Hope Between the Pages, Pepper Basham [best ebook reader android .txt] 📗

parts of the letters to Victoria, for she craved information about her brother. A few times, I sent pictures she drew him or her own letters folded within mine, and he’d return in kind. Her little face would light up in sheer delight with letters from him.

It was a particularly long week, the fourth one after Oliver left. One of the children who came to the storybook readings at Enoch’s became ill, so I visited her family and helped care for her mother, who was also sick with fever. Later in the week, Enoch traveled to visit his daughter, leaving the shop in my care. And two nights after that, a fire started in St. Peter’s Church, destroying so much of the building that it could not be used. Once the medieval-era wall hangings caught fire, there was nothing to do to stop it from ravaging the wooden roof. Thankfully, no one was hurt, since the pastor had moved away two weeks before, quite unexpectedly, and the new pastor had not yet come to take up residence and keep watch on the place. No one was able to determine the source of the destruction, and the people of Fenwick felt the devastation of such an ancient place of worship, dimming the townsfolk’s usual vibrancy.

As I swept the shop at the end of the week, grateful that Sunday meant a quiet day at the gatehouse and plenty of time to read Oliver’s latest letter nestled in my apron pocket, the front door opened to alert me of a late afternoon visitor. I expected Enoch to arrive back from his visit at any moment, so when I turned to see a young man in uniform, the world suspended into motionlessness. The man had his back to me. Shoulders broad. Blond hair cut in a neat trim, though a little erratic.

My pulse stumbled and I nearly dropped the broom. Oliver? I blinked.

The man turned then, revealing a face very different from my husband’s. Still young. Clean shaven, but instead of pale blue, a soft brown gaze rose to meet mine, a pair of eyes wreathed with weariness, aged with grief.

Thin and pale, he limped a step toward me, his lips pinched downward. “Mrs. Sadie Camden?”

My fingers tightened around the broomstick…and I knew. A gaping hollow branched through me with numbing fingers. Time slowed into a blur. Air thinned. His words droned into scattered syllables.

“I’m sorry…good man…saved my life.”

My stomach heaved in protest, but I pressed my palm against it, forcing control. The agony wrinkling the poor man’s face secured my attention.

“You look exactly like your photograph,” the man whispered, pulling his cap from his head. “He spoke of you often, all the time actually. Of how you met and your imagination and excellent memory of stories.” The man’s voice broke, but he seemed to gather himself. His smile quivered, his eyes watery. “He talked of the bookshop the two of you would have and how you’d change the world through kindness and books.” At this, a sob racked his body and he lowered his shaking head. “I’m so sorry.”

A pinpoint pain pierced through the numbness, stabbing into my heart. This was real. I licked my dry lips and reached out my hand. “What is your name, sir?”

He looked up, tears lacing his long lashes. “Anthony Harlow, ma’am.”

I looked away from him and smoothed my palms down my apron, searching the room…for what? I had no idea. “And you were injured?”

“Only my leg.” He gestured toward his cane. “Your husband jumped in front of me and—” His words closed around another sob.

I pressed my eyes shut at the image of what must have happened next.

“He…he died in my arms, ma’am. He had me promise to find you.”

My gaze came up to his. Oliver’s words. Anything.

“To send you his love. To ask you to…” He swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed beneath his collar. “To live for two until you meet again.”

Until we meet again. I pressed my palm against the nearest wall, the tears no longer within my control.

“It should have been me, Mrs. Camden. Your husband is dead because of me.” Mr. Harlow took a step closer, his expression pleading.

“Forgive me. I’ve got no wife. Only my parents are waiting for me to come home. But he had you and dreams, and he gave them up for me. I should have been the one that died. Not him. Please, forgive me.”

I saw the young man then, as Oliver must have seen him. Frail. Broken, yet a soul with a future. His heart rent with a guilt he shouldn’t carry. Oliver did exactly as he would have done for anyone, on a battlefield or street or anywhere else.

“There is nothing to forgive, Mr. Harlow.” I placed my palm against his arm and garnered what voice I could. “My Oliver did exactly one of things I love most about him. He cares…” I drew in a deep breath to correct myself. “He cared and lived with joyous courage. And though I would wish him back, I would never wish him to be anyone other than who he was.”

The man’s face crumbled into another sob but he nodded, fisting his cap in his hands. “He was the best of men.” He blinked back up to look at me. “And if I might say so, ma’am, he was right proud to be your husband.”

Air escaped me, half-sob, half-laugh. A sad sort of sound, and yet, it carried a hint of hope, of memory, of a sweet story which reverberated through the person I’d become since knowing Oliver. “Thank you, Mr. Harlow.” I drew a handkerchief from my apron and wiped at my eyes. “When…when did he… ?”

The man’s brows came together, his eyes narrowed. “A bit over a week ago, but I would guess you knew that from the telegram.”

“The telegram?”

He passed a hand over his face before meeting my gaze again. “The one sent from the war office. The one announcin’ his death. It should