Clara blushed.
“Do you really think so?”
The seamstress laughed.
“I wouldn't say it if I didn't.”
Elena adjusted one embroidered flower.
Her eyes filled.
“Nathaniel is going to forget how to speak.”
Clara laughed.
“That would be a first.”
The women smiled.
Then Elena handed her a small bouquet of winter greenery, white flowers preserved from a greenhouse, and pale ribbons.
Clara looked down.
For a moment, her eyes filled.
She thought about Missouri.
Aunt Beatrice.
Her father's workshop.
And all the years she'd imagined that marriage belonged to other women.
Women who entered dress shops without attracting attention.
Women whose bodies fit ordinary patterns.
Women who never had to wonder whether a man offering affection secretly believed he was making some noble sacrifice.
Now she was wearing the most beautiful dress she'd ever owned.
And the man waiting at the church had never once treated loving her as a burden.
Clara closed her eyes.
For a moment, she silently thanked her father.
Then Elena approached.
“Ready?”
Clara opened her eyes.
She smiled.
“Yes.”
But before leaving, she looked toward Samuel's old leather notebook resting on the table.
She'd brought it into the room that morning because she wanted something of her father nearby while preparing for the ceremony.
As she reached for it, a folded corner caught against the fabric of her gown.
Clara frowned.
She examined the inside cover.
The leather lining had begun separating from the old stitching.
Beneath it was a narrow concealed pocket.
Her heart accelerated.
Carefully, she opened the lining.
Inside lay a folded paper she had never seen.
It was much thinner than the documents recovered from the mill.
The handwriting was old.
A red wax seal remained attached.
Clara unfolded it.
Then stopped breathing.
She recognized the Hawthorne crest.
The same hawk with its wings spread across a mountain.
But the wording was different.
This was not merely another acknowledgment of water access.
It was a separate conveyance dated 1873.
The document appeared to transfer a controlling interest in the old mill's headgate parcel and the associated access rights to Joseph Carter, subject to the earlier shared-use agreement.
And at the bottom was William Hawthorne's own signature.
Clara stared.
For a moment, she couldn't move.
Her father had hidden this paper separately.
Perhaps because it was the most dangerous document of all.