The trot and clatter of carriages, and the calls of people on the street below, were an unwelcome clamor to Emma. She wondered why they seemed louder, today of all days, and then she heard, or rather felt, the heavy silence of her own home. The servants barely stirred; they were clustered together in the kitchen, waiting for news of their beloved mistress. Emma’s father and the physician had shut the door of her mother’s sickroom firmly, and she couldn’t hear anything but low murmurs from her perch on the second-story window seat. All she could hear was the rush and chatter of everyday life continuing on below, and the contrast hurt more than her ears.

​The busy harbor-town of Whitehaven, England, bustled on through the warm spring weather without a second glance at the serviceable townhome or the wan face at the window. Emma turned from the sights below and clutched a handkerchief close to her heart.

​Her mother’s bright sitting room, with its painted silk wallpaper and white crown molding, was full of sunlight, but even it couldn’t fill the emptiness Emma felt. Mrs. Fletcher’s sickness had carved away the long days of happiness and laughter that had filled her daughters’ childhood. Elizabeth, Emma’s younger sister, hadn’t noticed the absences yet and played with her doll on the sunny, yellow sofa the same as she would have any other day.

​Mrs. Fletcher and her daughters had often spent cheerful hours of their mornings in her sitting room, but it had now been a week since she had joined them. The door to the master bedroom remained closed as their mother’s illness took more and more from her.

​“Now, Angela, you should smooth your skirts like this when you sit. Those wrinkles and lumps are quite unsightly.” Elizabeth chided her doll.

​Emma’s eyes filled with tears as she looked at her sister. Elizabeth’s doll was a prized possession and companion. Her wooden hands and feet were worn smooth by caresses and the glossy paint on her face had faded under countless kisses. Mrs. Fletcher indulged Elizabeth and, even at age 11, she made sure the precious doll had beautiful dresses, all embroidered with butterflies. Covered with delicate wings and crowned with a cherubic face, the doll had been called Angel La La for nearly a decade. Now Elizabeth called her by her given name and spoke to the doll of nothing but etiquette, receiving calls, the newest fashions, and balls.

​How would Elizabeth ever attend the much-craved-for London Season without a mother to guide her?

​Emma stood up and paced across the sitting room to the gilded fireplace. She herself was fifteen and eager to grow into womanhood, but the thought now filled her with fear.

​“Miss Fletcher?” The physician quiet tone startled Emma and she could make no response except to turn her reddened eyes towards the dreaded door where he stood. “Your mother would like to see you now. Please come in.”

​Elizabeth fell silent and pulled her doll into her lap. “Should I come, Emma?”

​“No, love. You stay here. I’m sure Mother is tired and will want to rest when we’re done. I’ll come and tell you everything later.” Emma promised.

​How was she going to tell her sister their mother was dying?

​The fearsome question turned her feet to lead, but the kindly physician took her arm and guided her into Mrs. Fletcher’s sickroom. Emma blinked fast to fight back her tears and to adjust her eyes to the shadowed room. After her mother’s sunny sitting room, the master bedroom was cool and dark.

She paused stiffly near the door and felt as if she were intruding. The master bedroom was a private realm, one of the only rooms Emma and her sister did not frequent. They had the run of the townhome from the basement kitchen to the back gardens, and even the polished and formal front parlor, but their parent’s bedroom was a separate sanctuary that Emma now invaded unwillingly. It was a surprisingly masculine room with dark-painted walls and heavy curtains. Her father’s dresser and wardrobe were squared and sturdy and the four-poster bed was imposing. There the curtains were drawn back and Mrs. Fletcher’s delicate face all but lost amongst the white pillows.

“Mr. Fletcher? Your eldest daughter has come.” The physician’s voice was barely more than a murmur, afraid to startle the man standing by the bed.

“Yes. Yes. Of course.” A shudder ran down Mr. Fletcher’s spine but he did not turn to greet Emma.

Her father was a kind, industrious man, whose head for business had elevated him to the position of a prominent shipping merchant. He was a pillar of Whitehaven, his name well-respected in the harbor, and he’d secured a good living for his family. Unfortunately, it was that very business that had made him a near-stranger to his daughters. He was gone for long hours each day, worked nearly every day of the week, and travelled often.

Now, Mr. Fletcher gave Emma a stiff hug and had no words of comfort to say. He left the room quickly by the hall door, past a footman who waited silently with wide eyes, and hurried downstairs to his study.

“Emma, dearest, come closer.” Her mother’s pale had groped for her as her eyelids hardly seemed strong enough to lift and allow her sight.

“I’m here, Mother.” Emma managed to keep the sob from her voice by swallowing it hard. She rushed forward and took her mother’s cold hand.

“Joy of my days. Both you girls. Such lovely young women.” Mrs. Fletcher forced her bloodshot eyes open and behold her daughter. “How I would have loved to see you dance.”

“I don’t care for balls, Mama. I never have,” Emma assured her.

Mrs. Fletcher smiled and her weak hand fluttered towards the bedside table. “Your drawings have taken me out of this room and down to the waterside, my dear. Thank you.”

Emma looked at the sketches she had done of the harbor and fought back another tide of tears. “We’ll go there again together,” she whispered fiercely.

Sudden, tearing coughs racked Mrs. Fletcher’s slight body, and Emma hurried to support her mother and fluff up the pillows behind her. The physician stepped forward with a draught and a few forced sips helped her find her voice again.

“You must promise me you’ll take care of Elizabeth. She needs you and I need to know my girls will be together.” Mrs. Fletcher writhed with the effort of speaking. “Promise me.”

“Yes. I promise. I will take care of Elizabeth.” Emma gripped her mother’s frail hand and tried to keep the panic out of her voice.

“And, my love?”

“Yes, Mother. I’m still here.”

“Promise me whenever you feel lonely, you will look at the stars. I’ll be there, my precious girl. I will always be watching over you.” Mrs. Fletcher’s voice faded to a rasp and then dropped away to pained silence.

“I promise. I promise!”

Mrs. Fletcher’s hand went limp but her chest still rose and fell in shallow breaths. The physician stepped in and called for the footman to get her father. All Emma could do was step back from her mother and hold tight to the promises she made.