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All else would rest in the good Lord‘s hands.
March, 1892
Sara stared beyond the plain teacup. When she ventured to the docks that morning,
the fear of being seen by someone from Mr. Brockle‘s household dogged her every step.
But now there rose a much more daunting obstacle. How long would it take to save
such a sum as she needed for but a third class fare? There was also spending money she
would need in America: food, lodging, cab fare, clothes . . . . She hid her face in her
hands. Why had she not waited to leave? Two more days and she would have secured
her past wages.
She forced her back to straightened, clasping hands in her lap as her cooling tea
once more drew her stare. No, she would not give up hope. Despair was not of the
Lord. He could be trusted with this as well, and He would fulfil l His promises.
A step behind her drew her gaze. An older woman with raven locks and silver eyes
stood at the doorway. She exuded regal grace, her satin brocade walking dress
immaculate. The hat upon her raven tresses alight with various shades of blue, two
doves perched upon the brim and arranged in such a way as to seem the wings of
angels shielding her from the sun.
Sara bobbed a curtsy. -Good morning, mum. |
The woman inclined her head. -I noticed the light and expected the priest. |
-I‘m sorry, mum. He stepped away until the morrow. | Nervous tension set her
knees to trembling. She indicated the tea service. -Would you care to take tea, mum? |
-Thank you, dear. That would be grand. |
The woman slipped from her kid gloves and lowered herself with noble poise to the
straight-back chair across from her. Sara readied another cup.
-Are you kin, dear? |
-No, mum. He was a close friend of my mum before she passed. | He had given her
a first Bible, long since lost.