Realizing what the bigger boy was about to do, Aidan tried to get there in time. But couldn’t. A shove from behind sent the lame boy sprawling, and the crate of potatoes went everywhere.

As Aidan reached the scene, another man strode from the store and the instigators took off. All except for Red. The man grabbed the coworker by the arm, apparently having seen it all unfold.

“You’re done, Walters! Now get yourself out of here. And don’t be askin’ me for another job!”

The lad wisely obeyed, and the man, his Irish accent thick, reached down to help the boy to his feet.

“I’m all right.” The boy waved off his help, but the clank of metal against metal as he tried to straighten his braced legs suggested otherwise. His face and neck were a deep crimson. “I’ll pick them all up and wash them, Mr. McGrath.”

The man hesitated, then nodded. “Good man, Andrew. We get knocked down, but we get right back up.” The man tousled the boy’s hair, which drew the ghost of a smile.

Andrew righted the crate, and a few passersby helped toss some potatoes in. And despite sensing the boy’s desire to make his own way, Aidan couldn’t resist helping too.

“Catch,” Aidan said, tossing a potato his way, already guessing at the lad’s dexterity.

With quick reflexes, Andrew caught the spud in his grip. And smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

“These for sale?” Aidan eyed the potatoes, impressed. Scarcely a bad mark on them.

“Yes, sir.” The boy pointed. “You can get them by the crate here. Or out at Linden Downs by the wagonload.”

Aidan nodded, recognizing the name of the farm from dealings in town. “I’ll remember that.”

“You’re not from around here, are you, sir?”

Aidan smiled, appreciating the respect in the boy’s voice, while clearly hearing an opinion. “No, I’m not. I’m from Boston.”

“Where Paul Revere’s from.” Andrew’s face lit. “And the two lanterns, telling the British were coming by sea.”

“That’s right.” Impressed, Aidan studied the boy. About eleven or twelve, he guessed. The lad’s chambray shirt, though slightly worn at the elbows, was of fine stitching, and his britches, a little short, boasted the same quality tailoring. But it was the maturity in the boy’s manner that impressed him most.

“Having lived in Boston, I’ve actually ridden the path Revere took that night. All the way up to Concord.”

Fascination swept Andrew’s face. “What’s it like up there? In Massachusetts.”

“It’s nice.” Aidan looked toward the hills of green. “But I think it’s prettier here.” That earned him a grin. He offered his hand. “Mr. Aidan Bedford.”

The boy rubbed his palm on his pants before accepting. “Andrew Darby, sir.”

Aidan’s grip tightened subconsciously. “Darby,” he repeated.

The boy nodded.

“Well . . . Andrew, I’ve enjoyed our discussion.” His thoughts racing, he released the boy’s hand. “You certainly have studied your history.”

Andrew shrugged. “My sister Savannah makes me. Sometimes it’s not so boring though. But I wouldn’t want her to know that.” Grinning, he gestured back to the wagon. “I’d best get back to work, Mr. Bedford. Thank you again, sir, for your help.”

His thoughts having moved beyond racing to fully broken rein, Aidan finally managed to respond. “My pleasure, Andrew. My pleasure.”

SAVANNAH STOOD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CENTRAL PARLOR and studied the draperies, knowing Miss Sinclair was going to be more than pleased. The most complicated and ornate of all the window coverings in the house, these had turned out even finer and more elegant than Savannah hoped, though pressing the endless folds had taken hours, and her back was still paying for it.

She gestured. “Let’s bring the rod up about an eighth of an inch on the right, Freddie.”

“Yes, Miss Darby.”

Savannah winced at the name and glanced toward the front hall. Mrs. Pruitt was the only other one in the house, and she was busy in the kitchen. Still . . .

“Like I told you, Freddie, you don’t have to call me Miss Darby here. It’s just us. And I’ve known you since before you were born.”

The boy, a little older than Andrew, grinned as though he’d just been handed a bag of penny candy. “Okay, Savannah.”

“Better.” She smiled, then looked up. “Secure them there and we’ll be done for the day.” And none too soon. Since Miss Sinclair had returned to Boston, Mr. Bedford kept longer office hours in town and was rarely home before half past five. She always made it a point to be gone by then.

Although some days he surprised her by meeting her in his carriage as she walked back to town. Each time he insisted on taking her the rest of the way and acted the perfect gentleman. She enjoyed talking to him, and his slightly tilted humor always found its mark with her. She only hoped Miss Sinclair was deserving of such a man.

And that perhaps God had a man just like him for her someday.

The last two weeks had been so very pleasant working here, just her and Mrs. Pruitt. She felt as though God had given her a gift. Time to say good-bye to her childhood home and time to touch, one last time, all the tangible reminders of her family lineage.

In a way, she wished she could have shared this experience with Andrew and Carolyne. But besides being impossible under the circumstances, she knew it wouldn’t have been wise. While she was grateful for this opportunity, it hadn’t been easy.

Yet one thing she’d learned: with so many of the possessions she’d once considered essential, in seeing them again, she’d realized how unessential they were. Treasured, to be sure. But luxuries. Most of which she’d learned to live without. And some she’d honestly forgotten they’d ever owned.

But the one thing she’d wanted to find most still remained hidden. She’d looked everywhere she could possibly think of for the box. It simply wasn’t here. She would’ve found it if it was.

“Is it strange, Savannah?” Freddie asked, packing up his tools, folding up his ladder. “Being back here?”

“Yes,” she answered readily. “A little. But . . . it’s also been very nice.”

He nodded.

“Freddie.”

The boy turned at the door.

“Thank you for keeping this—my working here—between us for now. I’ll tell Andrew and Carolyne after the job is finished.”

He looked around the room, his features sobering. “It’s been kind of sad for me. Being back in the house, ma’am. Makes me think of your brothers. And your papa.”

“I know.”

He sighed, then smiled in parting.

Savannah saw him to the door, then closed it behind him and turned and stared at the house. The house that would soon belong to Miss Priscilla Sinclair . . . Bedford. She sighed, feeling in the act a loosening inside herself. She’d surrendered this house to the Lord so many times. How many would it take before her heart finally let go?

She didn’t know. She just prayed the Lord would give her a peace about it. Someday.

The grandfather clock chimed on the hour, four long-lasting strokes, each echoing throughout the home as the comforting timbre had for years past and likely would for many years to come. Unexpected tears rose at the sound and the thought. The clock had passed from her maternal grandfather to her mother, and even though he and her mother had never reconciled that Savannah knew of, she thought it said something that her mother had kept the clock in the main foyer all those years, faithfully wound, its large brass pendulum swinging back and forth over the wide base, its movement sustained by weights as it marked the passage of time.

She followed the pendulum’s sway. Slowly, her gaze moved downward to the ornately carved base where her grandfather, a gifted craftsman in his day, had sculpted magnolias, her grandmother’s favorite flower, in the wood along the bottom.

And as the last note of the chimes faded, Savannah’s eyes narrowed. “But know that this was far more than a simple gesture on your father’s part. It was an olive branch intended to heal, and I pray its roots spread deep and wide through our family.”

The beat of her heart bumping up a notch, she recalled the words her father had written, and she crossed the foyer, knelt, and ran a hand along the base of the clock.

The piece was so heavy. There was no moving it.

She reached underneath but felt only cobwebs. She quickly withdrew her hand, thinking of Aidan and how he’d made her laugh that day he’d caught her snooping in her old bedroom.

She peered inside through the glass front, then stood and reached for the key on top where they’d always kept it. Her fingertips first to deliver the good news, she grasped the key and, hands trembling, unlocked the door. She knelt again and felt along the inside bottom of the clock. Then she rapped on the wood.

The hollow echo caused her pulse to race.

Quickly she retrieved her sewing scissors from the central parlor and slid a narrow point down along the inside edge . . . and felt the wood along the bottom give way. Her breath coming in short, shallow gasps, she pried open the false bottom and there—her throat ached at the sight of it—was a cigar box, her father’s favorite brand.

She took out the wooden box and reverently opened the lid, thinking of how one of her parents had been the last one to close it. The first thing she saw was her maternal grandfather’s pocketknife, its handle inlaid with ivory. Then her grandmother’s wedding ring, a simple gold band, one side nearly worn clean through. But the band with the companion diamond was gone, no doubt having been sold to help pay the taxes as they’d slipped further into debt.