If there is anything about courage that Geneva learned in recent weeks, it's that it's contagious. And it's addicting. When her world didn't end after she daring to do something, and when she woke up to a new morning, an overwhelming sense of confidence and hope surged inside her.

And that morning, when the sun streamed through her windows and the noise of another day awakened the household, she realized she lost nothing three nights ago. Yes, of course, she lay awake crying, fearing that she had made a mistake. But if she did, nothing much had changed. Sleep still consumed her. Morning still came. And it was followed by another day. Then another. And she was still the same woman who wanted to fill what had been missing.

That morning, while Gwen helped her dress, she was restless. It was the day that she would return to the other side of the hill. Three days was enough to gather the courage to know what her mother thought of her letter. Or if she told her father. Her brothers. And thinking of her brothers, Matthew came to mind. And the fear returned as she remembered Matthew's voice when he talked about his sister, his face when he first thought she was Geneva Withers.

"What do you want to do today, Miss?" Gwen asked.

"I think I'll go with you to the market. And then I'll want to learn how to make pies with Helene."

"And? Have you any plans with the Stratfords today?"

She shook her head. "I think I want to spend the afternoon alone."

"Can I go away for a couple of hours this afternoon, then?"

"Of course."

"Thank you. I'll be sending some letters to the post."

After her planned activities, Geneva wrote letters to her aunts and asked Gwen to take them to the post with her. Then she dressed for a walk. After packing a pie, she took the road to Windsong. And continued downward to the other side.

She stood at the end of the road, just staring at the cottage. It was silent, her father's wagon not around. She walked closer, wary and ready to run away if something went wrong. But it remained quiet and still, as if it was empty.

But it wasn't. She caught sight of the taupe dress before it disappeared completely at the back of the cottage. Now certain that someone was home, she became aware of the other sounds—metal digging into dirt, roots being snapped.

The small gate was open, and she entered. Her legs were less wobbly than they were three nights ago.

Courage. It's tempting. She wanted to savor it again. She wanted to feel its rush through her veins.

Unconsciously, her palm ran down her skirt a few times before she emerged into the garden. She stood there for a while, watching her pulling carrots from the ground. The sureness of her movements made Geneva wonder how many times she had done this. If she was ever tired of doing it. If she wished she had servants to do it for her.

Then Constance Vernon stilled, finally sensing she wasn't alone. When she looked over her shoulder and found Geneva standing there, a flash of panic and eagerness passed over her face. Geneva held her breath.

Constance Vernon then smiled at her. "Instead of standing there, maybe you can help?"

She jumped and rushed to the woman's side, placing the pie on the table she passed by. Lowering to the ground, her gaze focused on the patch of carrots. "What do I do?"

"Pull," the woman said in a soft voice, grabbing the fronds with one hand and pulled. "See?" Geneva nodded. Her mother watched as she did the same. "You learn fast."

"I try."

They worked quietly for a while. They finished one patch and stopped when her mother said the others were not yet ready. Of course, she was confused. She was a little impatient as well. Perhaps even slightly frustrated.

Why were they doing this instead of talking? Could it not wait?

But as they washed the carrots in the kitchen, she realized her mother may not know what to say. Maybe the woman was buying time.

Or giving her time to leave.

Finally, when they had nothing else to do, Constance Vernon prepared tea and invited her out in the garden and back to the table surrounded by five of the chairs from last night. While waiting, she stared at the sky she thought of Aunt Deborah. And she remembered Damon. If he learned where she was, he would not believe it.

"Did you make this?" her mother asked.

"I helped," she said, watching Constance Vernon take a bite from the pie. "You don't like it."

Constance crinkled her nose. "Never liked apples."

"How about eggs?"

"Yes."

She nodded. "I know how to make egg pies."

"I hope to taste something better than mine."

Geneva smiled faintly. The tea was too hot, but Geneva took a sip. The woman looked at her face for some time, studying everything she could see there. Geneva did the same, seeing more wrinkles and folds than she did days ago. What she did not see was the hint of insanity. She was just seeing a woman who knew a different life than she and her aunts.

"Did you read my letter?" She had to ask. She could no longer sit there and wait until the woman gathered the courage and ask her to leave or cry or say sorry.

Constance Vernon smiled, eyes brimming with tears and amusement. "Yes."

"I wrote a different one months ago," she admitted. "When I found out. But I changed it before your birthday."

Constance's smile remained as she looked at Geneva the same way the earl would stare at the little devils whenever they told one of their silly stories. "Why?"

"Because my first letter was horrible." She looked away to blink back tears.

"Why do you think so?"

"Because the woman who wrote it knew little back then. It was a furious letter."

"You have every right to be furious."

"But I wasn't when I wrote the new letter."

Constance's eyes filled with more tears. "You must have taken out a lot."

"I did. Most of them were questions." She fell quiet for a few breaths. And in a small voice she said, "I asked why you gave me away. I did not think it would be a proper thing to ask in a letter."

Her mother nodded, sipped from her cup, and swallowed. Wind blew past them. The clouds moved slowly above. Farm animals from everywhere made noises. "You were very sickly. They offered to take you to a doctor."

Geneva bit her trembling lips and met her mother's eyes. "So you gave me away."

Constance's eyes quivered as she closed them. Tears rolled down her cheeks when she nodded. "Stephen was also sick, and we didn't know what to do. I feared I would lose you both."

"And you chose him over me."

"No!" Constance cried, shaking her head. She sniffled. "They wanted you. They didn't want him."

Geneva swallowed. "I saw you many times before through the window. Every Christmas."

Her mother frowned. "You did?"

"Yes. I've always wondered who you were."

"They never..." Constance paused, struggling with words. "They never told you, did they?"

"No."

"They always tell us you're sick. Or you're confined in bed."

"And you believed them?"

"Not entirely, no."

"You could have asked around."

Constance let out a shaky sigh. "We could have. But it would mean explaining why. We didn't want to ruin your name. Ruin your chances."

"Did you think I would mind?" Geneva could not stop the anger laced in her tone. "Did you think I would loathe to have your names associated to mine?"

Her mother blinked, more tears falling from her eyes. "They were giving you your best chances. One we could not give."

"They could not give me the family I should have known," she shot back. "They gave me nothing but a life of fear dressed in faith and prayers."

Constance wiped her tears with the pads of her fingers. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me for not... For not choosing you. For wanting something different for you."

"You could have wanted me."

"And I do. I did. We did. We still do."

Geneva pursed her lips as her tears finally fell from her eyes. She wanted to tell her mother what she had been through to get here. How it had been difficult. But what good would it do? Her fears differed from theirs. They may not understand them as much as she could not understand hers.

"We've always wanted you."

They wanted her? How could she say so when they didn't know her at all? They didn't know the woman she was. What of Matthew? He didn't want her. What of Stephen and Jasper? Her father?

What of her aunts?

Courage. It stumbles on fear. And at that moment, she fell into it, drowned in its consuming depths. Yet she knew she would float back on the surface tomorrow when the sun rose again. Or maybe tonight, after a good cry. But at the moment, she wanted to run. Just for a while. Just long enough to gather herself for another battle.

She blinked against her tears and inhaled deeply. "She's sick. Aunt Deborah." Her shoulders shook as more tears flooded her eyes. "I don't know what to do. They... They wouldn't let me be with them. She's in Birth and I don't think she'll live long."

"Oh, Geneva," her mother said, also crying as she stood and wrapped Geneva in her arms, cradling her head in her bosom, running hands down her hair.

"I don't know if I hate them for what they did. For their secrets and lies. I should, but I couldn't."

"Then don't."

"They kept me away from you." Her arms wrapped around her mother, tight. And tighter. "What if they learn of this and take me away again?"

"They will not because you know what you want now. You're so brave. Coming here, you're braver than any of us."

"I'm not."

"Maybe not every time, then," her mother said with a tearful laugh. "Only on days when you have to." Her mother did not let her go until she stopped crying. And she only did to cup her face and lean back so she could look down at Geneva with all the love in her eyes. "It took me years to understand them—why they kept you away from us. But I eventually did. It's fear. And I had it, too. I feared they may be right as much as they feared you would be like their sister and me." Bending low, her mother planted her forehead against hers. "Understand them, my darling. Don't fear them. Don't fear us." Smiling, she added, "That's what family does."

It was at that moment that the door to the kitchen opened and Theodore Vernon walked out with hat in hand. He came to a halt at the sight of his wife and Geneva. His gaze went to Geneva, then to his wife. Constance smiled at him tearfully and his gaze traveled back to his daughter before he moved, stumbling on the freshly dug patch of carrots.

"Geneva." She had heard her name spoken by him before, but this time it sounded different. This time, he knew the person who owned it. She had embraced him before, but this time when his hands cupped her face and his tearful eyes looked down at her with wonder, it was warmer than any hug from a stranger. "Oh, good Lord," he choked as pulled her into his warmth, his body shaking as he murmured words only he could understand.

During that moment in the garden, she allowed herself to be drowned by her parents' embrace, by their tears, and their words of regret and apologies. But when it was time for her to go home, she realized she had more to face.

Stephen was in the kitchen, sitting there the entire time. Silence lingered for a while as her brother stood, hands in his pockets.

Courage. It's like breathing. It fills you, then leaves you. You try to hold it in for as long as you can. It's there one moment, gone the next. Until the next breath.

"I'll take you home." No hello. No welcoming embrace. Just four words to remind her she was not yet home.

Her mother pulled her into another embrace and whispered, "You're the big sister. Don't let him scare you."

Her father approached Stephen and patted his shoulder. A silent message passed between them, one Geneva would take years to understand. Facing her again, Theodore Vernon cupped her face and smiled. "You will come back, yes?"

She nodded. Of course she would. With egg pies, she said.

Stephen stared at her for a breath before he turned and led the way to the door. Stealing her parents one more glance, she smiled because they both winked at the same time.

The wagon was available, but Stephen didn't offer a ride. They walked. First in breathless silence, then in a long, awkward silence. The road was painted yellow now as the sky whispered goodbye to the sun. Crickets echoed in the air as they walked.

"I knew the moment I saw you." She almost flinched when he finally spoke. "You tried to fool us."

"I didn't mean to."

"Of course, you did."

She nodded. "I did. I was afraid."

"Of us?"

She stole him a look. "Of what might happen."

He took a lungful of air and dug his hands deeper into his pockets. "They told us why you had to leave, but they couldn't tell us why you couldn't go back. We simply assumed you didn't want to."

"And they never told me about you," she said with a sigh, tucking strands of hair behind her ear.

"How did you find out?"

She told him how, and for the life of her, she also shared about the letter. How she fell into one of the traps in the woods in her attempt to deliver it. He laughed then, first faintly, then harder as she told him about Damon's threat that she may lose her leg if she didn't see a doctor.

As his laughter died down, she swallowed and dared ask, "What did the parcels contain? The ones you brought to the Withers House every Christmas."

His face gentled, and he freed his hands from his pockets. "'Ma would knit clothes throughout the year, each one for all of us. She would always make the same for you. She would ask if it would fit you because she didn't know how big you've gotten."

Her eyes watered and she looked away, her shoes crunching on dry dirt. "I never got them."

"We know that now."

"I never meant to be gone so long."

He nodded slowly. "You didn't know."

"Three brothers," she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "I thought I had no one."

To her surprise, he took her hand and tucked it in his arm. "You have more than what you may have bargained for now," he said. "And I'm warning you—you may regret it."

Her laughter rang in the air. "Does Matthew know?"

Stephen covered her hand with his. "Jasper dragged him out of the cottage earlier and is trying to put sense into him as we speak. They're probably rolling on the ground somewhere in a fight."

She frowned. "Why?"

"Because Matthew holds a grudge the longest. He's stubborn that way."

"He hates me."

"He's disappointed, and he doesn't like change. You're a big change." He patted her hand. "He'll get over it. He likes Miss Geneva Witherspoon, after all."

She chuckled. "I fear him the most."

"I did not give off such a powerful impression after all, did I?"

"You tried," she said.

They both snorted and walked on. Up the hill. Behind the hill.