He handed the cup back to Eliza, his winter sky eyes holding hers. Levi hasn't spoken more than a handful of words since the funeral. The doctor said it's grief that he'll talk again when he's ready. But he talked to you today. Gave you something precious.
That means something, Miss Morland. That means you're doing exactly what I hoped you'd do. I'm just trying to help, Eliza whispered. I don't know if I'm doing it right. I burned the first pot of coffee this morning and I'm pretty sure Matthew hates me and James barely tolerates my existence and I keep feeling like I'm walking through someone else's life, someone else's home.
You are, Bo interrupted gently. You're walking through Catherine's life trying to keep it going when she can't. That's an impossible task, Miss Morland. No one expects you to be her, but maybe maybe you can be yourself here. Maybe that's enough.
Eliza looked down at the cup in her hands, at the scratched flower that represented a young father's love for his wife, now entrusted to a stranger's care. "I hope so," she said. "I hope I'm enough for them. For all of you. " Bo didn't respond to that. Just stood there in the fading light of the kitchen, close enough that Eliza could smell the day's work on him.
Dust and sweat and honest labor. For a long moment, they simply existed in the same space. Two broken people trying to hold together a household fractured by loss. Then B stepped back, clearing his throat. I should check on the boys, make sure they're settled for the night.
Thank you for dinner, Miss Morland, and for everything else today. Eliza, she said impulsively. You can call me Eliza. Miss Morland makes me feel like a school teacher. The corner of B's mouth lifted.
Not quite a smile, but close. Eliza then. Good night. Good night, Mr. Thatcher.
Bo, he countered. Fair's fair. Good night, Bo. After he left, Eliza finished cleaning up, then climbed the stairs to her small room. She placed Catherine's cup on the dresser, positioned so it would be the first thing she saw in the morning.
A reminder that she had a place here, however tentative. A reminder that even silent children could offer grace when you least expected it. She changed into her night gown and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling out her mother's locket again. But tonight, instead of feeling only pain when she looked at the tiny portrait, she felt something else threading through the grief. Purpose maybe, or belonging, or just the simple relief of having made it through one full day without completely falling apart.