Chapter Thirteen
Ivy’s twenty-fifth birthday dawned clear. She packed bread and cheese into a basket, and her sewing. “I’m going to the bluebell dell,” she told Hazel. “To wait for her.”
“I’ll carry the basket.”
“She won’t come if you’re with me. She only came when you and Larkspur were alone.”
“I’ll carry the basket and then leave.” Hazel’s tone brooked no protest. “It’s hard for you with the crutch, carrying something.”
And it always will be.
The words echoed in the small room, as if they’d been spoken aloud. Or was she the only one who thought them?
No, Hazel’s lips were compressed; she was thinking the same thing.
“I shall be glad to have Larkspur back,” Ivy said, turning away and limping to the door. “And Bess and Bartlemay. The cottage is so empty without them.” It would be e
