With one last look at her mother's things—hairbrush and combs, cameo necklace and butterfly brooch—she left the room and walked quickly back to her own. She rolled her mother's dress as tightly as she could and stuffed it into a leather valise. Then she shoved in the worn grey gown, shifts, stockings, slippers, drawers, and a pair of short stays. Into a carpetbag she placed a shawl, dressing gown, gloves, and the New Testament. Two of her most serviceable bonnets went into her bandbox. Handkerchiefs and what little money she had were secured in a reticule which would hang from her wrist.

She looked at the trunk, filled with her beautiful years, her happy vain youth, and firmly shut the lid. Pausing to secure a traveling hat over her pinned-up brown curls, she left her room with only her valise, carpetbag, reticule, and bandbox—all she could carry. She quietly made her way down the stairs and glanced at the silver tray resting on the hall table. Yesterday's letter lay there still, unanswered. Their cousin had written to tell them of her "blessed news" and how she looked forward to the "great event to come this autumn." Beatrice had curled her pretty lip and said it sickened her to read of such private matters, especially from a woman of Katherine's advanced age. Charlotte had said not a word.

Now Charlotte paused only long enough to run her fingers over Katherine's elaborate script and the smeared London Duty date stamp. She took a deep breath and walked on. She was nearly to the door when she heard her father's voice from the drawing room.

"You're off, then." It was not a question.

She turned and, through the open doors, saw him slumped in the settee by the fire. His greying hair was uncharacteristically disarrayed and he still wore his dressing gown. She felt her throat tighten. She could only nod. She wondered if he would soften at this final moment. Would he hold out some offer of assistance, some parting words of conciliation or at least regret?

In a voice rough with the early hour and disdain, he said, "My only consolation is that your mother, God rest her soul, did not live to see this day."

The pain of it lanced her, but it should not have. He had said the like before, worse even. Willing tears to remain at bay, Charlotte stepped out of the vicarage, quietly shutting the door behind her. She walked through the garden, committing it to memory. There were the neatly trimmed hedges that Buxley still coaxed into the shape her mother preferred. There, the exquisite flower beds with their cleverly mixed color palettes, graduating heights and varying textures—delphinium, astilbe, cornflower, Canterbury bells, lemon lilies—all of which Charlotte had tried to maintain in her mother's honor, at least until now. She took a long deep breath, then another, savoring the dew-heavy fragrances of sweet violets and purple pincushions. She had no intention of picking a flower to take with her, a flower that would wither before she reached her destination, but then she saw it. A vile milkweed in the border of sciatic cress, which Buxley called Billy-come-home-soon. How had she missed it before? She strode to the weed and pulled at it with her free hand, but the stalk would not give. She set her bags and box down and pulled with both hands until the whole stubborn thing was unearthed, roots and all. She would leave her mother's garden in perfect order. But for how long? Who will tend your gardens, Mother? Buxley will try, I suppose. Though he is not getting any younger. With the horses and all the heavy work falling to him, the garden suffers. And Beatrice has no use for a garden, as you well know.