a general pardon, those she feels pose no further threat to society at large. Apparently, Herbert John Gladstone, the chief Liberal whip, has placed this petition before her, claiming such a move would be in her best interests, that it would make her appear young, vital, progressive, again. But prisoners need a sponsor, someone who is willing to write Her Majesty on the prisoner’s behalf. I cannot help but wonder if you, in turn, would be willing to petition her for me.

                  

I remembered John’s prison research notes and his referring to Gladstone’s work in the area as the dabbling of dilettantes. What would he say of this new idea of the chief Liberal whip?

But that was a mere distraction.

The only time in my life I had ever experienced such an overwhelming change of fate had been upon learning I was pregnant with Weston. At the time, everyone assumed, “You must be so happy,” as if there could only ever be a single emotional reaction to a thing. But I had spent nearly ten years living with the increasingly positive belief I would never have a child, had accepted this fate. And so, upon learning my fate had changed, I experienced almost every emotion imaginable: confusion, worry, even anger this had not happened earlier; relief, wonder, joy, and finally—blessedly—happiness.

This was like that in some ways.

I had been so certain, despite my day and night dreams, Chance and I could never meet, would never meet, I had never allowed myself the luxury of believing such a meeting might really happen.

And now the impossible had become possible!

Unlike the mixed emotions I had felt upon learning of my pregnancy, however, my emotions now were all on the positive side of the ledger: giddy disbelief, wonder, joy, all of it made possible by—best of all—hope.

If anyone could have seen me in that moment, they would have seen a woman with a smile so uncomplicated, a woman so overcome with elation, there were glittering tears in her eyes.

If anyone could have seen me in the next instant, they would have seen a contrastingly different display of emotion: suspicion, doubt, as I realized what Chance was asking me to do for him and the thought occurred to me for the first time:

Could it be possible that Chance had merely set out to use me?