The year is 1879. When thirteen-year-old Ruth Merritt Holbrook emerges from her family's burning estate, bloody and charred, but entirely numb--She makes headlines. Reporters believe she is deranged. They accuse her of having set the fire. All the h...
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He does not deserve my forgiveness and I shall not give it to him. His letter, his presumption that I would even grace him with my presence much less spend an evening with him, is appalling. I know that I appear weak because of being at St. Agatha's, but I am not an invalid, I am a lady. I deserve better treatment and I shall not allow myself to be deprived of it. Yes, I too remember our conversation on the train and how I had avoided his apology. The deed was intentional. I will not give him my attention any further.
In other, more cheerful news, Hanny is arriving by this mornings train and we are set to go shopping just as soon as she arrives and is settled. We are both in need of new things and I'm more than itching to get rid of this morbid frock. It has only been a matter of days, but I miss her. We still have much to talk about regarding her lies about my mail, but I find myself less concerned with it now. That is not to say that she has my trust, but she still holds my friendship. I have yet to decide if I will broach the subject with her or if I should just allow this wrong to go unaddressed. A part of me recognizes that it would do no good to speak of it. She is no longer a nun and I am no longer her charge. We are on new, even, ground. Should I not just look forward?
Gabe has remained home from his office today and he sits in an armchair opposite me reaching today's newspaper. He is older than when I last saw him—he has become a man. My parents would be proud of what he has become. His business is successful, his wife is charming and his home is lovely. And he is kind to me.
Last night he called me into his study after dinner. He had black coffee and even went through the trouble of making me tea keeping the time on his pocket watch so that I might know when it was sufficiently cool. There was something in his body language, a stiffness that was uncharacteristic for him. Gabe is always incredibly well spoken, it is his strong suit—what my father always said would make him a good lawyer. His usual countenance seems faded, taken over by a spirit of exhaustion. Nevertheless, he tried to fake it for me. "Checkers or chess?"
"How competitive are you feeling?"
His mouth quirked up in the shadow of a smile and he said, "Should I be more competitive for one then other?"
I tapped my fingernail on the decorative wooden box containing the chess pieces, "I cannot uphold well-structured conversation while playing chess, I am far too out of practice."
"Sounds like cowardice."
"I do not hear you building a case to play it either."
He stood and grabbed the box from the table between us. "We shall play checkers then." He made quick work of putting it away and grabbing the box containing checkers from their place on the shelf. Since my tea was still cooling, I went to work setting up the game board.
He watched me work, his expression more serious than it had been moment earlier. "You look well, Merritt. I am very pleased."
I paused and looked to him. "I am well. Being out of St. Agatha's has done my soul good."
