Dinner that evening was a lively affair.   Michaela apologized to everyone for not being blessed with Colleen's culinary skills, but her family and guests assured her they *liked* their fried chicken "extra" crispy, and their biscuits just "slightly" well done.

    Marjorie was her usual exuberant self, regaling her sister and nephews with droll anecdotes of her travels with Rosalind across the country.

    And though Rosalind didn't match Marjorie's ebullience, she seemed to have regained her composure.  She seemed genuinely delighted to meet and get to know Brian and Matthew.  True to Michaela's prediction, Brian plied Rosalind with a constant stream of questions, and she patiently answered each one.  She also encouraged Brian to tell her about himself and his work with Dorothy at the Gazette.  She asked to see some of his articles and stories, and when he shyly showed her some samples of his work, she read each one and pronounced them all first-rate.  The glow of pride on Brian's face warmed Michaela's heart.

    After supper was over, the dishes washed and put away, and Katie tucked into bed for the night, Marjorie and Brian began a spirited game of checkers at the table, while Matthew sat nearby and kibitzed.

    Michaela and Rosalind relaxed before the fire, talking idly.   As the evening wore on, however, Rosalind became more quiet, and spent long stretches of time staring into the flames.  Once or twice she turned toward Michaela and seemed to be on the verge of speaking, but then seemed to think better of it and maintained her silence.

    Michaela knew that something was weighing heavily on Rosalind's spirit.  She felt instinctively that Rosalind's mind might be eased if she could talk about what was troubling her, but Michaela also knew she couldn't press.

    Michaela shared her life with a man who for many years had built a wall around his innermost
thoughts and emotions.  And she had known and lived with Sully long enough to realize that she couldn't force him to share his feelings.  He would tell her what he was thinking only when he was ready, in his own time and in his own way.  As a virginal woman in the early days of their courtship, Michaela had been much the same—finding it difficult, if not impossible, to openly or frankly discuss *certain matters* with her handsome, but enigmatic suitor.  But as their love blossomed and flowered, and their trust in each other grew stronger, the barriers  started to crumble.  With time, each of them found it progressively easier to share the most private parts of themselves with the other—till now, after more than two years of marriage, their hearts and souls were truly open to one another.  And yet to this day there were still moments in their lives when Sully kept his own counsel, and Michaela knew that the greatest gift she could give him was patience, until he was ready to share with her what was in his heart.

    She realized that Rosalind was experiencing the same dilemma now.  As much as Michaela wanted to help her, she must wait till Rosalind reached out to her.  When Rosalind was ready she would tell her—or she wouldn't—but whatever happened, it had to be *her* choice.

    Finally it was time for Brian to go to bed, and Matthew and Marjorie chose to say their good-nights as well.  However Rosalind made no move to join them.  Michaela excused herself briefly to go up and check on Katie.  She returned a few moments later to find Rosalind still sitting in her chair.  Rosalind turned as Michaela entered the room and gave her a rather distracted smile.  Michaela sensed that Rosalind had come to a decision, and she quietly sat down opposite her new friend and waited.
 
    After a moment Rosalind said, "You're a very perceptive woman Michaela.  You knew I had something on my mind, but were kind enough not to ask.  I appreciate your sensitivity."

    "I would never presume to intrude on your privacy, Rosalind," Michaela replied.  "But if you would like to talk, I'm more than happy to listen."  Rosalind nodded, and a few moments passed while she appeared to marshal her thoughts.

    Suddenly, without preamble, she said, "You recall that I spoke of my sister.  We were just a year apart in age, and very close.  Our mother had died when we were quite young, and so it seemed only natural that we would turn to one another for comfort and companionship.  As I mentioned, Kate was quiet and gentle, and often very serious—at least with most people.  But with me she was quite different!  She was bright and lively, and possessed a droll sense of humor!  She had a wonderful, infectious laugh.  We spent many happy hours together growing up.

    "Like our father, Kate was quite literary.  One of her favorite passtimes was to curl up in our father's chair in the library and read.  She used to say that beginning a story was like going on an adventure, because you never knew where you might end up!  As she grew older, however, her tastes turned more from novels to poetry.  She read everything she could find in our father's library, but her particular favorites were the romantic poets:  Blake, Wordsworth, Shelley, Lord Byron . . . I can still hear her reciting, "'She walks in beauty, like the night, Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright  Meet in her aspect and her eyes . . .'"  Rosalind's voice drifted off.  Her eyes were faraway, and Michaela knew that she had gone back in time to her girlhood with Kate in Suffolk.  Michaela was silent, unwilling to disturb Rosalind's reverie.

    Then Rosalind's eyes cleared and  Michaela could see she had returned to the present.  She smiled apologetically at Michaela and continued, "When Kate was sixteen she was presented at court.  She made a stunning debut, and had no end of eligible young men vying for her hand.  She was so lovely, and my father had high hopes of her making a brilliant match.  Kate understood what was expected of her, but she showed little inclination for returning the attentions of her wealthy and titled suitors.  She preferred her literary pursuits, and going for long, solitary walks on the estate.  My father didn't understand her reluctance to be courted, but he was confident that given time, some worthy young man would capture her heart.  However, he was fully prepared to step in and take control of the situation if Kate allowed too much time to slip by.

    "Then one day, three months after her seventeenth birthday, Kate stunned us all by running off and marrying a young farmer, a man named Alun, who was the son of one of my father's tenants.  My father, ordinarily a gentle man, was enraged by what she had done.  Even I was shocked, for she hadn't confided in me—but I determined to support her nonetheless, and pleaded with my father on her behalf.  My entreaties fell on deaf ears, however; my father refused to receive Kate and her husband, and vowed that unless she severed all connection with him, that she would no longer be his daughter.

    "It was then that I realized how stubborn and determined my sister really was.  She declared that she didn't care what our father thought, and that she would rather live as a pauper than give up the man she loved.  Two days later, Kate and her husband left Suffolk, and went to London.  My father immediately summoned his solicitors and had her cut out of his will.  From that day forward, he never spoke of her again, and forbade her name to be uttered in his presence.  I was heartbroken, fearing I might never see her again.  My father also had forbidden me to write to Kate, or  to accept any of her letters, but of course I secretly defied him, and we managed to maintain a covert, irregular correspondence.

    "For a time, Alun became a tenant farmer on another estate near London.  But his crops didn't thrive, and the rents exacted by the master of the estate were so exorbitant they bordered on extortion.  All too soon, conditions became unendurable.  Protests and riots broke out among the tenants, and Alun realized that for the sake of their safety, he and Kate must go elsewhere.

    "They travelled to Cornwall, where Alun tried his hand at working in the mines of the Cornish Tin Coast.  He learned he had a talent for mining, and managed to make a modest, but sufficient living.  However in his heart he still longed for the land.  And the days and months spent below ground, constantly exposed to the tin dust of the mines, began to wreak havoc with his lungs.  Once again, he and Kate were forced to move on.

    "By this time they had a child, a son named William who was two years old.  And Kate was with child again.  Alun knew that he must find a way to earn a steady income to support his family.  He decided the time had come to take drastic measures; and so, inspired by romantic tales he had heard of the rich fortunes to be made here in the States, he resolved that they would emigrate to America.
 
     "By now I had come of age, and possessed a comfortable income in my own right, which I could draw upon without my father's knowledge or consent.  In my letters to Kate I would frequently plead with her to let me send her some money, but she always refused, saying that Alun's pride would not permit him to accept any help—especially from her family.

     "I had also had my own share of suitors by this time, but my inability to help my own sister had awakened a passionate desire in me to aid others who were less fortunate.  I had been particularly inspired by the work of social reformers of the period, who so eloquently spoke of the desperate plight of the lower classes.  I also was moved by the works of Mr. Dickens, in which he so graphically depicted the bleakness of urban life, especially for children forced to labor long hours in the factories, or women trapped in hopeless marriages with drunkard or abusive husbands.

     "I began to actively participate in efforts to promote the improvement of conditions for these unfortunate creatures, and soon determined to make it my life's work.  My father was, of course, appalled by my inclinations, but the loss of Kate had contrived to irreparably break his spirit, and he made only token objection to my choice of career.

     "Meanwhile, Kate's sporadic correspondence with me continued.  She always made light of her family's travails, but I knew they were suffering great hardships.  I cannot tell you the anguish I endured, knowing that my delicate sister, raised in a life of privilege, now was forced to work her fingers to the bone and struggle for every penny.

     "They sailed for America in the spring of 1835.  I can only imagine the arduousness of their journey, for of course they traveled in steerage.  Kate's second son was born on board ship.   Given the deplorable conditions they must have endured, it is a miracle that she and her baby survived."

     Michaela had been listening in attentive sympathy as Rosalind related her sister's sad history.  But when Rosalind spoke of the birth of Kate's second child, her eyes went sharply to Rosalind's face.  The older woman, lost in her recollections, didn't notice Michaela's sudden change of expression, but continued speaking.

     "I had a letter from Kate two months after their arrival in New York City.  With almost no money, they were forced to take lodging in a tenement in one of the poorest sections of the city.

     "Alun took whatever job he could find, often working as a day laborer for a pittance in wages.  There was steady work to be had on the docks, but it was grueling and exhausting.  Kate tried to supplement their income by taking in other peoples' washing.  She had hoped to hire herself out as a nanny or governess, but she couldn't leave her children, and couldn't afford to pay anyone to look after them.

     "Alun's health, indifferent since his stint in the mines, began to decline rapidly from the strain of physical labor and the dirty conditions of the city.  But more than anything, his hope and his spirit were broken by the crushing weight of his failure to provide adequately for his family.  Barely a year after they settled in New York, the strain on his heart and lungs proved too great, and he died, leaving my sister a widow.”

     Rosalind stopped speaking and looked at Michaela.  Michaela's eyes were fixed on her with a burning intensity.  Her face was pale.  Rosalind watched her compassionately.  "I see you've guessed," she said.

    "Is it possible?"  Michaela whispered.  "Are you telling me that—“

    "Yes, my dear," Rosalind answered, tears in her eyes.  "My sister's younger son was named 'Byron.'  Your Sully is my sister's son-and my nephew."  She reached into her pocket and withdrew the cameo.  She pressed the hidden clasp and the two halves sprang open.  Wordlessly, she put  the cameo in Michaela's hand, and Michaela looked down to see her husband's familiar and beloved features staring out at her from the face of a lovely young woman.

    "That is my sister, Lady Katharine Sutcliffe Sully," said Rosalind.