At eight o’clock that night, steadied by God’s grace, she was sitting on the settee in Dr. McMillan’s second-floor parlor waiting for one very nervous young couple to rejoin her. Dr. McMillan and Victoria were downstairs in his office, where she had sent them half an hour ago to prepare for this all-important meeting to discuss their possible betrothal. Rosalind Andrews and her husband, who took care of the grounds and the stable after working at the mill all day, had retired to their rooms on the third floor before Martha and Victoria had arrived. The parlor looked exactly as it had when the late Doc Beyer had lived here, and she still found the dark burgundy color on the walls to be oppressive, even though a pair of oil lamps on the mantel cast a gentle light to the room. Heavy winter curtains still covered the windows that faced Main Street to offer privacy should anyone pass by, but they also made the parlor feel almost claustrophobic. The pair of footsteps coming down the hall warned of their approach and left her with only enough time to whisper one final prayer, straighten her back, and take a deep breath just before Victoria entered the room with the doctor following right behind her.
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