CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
1851
Mary mused that life needed to be taken advantage of whenever possible.
Her first three children had died before they were aware of who they were, something that could never be reconciled and which was still beyond any capacity for her to confront. But her fourth, Percy Florence, had matured into a sensible young man who gripped his life with much vigor, promise, and imagination, and ventured off into the world to make it his own. He reminded Mary of her husband and perhaps a little of herself, when they were both much younger than he.
She recalled, with a reflective smile, the summer of 1816—her exploits with her friends and acquaintances, the creation of something that meant more to her than she could ever have thought possible.
Such happy times.
But for al
