Free Lady of the Butterflies by Fiona Mountain Page B

the things I did. You must continue those studies in private. Promise me that you will?”
    “I promise,” I said waveringly, fighting for control. “I promise.”
    “Don’t be sad for me, little one. None should fear death, for it sets us free. It is better than birth, for we are born mortal, but we die immortal. Remember the butterflies. Remember how they rise from their coffins on shining wings.”
    “Papa, do you swear to me that is true?”
    “As God is my witness, it is my firmest belief that it is.”
    “I keep thinking . . . I’m worried . . .”
    “What are you worried about, my little darling?”
    “All the thousands of people dying of plague and all the millions of people who have ever lived and died. How can there be room in Heaven for them all?”
    “I am a great advocate of scientific exploration, but Heaven forbid it takes such precedence that nobody believes in anything unless they can fully explain or understand it.” He pointed to his cup and I held his head, tilted the cup to his lips and helped him drink some water, guessing he was girding himself for a final sermon. How bitterly I regretted the times I had inwardly groaned as he had begun one before. Now I was determined to listen closely to every precious word he spoke. It was the last guidance I was to have from him and I must take good note so it could sustain me for the rest of my life. Oh, but there was so much I wanted to ask him, would never have the chance now to ask.
    “The whole purpose of studying nature is to bring us closer to God through a better understanding of His creation,” he said, with a heartrending echo of his previous fervor. “It is not to cast doubt over His works and throw His very existence into question.” He grimaced, continued, his voice weakening again. “Science must not lead us to a godless world. We may strive to learn but we must never take a bite from the tree of knowledge.” He laid his head back on the pillow, exhausted from his short speech.
    I knew I should urge him to rest but did not want to, wanted to prolong this last conversation I was ever to have with him as much as I could. There was so much still to be said.
    “If only you had been a boy,” he sighed.
    I straightened my spine on hearing that, assuming that now the time had come for the most important conversation of any landowner’s life, he regretted not being able to have it with a son, regretted not having a boy to carry on his name and to whom he could bequeath Tickenham Court. Which hurt me sorely. “I can care for this estate as well as any man,” I said spiritedly.
    “Oh, I do not doubt that for a moment.” He gasped a breath. “How I would have welcomed men with your courage and fortitude to march beside me against the Cavaliers. But you are not a man, Eleanor. One day you will marry, and the man who seeks to win your hand in marriage will first and foremost seek to gain land and a fortune—to win Tickenham Court. You have a loving nature, a trusting nature, and no guardian or trustee will watch over your interests the way a father would. To make matters worse, you are growing to be a little beauty. There is a radiance about you that will attract men like bees to nectar, the worst kind of men, the type I fear you will find all too appealing.” He was struggling now to talk and breathe at the same time, which only lent extra weight to his words, since it cost him such effort to voice each one. “On every count you will be susceptible to all manner of philanderers and ne’er-do-wells. May the Lord help you, but you will be prey to every unscrupulous Cavalier who happens by.”
    “Do not worry, Papa,” I said reassuringly, adamantly. “When the time comes I will choose a husband wisely.”
    “Ah, my child, the heart is seldom wise.”
    “I swear to you, Papa, I will ensure the man I marry will be a good lord for Tickenham Court.” Like Edmund Ashfield, I thought. My father had liked Edmund.
    “You can speak