Newgate Prison Copper Mines and the Irish Lass Colonial America Romance

Chapter Ten

It was Friday.

Friday, Friday, Friday.

Christina sat listlessly at the kitchen table, absently hackling the hemp fibers with the smallest set of tines. The fiber was smooth, clean, and clearly ready to be wound on the spinning bobbins. But she could not bring herself to move on to the next step. Because to do so would be to firmly demark that time had passed. That nearly an entire week had elapsed since she had written her letter to William.

He had not responded.

She went over in her mind, again, for the thousandth time, what she could have said to upset him so. She had taken such care, such detailed, such infinite attention, in laying every word down with her quill to represent her heart. Her soul.

And he had closed the door on her.

Was it when she had thanked him for the precious willow branch, which even now sat in its pottery jar in the kitchen window? Was he upset that she had planted it? Was she supposed to have put it under her pillow or some such? But if she had, it would have truly died – it would have become a stick. Here it had a chance of life. But had William not seen it that way?

Had it been when she had tenderly accepted his request to have her write him as William, rather than Mr. Crawford, and in return she offered that he might address her as Christina? Maybe she had been far too bold with that statement. Maybe he had dismissed her as a hussy and shut down all contact.

Anguish rose up within her, and she took in long, deep breaths, drawing the hemp fibers again through the tall, narrow tines. They threaded their way with smooth ease, so well combed they were. They would make fine handkerchiefs and linens now. Her Nana would be proud of what she made. But did it matter one whit, if she only had herself and her father to make them for? If there would be no husband by her side ... no children at her feet ...

Her father was in the entry to the sitting room, his face lined with worry. "My dear, let me go over to Viet's. Perhaps today will be the day that –"

She waved a hand. "The Reverend has been there every day for us. Viet himself is well aware of what we are waiting for. There is no doubt that the moment the letter arrives, it will be brought. If it is to arrive at all."

Her father's gaze shadowed. "I would not have thought that Mr. Crawford would be such a man as to leave you without resolution."

She squared her shoulder. "Well, it seems we did not know him as well as we thought, after all. And perhaps this is for the best. It is better to know of his true nature early on, before our hearts were fully engaged."

Her soul ached at the lie behind these words, at the thought that she had not cared for him, cared for him, and built such dreams in her mind as could not cause searing agony as they tumbled into the dirt.

She reached again for her hemp –

A low, gentle knock came at the door.

Her hemp went a-tumbling as she leapt from her bench, flurried past her father, and reached the front door in two long strides. She pulled it open in eager anticipation.

Reverend Miller stood there, the afternoon sun shining warmly around him. The snow had all but melted, and there was almost a spring-like feel to the air. It was a good portent, surely. Because it must mean –

But his eyes were not a-sparkle. Instead, they were shadowed with a mix of emotions.

Behind him, on the road, Mr. Richardson sat on the small cart used by Mrs. Gilchester to deliver items from her store to her customers. There seemed to be several wooden boxes in its back.