Free Destiny's Daughter by Ruth Ryan Langan Page A

years apart.
    While the sun climbed high overhead, and the shadows lengthened, Annalisa sat beside her mother, holding her hands, determined to keep her alive.
    At lunchtime, a young serving girl asked if Annalisa would care for a meal. She refused and continued her vigil.
    Throughout the afternoon, the door was opened silently, and just as silently, several beautiful women looked in, smiled gently at the stranger, then tiptoed away, leaving her to her private grief. Though none of the women looked familiar, Annalisa noted their exquisite robes, their quiet camaraderie. Like the sisters in the convent, she thought, feeling oddly comforted and touched by their concern.
    Once, as the bedroom door closed softly, Sara’s lids flickered, then opened. Staring intently at her daughter, she ran a tongue over dry, cracked lips and whispered, "The ledgers ..." Her fingers closed over Annalisa’s arm. "Take care . . ."
    "Hush, Mama. Save your strength. We’ll talk tomorrow."
    The fragile mouth twisted into an imitation of a smile. The eyes closed. Her fingers went slack.
    Annalisa refused dinner, and could hear the occupants of the house moving about the hallway. The air grew heavy with their perfume. The swish of silks and satins could be heard beyond the door. From downstairs, in the grand sitting room, the sounds of music and tinkling crystal filtered up to the silent bedroom but Annalisa took no notice. Shifting to a more comfortable position, Annalisa clung to her mother’s hands, as if convinced that her mother’s life was held in that firm grip.
    In the early evening, Hattie Lee opened the door and held a candle aloft as she crossed the room. In the big feather bed she found the young woman sound asleep, embracing the mother she had so long been denied. Beside her, the figure in her arms no longer breathed, no longer moved, no longer had to endure the pain of a spent heart.

Chapter Five

    For Annalisa the morning was a blur of tears and pain and a sense of loss that left her numb. The women who had shared this house with her mother wept openly, and spoke in whispers, and offered their sympathy to the young woman who, though a stranger, was now treated like a member of their family.
    All day the maids were kept busy answering the door, accepting the condolences of the businessmen who brought flowers and left their cards in a small silver bowl on an entrance table. Seeing the steady stream of callers, Annalisa was impressed by the position of importance her mother obviously held in the community.
    Dr. Lynch and Hattie Lee planned the funeral, which they insisted had to take place the following day. A traveling preacher was invited to preside over the graveside ceremony.
    Sifting through the calling cards, Annalisa asked, "Why not ask the judge who left his card this morning?"
    Hattie Lee glanced at the doctor before replying. "Justice Cheviot regrets that he will be unable to attend."
    "Then what about the Reverend Sebastian Culpepper?" Annalisa asked, reading the neatly lettered card.
    "Damnation! The Reverend Culpepper has his congregation to think about," Dr. Lynch said quickly.
    "But surely he has time to attend to my mother’s funeral."
    "There are so many duties required of these good gentlemen." Hattie Lee deftly changed the subject. "Have you a proper veil for the funeral?"
    Annalisa shrugged. They were evading her questions. But why? "I hadn’t thought about it."
    "Come, child. I’ll have you fitted for a black gown and veil right now." With a last glance at the doctor, Hattie Lee nudged Annalisa up the stairs. Even in her grief the woman was a whirlwind of nervous energy.
     
    *  *  *
     
    The weather was as somber as the occasion. Oppressive heat seemed to roll in waves, leaving the mourners wilted and lethargic. Black clouds rolled and boiled across the heavens, obliterating the sky. Although it had yet to rain, the air was heavy with moisture. Not a breath of air fanned a leaf or twig. Clothes clung damply to