Amala hurried away before anyone could stop her or say anything else. She wondered if the sorrow of her parents would be so deep that they might wonder if they’d done the right thing in bringing her back to England with them. But she only wondered for a moment. She knew they loved her and they would not have left her to fend for herself under atrocious circumstances. She just had to remind herself that with time they would come to accept the present situation for what it was and find joy on her behalf in whatever path she chose for her life.

Instinctively Amala went to the carriage house. She found Everett there, standing on a small stepladder while he polished the shiny black exterior of one of the family’s carriages. He took his job very seriously and expected perfection of himself. She admired that in him, along with so many other traits.

Without any preamble, she simply said, “I told them.”

She knew he didn’t require any further explanation, given the many previous conversations they’d shared regarding the matter. He’d encouraged her to talk to her family about the issue a long time ago. It was Amala who had put it off and dreaded it.

As if to declare how serious he knew this was for her, he stopped polishing immediately and stepped down from the ladder, tossing the rag aside. He faced her directly and put his hands on his hips. “And?” he asked.

“It went exactly how I expected . . . but worse.”

“Worse?” he echoed. “And I thought you were being pessimistic.”

“They’re devastated,” she said. “It’s as if the prospect of marriage and children is the only possible path to happiness for me, and realizing it’s not possible is like I’ve told them I’m going to die of some dreadful disease. Surely there are many valuable things I can do in my life and remain unwed.”

“Of course,” Everett said.

“Look at you,” she declared, seeing him as a fine example of the point she wanted to make.

Everett chuckled and leaned against the carriage wheel. “I find meaning in my work, Amala, and I recognize that I’m much blessed, but don’t be thinking there aren’t things I have to force myself not to think about.”

Amala wanted to ask what those things might be, but a moment’s thought answered the question. He’d lost a wife and child. He lived a mostly solitary life. And yet he seemed content. Surely she could do the same.

“Would you like me to teach you my trade?” he asked with mild sarcasm. “Or perhaps you could take lessons in the kitchen.”

“Perhaps I should,” she said, certain in that moment that she’d far rather be able to do some kind of useful work than sit around and do useless stitching on cushions or crochet doilies.