“I’m certain you’re right, my dear,” Viola said to her husband, and thankfully the subject of the conversation changed to Oliver’s concern over a health dilemma with one of his best horses. Henry only listened enough to not be rude. He couldn’t believe Amala was gone, but then he wondered how awkward it might be if she were here. Given the choice, he’d take the awkwardness over her absence.

Henry stayed for tea, then made a graceful departure, pleading the need to have an early supper at home so he could catch up on his sleep. Once out of the house, he went again to the carriage house, grateful when he entered to see Everett there, who turned toward Henry, his eyes immediately betraying that he’d been expecting—and perhaps dreading—this moment.

With no greeting whatsoever, Henry said, “Please tell me she left me some kind of—”

“I’ll get it,” Everett said and went into a room where he kept his tools. He returned a moment later and held out a sealed envelope toward Henry.

“Thank you,” Henry said, taking it from him with equal portions of relief and trepidation. At least she had been considerate enough to leave him with some kind of formal good-bye, but he suspected the letter would hold words of finality that would truly put all they had shared to an end. Logically, he should have already accepted that it was officially over and there was no hope, but with her letter in his hand, he realized he’d still been holding on to some tiny grain of belief that a miracle might happen, that she might have a change of heart. Now, the last sparks of hope sizzled cold inside of him, as if they’d been doused with water.

“Did she . . . say anything . . . to you . . . about her reasons for going?” Henry asked.

“Just said she felt Paulina’s idea was an answer to her prayers . . . that she needed to get away; that it would be easier for everyone.”

“I see,” Henry said and tried not to think only of himself. “You must miss her terribly.”

“I do, indeed,” Everett said. “As I’m certain you do.” He nodded and walked away, saying over his shoulder, “I’ll give you a few minutes.”

It took Henry several seconds to realize what Everett meant. He walked with leaded feet to the carriage that was Amala’s favorite, the old one that was never used anymore, and stepped inside, thinking of all the times they’d sat here together, talking, laughing, crying—kissing. He forced his mind away from that and moved into the light shining through the carriage window before he broke the seal, unfolded the page, and read.

My Dearest Henry,