Ring the bell softly, there’s crepe on the door. DEXTER SMITH AND E. L. CATLIN Wren thrust the bedcovers back with leaden arms, amazed that a fever could steal so much strength. Carriage wheels were spinning on the drive, their muffled arrival heard through the window Mim had left open for fresh air. A sick anxiety swirled through her that it might be someone with word about Grandfather. Mim had told her the servants at New Hope, River Hill, and Ballantyne Hall were readying black crepe bands and all the trappings of mourning. Or might it be Papa? Through the hazy delirium of her fever, she’d prayed Papa would get word and come back. But there always seemed to be a delay. She made it to her bedchamber door and then the landing on jellied legs. A feminine voice reached her first. Aunt Ellie? Anger turned her tone almost unrecognizable. Light-headed, Wren sat down atop the highest step, gaze falling to the foyer.
