Leo held up his hands. “That’s all in the past. I accept that now. Your father’s letter misled me.”
She arched a cynical brow. “So you don’t think I’m—what was it?—‘immoral and manipulative’? A witch with my claws in my innocent sister? A would-be courtesan?”She snorted. “You haven’t even asked me yet about my so-called attempts to ‘work my wiles’ on his friends.”
“Nor will I,” Leo said firmly. “I’m quite convinced now that your father’s letter was nothing but malice. Even Edwards, the estate manager at Studley Park Manor, called the leaving of the estate to a distant relative instead of your half sister an act of spite.”
Her expression softened. “Mr. Edwards is a good man. He was the closest thing to a father Clarissa and I had.”
“I only produced the letter so you would understand my earlier attitude. Bribing people, as you called it, is not a habit of mine.”
She gave a reluctant nod. “Very well, I accept your apology. Is that all?” She rose to leave.
“Not quite.” He picked up the brown-paper parcel and handed it to her. “Mrs. Purdey gave me this to give to you.”
She took it hesitantly. “Mrs. Purdey did?”
He nodded. “You might want to know that she refused to say anything to your mother’s detriment. You have a loyal friend there.”
She raised her chin and gave him a challenging look. “Loyalty is a quality Mama and I learned to prize. In this world, it’s very rare and precious.” Her grip tightened on the parcel. “Thank you for passing this on,” she added, and left.
***
Izzy ran upstairs, clutching the parcel to her bosom. Something from Mrs. Purdey. What could it be? She felt it carefully. It didn’t feel like rhubarb or potatoes or turnips or a pie, which was the kind of thing Mrs. Purdey used to send her home with when she was a child. This parcel was soft and squashy.
She hurried to her bedroom to open it.
Clarissa was waiting. “How did it go? Did he make you cry again?”
Izzy laughed. “You won’t believe it, but he wanted to apologize.”
Clarissa’s jaw dropped. “Really? Again? That’s the second time.”
It was actually the third, but Izzy didn’t want to explain. “I know.” She still had mixed thoughts about it. About him.
“A man who can apologize? Better snap him up at once,” Clarissa said with a laugh.
“Or have him stuffed and put on display in a museum of rarities,” Izzy said dryly. “He gave me this parcel.” As she unpicked the knots, she explained Mrs. Purdey as a neighbor she often used to visit. She opened the wrapping, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, how pretty,” Clarissa exclaimed as Izzy picked up a small pale yellow dress, embroidered with blue forget-me-nots around the neck, sleeves and hem.
“Mama was making me this before she died,” Izzy said in a choked voice. “I never got to wear it—it’s not quite finished, see?” The last few forget-me-nots around the hem were missing. Mama had embroidered forget-me-nots on all of Izzy’s clothes—they used to be Izzy’s favorite flowers. Now they carried a poignant message.Forget me not.And she never would, Izzy promised silently.
“She made this for you?”
Izzy nodded. “Sewing was her one skill. She used to make and sell things.” Though she never made enough for them to live on. “When she was a girl, she even embroidered several ecclesiastical stoles that their vicar wore—of course she never charged for that. It was an honor for her work to be accepted.”
There were more things in the parcel, mostly clothing that Izzy had worn as a baby or a toddler, all things her mother had made for her. A delicate shawl she’d knitted, a patchwork quilt she’d made from leftover fabric scraps she’d collected. Every piece sparked a memory, and as Izzy lifted each piece, a faint floral scent was released that reminded her of her mother. She inhaled it deeply.Oh, Mama.
Then, underneath the pile of lovingly made, carefully preserved clothing she found a shabby, beloved, handmade doll with curly black hair and green embroidered eyes. “Oh, look, it’s my Gwendolyn.” Izzy picked up the doll and cradled her lovingly. She gave a shaky little laugh. “PoorGwendolyn, look how faded and worn she is, but oh, how I loved her. I still do.” She hugged the doll again.
“I used to take her everywhere—she was my only friend back then—but she did get quite grubby. Getting loved to pieces, Mama called it, but luckily Gwendolyn was washable. And she had adventures. See, here’s where one of the village children ripped her arm off and threw her in the mud.”
She showed Clarissa the arm. “Mama offered to make a new doll for me, but I would have none of it. Gwendolyn was a person, and you can’t replace people. So Mama washed the mud off her and sewed her arm back on, and my Gwendolyn was as good as new.” She glanced at Clarissa and added, “I used to pretend she was my secret sister.”
Clarissa hugged her. “And then your horrid uncle took you away and made you leave Gwendolyn behind, but luckily you found your real sister. And so did I. I used to have a pretend sister, too, until you came along.”
Izzy looked at all the items spread out on the bed—her childhood in a brown-paper parcel. “Wasn’t it wonderful that Mrs. Purdey saved these for me? I’m going to write to her. And send her a gift. She cannot know how much these things mean to me.”
“Oh, I think she must,” Clarissa said softly. “Why else would she have saved them all this time?”
