Everett’s familiar expression of concern provoked Amala’s tears to come forth. She’d learned long ago that the safety and trust she felt with him often had that effect. She could hold grief or sorrow inside for hours—or even days—until she spoke with Everett, and then it would just come bursting out of her.

Amala searched for words to try to explain, but they all felt too complicated. She settled for simply saying, “It’s finally happened . . . just as you said it would.” She knew he would understand exactly what she meant, so she left it at that and rushed to the deepest part of the carriage house and into an older vehicle that hadn’t been used for years, where she settled into the cushioned seat in order to vent her tears privately. But a moment later Everett stepped into the carriage and sat beside her, putting a fatherly arm around her shoulders to offer silent support while she spent the tears of her sorrow.

* * * *

Henry entered the stable to see a man sitting with his back up against one of the stalls, whittling with a knife at what appeared to be the spoke of a wagon wheel. He glanced up at Henry for only a second before he said, “Stable hands are taking a break, but I can help ready your horse for you if you’re needing it.”

“No . . . thank you,” Henry said. “I . . . should wait to leave until my friend has finished his visit with Mr. Hepworth.”

“But?” the man asked with a boldness that most servants wouldn’t dare assert with their employer’s guests, although it actually made Henry feel more comfortable with him.

“But?” Henry echoed.

“But you’re wandering around the stables?”

“I . . . wondered about leaving . . . but I really should wait . . . and I don’t particularly want to go back into the house right now.” Henry didn’t add that he and Chit had a long-standing agreement that whenever a social engagement separated them—which it usually did—they would meet up at the stables if they’d come by horse, or in the carriage if they’d arrived in one, which only happened for more formal events. This prevented them from having to try to hunt each other down in large, unfamiliar homes or among crowds of people. “I’ll just wait for my friend here,” he said, “unless I would be intruding.”

The man stopped his whittling and gave Henry a hard look, while Henry wondered if he should be ashamed by the likely evidence on his face that he’d been crying like a child.

“Might you be the man who reduced our sweet Amala to tears?” he asked, and Henry was so taken aback that it took him a good half minute to even blink.

His instincts told him he could be forthright with this man, so he tested the theory by confessing, “Might it be possible that it was the other way around?”