“Maybe the right man, a truly good man . . . who loves you . . . could make possible what has always seemed impossible.” Everett opened his book as if to end the conversation, or at least to declare that was all he intended to say on the matter. “I’m thinking you should read that letter now . . . before you leave . . . so I can tell him when I see him again that I know you did.”

“You’re going to see him again?”

“He’s coming back here tonight,” Everett said and turned a page. “About nine o’clock, give or take . . . on the chance you might want to talk to him.”

Amala stood clutching the letter, unable to move or even think. The need to be alone finally set her free and she rushed to a long-unused carriage that was her favorite place to hide. She was glad to have sufficient sunlight shining from the carriage-house window into the carriage so that she could still manage to see her name written in Henry’s hand. Minutes passed while she just held the letter and stared at it. Everything Everett had just said swirled around in her mind, mingling with her encounters with Henry and the feelings she’d been battling ever since she’d met him. She already knew the letter would be some attempt to try to get her to change her mind, and she already knew she had to remain firm in her resolve. It only took her a moment to reassess all of the careful thought and pondering and prayer that had gone into her decision. She would be a fool to change her mind now, no matter how her emotions might contradict what she knew to be right. Far better to hurt Henry a little bit now than to make his life miserable with all that would inevitably follow if they became romantically involved to any degree. Far better that she come to terms with her own sorrow over the matter in the present, as opposed to hurting others in the future.