And now I have come to the final pages. These will be my last observances in the red book.

There is of late a brooding, unsettled timbre to the air, stirred about by gossip and the unkind thoughts of others, and throughout the goodness of these days, I feel a shadow that may one day harden and congeal itself to the hateful acts of others. It is a danger that I daily bring closer to myself by being what I am. I can no more deny the nature of myself than a lump of coal can unprove its hardness, or an egg its smoothness. And these things give up their best gifts to the world upon their demise. The coal is burned by fire and brings warmth. The egg is broken and feeds a hungry mouth. It may be that the greatest gift I will ever give you will come only after I am gone, my body broken on the wheel of time and circumstances, and you will come to understand the full measure of my love.

I hear you in the next room, struggling to wake as you lie next to Hannah, overtired from tending well into the night your sister’s terrible burns. So like a little child to pull a scalding pot upon her head, not knowing for what she reaches but desiring above all else to have the very thing that is beyond her grasp. Someday it will be that you will have your own children to tend, though I now fear I will never see them.

You are even now rising from your bed, stretching out your arms, pushing away sleep.

Tell your children your mother was a woman who, with all her multitude of shortcomings, was more ferocious than kind, more contentious than agreeable, more irate than placid; but who cherished her family above all else. And when you are asked, tell them you are Martha Carrier’s daughter; that you had a mother who cared for you beyond reason, beyond tepid courtesies, beyond the brief, struggling hollow that is this life. That you are, and ever will be, loved.

Final Testament

Tall against the sky it stands, silent witness

To man’s frail grasp of God’s unending Grace.

Beneath its branches, shades and shadows creep,

Strangers to the light they now outpace.

Blame not the oak; as I it could not speak.

Truth shared our shackles, mute.

In thrall to fear, rough hands and hearts did seek

To pluck the truth from this tree’s blighted fruit.

Through boughs of glittering green I saw the dying leaves,

Drought-blasted, poised for flight.

God’s seasons soon will strip these branches nude;

And then, oh then, spring-born buds will seek the light.

—AUDREY CARRIER HICKMAN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

MANY THANKS TO my wonderful agent, Julie Barer, for her constant encouragement, keen editorial eye, and joyful enthusiasm. To Reagan Arthur, a writer’s dream of an editor, I offer my profound gratitude for her expert guidance and sensitivity in shaping this book to its final form. My deep appreciation also to the following people at Little, Brown and Company: David Young, Michael Pietsch, Heather Fain, Luisa Frontino, Terry Adams, Sabrina Ravipinto, and Andrea Walker for all their continuing support. For the second time, I was so very fortunate to work with the sharp-eyed and exacting Pamela Marshall during copyedits.

To my family—my mom, Audrey, Josh, and Mitchell, the Hickmans, Morrisons, Orlowskys, and Muethings—I send all my love. My heartfelt appreciation also goes to my extended family and dear friends who have been cheerleaders, advisors, and sources of comfort. Finally, to Lowell and Sandy, Merci pour tout.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

KATHLEEN KENT is the author of The Heretic’s Daughter. She lives in Dallas.

Also by Kathleen Kent

The Heretic’s Daughter

Copyright


Copyright © 2010 by Kathleen Kent

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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First eBook Edition: November 2010

ISBN: 978-0-316-12205-4