Rose’s side of the conversation. The older woman spoke in the same commanding tone she’d took with me, “You don't think I should have known about a niece? My only family. After David died, I didn’t have anybody.”
A long pause ensued where only the sounds of creaking footsteps and sighs made their way up the staircase. At least I wasn’t the only one who found my mother annoying. Maybe Rose rolled her eyes, too. Maybe it was just something about my mom that made people want to roll their eyes at her.
“I’m not sure I will send her home. She wants to stay.” Another pause. “She’s old enough to make her own decisions.”
I smiled. This. Was. Awesome. I liked the way this woman thought.
“No. She’s not going home tonight. I already sent her up to a room and I’m going back to bed now, too. Sarah will call you in the morning."
The phone clicked off and Rose’s shadow moved into the foyer. I turned, drowning a surprised cry threatening to squeak out, and ran back up the rest of the stairs trying to make as little noise as possible.
Once behind the bedroom door, I flung myself onto the rose-flowered quilt. Aunt Rose hung up on my mother. She actually hung up on my mother.
A huge smile took over my face.
That was my idea of family. A no-nonsense bad ass.
CHAPTER TWO
Isabella
1639
Isabella lay in a rope-strung straw mattress, a breath held in her tight chest. She listened for the stirrings of her parents who lay in their own small room just beyond the brick of the fireplace. Nothing but the night sounds surrounded their timbered cottage.
She rose, cringing when the ropes pulled taut and groaned its displeasure at her. The rooms remained still, though, and for that she gave thanks. Isabella slipped her stockinged feet into worn leather shoes and prayed for forgiveness for her actions as of late. Her mind felt not her own.
She stepped away and moved nimbly across the planked floor before pressing her ear against the wood of the door.
She held her breath. The house sat still.
She needed to be sure.
Before her, though she could scarce believe it still, was a desk made of fine wood. It was by far the most agreeable adornment that had ever graced their humble rooms. She reached to play her fingers over the wood.
Later , she chided herself, tomorrow I shall have a little time.
On her new desk, a candle flickered, threatening to go out. It bent low from the draft of the window and then shot straight up again. In haste she moved forward and took a piece of parchment from her pouch. Unfolding it, Isabella leaned in toward the flame, angling the paper so she could read the familiar words written in crisp, slanted writing.
Nerves scuttled through her, like the hundreds of mice hunting the town streets. She pressed the paper against her chest and sighed. Then, careful to fold along the same edges, she closed it once more. Her eyes flicked towards the door, but the parchment in her hands stayed her, reminding her of still yet another chore. She must not become forgetful.
Isabella passed the door along the outside of her room, careful not to go near the center. The floorboards creaked there, even with her slight step. She made her way to the opposite corner, bent down on hands and knees, and used the nub of her finger to pry open the loose floorboard there. Once free, she grasped the board with both hands and inched it open.
Isabella drew out a bundle of paper tied with sewing string. She let her eyes pause and delight a moment over the fine papers before placing the parcel on the floor next to her. Bringing the newest sacrament to her lips, she kissed it, then hid the letter with that of Thomas’ others.
She replaced the board, her heart beating faster with every moment and moved to the door. Her ear rested against the wood where she heard the sounds of slumber interrupting the quiet of the night. She was now free to slink out of the house unnoticed.
Without folly,
A long pause ensued where only the sounds of creaking footsteps and sighs made their way up the staircase. At least I wasn’t the only one who found my mother annoying. Maybe Rose rolled her eyes, too. Maybe it was just something about my mom that made people want to roll their eyes at her.
“I’m not sure I will send her home. She wants to stay.” Another pause. “She’s old enough to make her own decisions.”
I smiled. This. Was. Awesome. I liked the way this woman thought.
“No. She’s not going home tonight. I already sent her up to a room and I’m going back to bed now, too. Sarah will call you in the morning."
The phone clicked off and Rose’s shadow moved into the foyer. I turned, drowning a surprised cry threatening to squeak out, and ran back up the rest of the stairs trying to make as little noise as possible.
Once behind the bedroom door, I flung myself onto the rose-flowered quilt. Aunt Rose hung up on my mother. She actually hung up on my mother.
A huge smile took over my face.
That was my idea of family. A no-nonsense bad ass.
CHAPTER TWO
Isabella
1639
Isabella lay in a rope-strung straw mattress, a breath held in her tight chest. She listened for the stirrings of her parents who lay in their own small room just beyond the brick of the fireplace. Nothing but the night sounds surrounded their timbered cottage.
She rose, cringing when the ropes pulled taut and groaned its displeasure at her. The rooms remained still, though, and for that she gave thanks. Isabella slipped her stockinged feet into worn leather shoes and prayed for forgiveness for her actions as of late. Her mind felt not her own.
She stepped away and moved nimbly across the planked floor before pressing her ear against the wood of the door.
She held her breath. The house sat still.
She needed to be sure.
Before her, though she could scarce believe it still, was a desk made of fine wood. It was by far the most agreeable adornment that had ever graced their humble rooms. She reached to play her fingers over the wood.
Later , she chided herself, tomorrow I shall have a little time.
On her new desk, a candle flickered, threatening to go out. It bent low from the draft of the window and then shot straight up again. In haste she moved forward and took a piece of parchment from her pouch. Unfolding it, Isabella leaned in toward the flame, angling the paper so she could read the familiar words written in crisp, slanted writing.
Nerves scuttled through her, like the hundreds of mice hunting the town streets. She pressed the paper against her chest and sighed. Then, careful to fold along the same edges, she closed it once more. Her eyes flicked towards the door, but the parchment in her hands stayed her, reminding her of still yet another chore. She must not become forgetful.
Isabella passed the door along the outside of her room, careful not to go near the center. The floorboards creaked there, even with her slight step. She made her way to the opposite corner, bent down on hands and knees, and used the nub of her finger to pry open the loose floorboard there. Once free, she grasped the board with both hands and inched it open.
Isabella drew out a bundle of paper tied with sewing string. She let her eyes pause and delight a moment over the fine papers before placing the parcel on the floor next to her. Bringing the newest sacrament to her lips, she kissed it, then hid the letter with that of Thomas’ others.
She replaced the board, her heart beating faster with every moment and moved to the door. Her ear rested against the wood where she heard the sounds of slumber interrupting the quiet of the night. She was now free to slink out of the house unnoticed.
Without folly,
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