Once back in her room, Amelie gently placed the sleeping infant into the crib. Exhausted from the day's new experiences, his tiny body surrendered to slumber.
Once again she sat back at her desk. Her fingers trembled slightly as she dipped the quill into the inkwell, a small pool of blackness reflecting her troubled thoughts. She pressed the tip to the parchment, the scratch of the nib a familiar comfort in the quiet of the nursery. With each stroke, she wove her worry and hope into a letter addressed to her brother Joseph, stationed on some distant battlefront.
"Dearest Joseph," she wrote, her script neat despite the shaking of her hand, "I trust this letter finds you in good health and high spirits..."
She glanced towards the crib where the young master lay sleeping, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of innocent slumber. How she envied that peace, that escape from the uncertainty that gnawed at her daily.
"Please, write back soon. Your silence is more fearsome than any cannon's roar. The house is much as you left it, brother...". The words sat heavy on the page, a testament to the half-truths that had become her life she didn't want to inform him about her situation through a letter. Amelie hesitated, ink forming a thick line across the page before she dabbed it with blotting paper. "Father's business is stable. Mother and Caroline are doing well and we are all looking positive into the future."
"Georg and John have grown taller than I last saw them," she continued, her hand movements finding a steadier rhythm as she recounted tales from home, an oasis of normalcy and safety in this unfamiliar world. "They miss their older brother, Joseph. We all do."
For now, I remain your ever-loving sister, Amelie." She pun the letter into the envelope a practiced hand. She knew the letter would be read by others before it reached her brother's hands. With a heavy sigh, Amelie added it to the stack destined for unknown fates. Beside it lay another, equally forlorn, addressed to Edric—her childhood friend whose laughter once filled her days. Now, only echoes remained, bouncing around the hollows of her heart.
"Maggy," Amelie called softly, beckoning her fellow nursemaid who was tidying the linens. "Have you heard anything of Samuel's return?"
Maggy turned, her face brightening at the mention of her crush. "Oh, Amelie, the postman brought word just yesterday! Samuel is to come home within the fortnight!" Her cheeks flushed with a rosy hue, betraying the depth of her affections.
"Truly? That is wonderful news!" Amelie tried to match her friend's excitement, but her own anxieties dampened the spark. "I only wish I could hear the same of Joseph and Edric."
"Perhaps they are simply unable to send word," Maggy offered, trying to instill hope. "War is so chaotic; letters are often lost or delayed."
"Perhaps." Amelie forced a smile, turning her attention to the window where the sun's rays danced across the garden's blossoms. "I recall how my brother, Edric and I used to race through those fields. Edric could never catch us, no matter how swiftly he ran."
Maggy chuckled. "You must have been a tomboy, climbing trees and playing in the dirt with the boys."
"Indeed, I was quite the scandalous young girl," Amelie reminisced, her laughter mingling with Maggy's. For a moment, the weight upon her shoulders lifted, replaced by memories of simpler times.
"Tell me, what dreams did you cherish as a child?" Maggy asked, eyes alight with curiosity as she sat beside Amelie.
"I dreamt of adventure, of seeing the world beyond our little village," Amelie said, her gaze distant. "And now, here I am, an ocean away from all I knew and wished for."
"But you've seen grandeur few can imagine," Maggy pointed out, admiring the exquisite tapestries that adorned the walls. "And you've been vital in nurturing the future duke."
"True," Amelie concede. The she was younger sometimes grandeur felt like a gilded cage but now it gave her a new chance. She traced her finger along the ornate frame of the crib, its craftsmanship unmatched yet cold to the touch. "What of your dreams, Maggy?"
"Oh, I'm far less ambitious," Maggy confessed with a shrug. "I dreamt of a quiet life, of love and children. It's mundane, I know."
"Love and children are not mundane; they are the very essence of life," Amelie reassured her, thinking of the little life growing within her own womb. "And soon, part of your dream will come true when Samuel returns."
"God willing," Maggy whispered, her hands clasped tightly. "But tell me, do you ever regret choosing this path? You could have married, settled down..."
"I am too young and pregnant," Amelie sighed, her heart aching with unspoken yearnings. "But then I look at the young master, see how he thrives under our care, and I cannot truly regret my choices."
"Nor should you," Maggy agreed warmly. "You have a gift, Amelie. The way you tend to him... it's as if you're mothering the entire estate back to life."
"Thank you, Maggy," Amelie said, touched by her friend's words. "We do what we must, especially in times such as these. When the war ends, perhaps we'll both find our paths lead to new dreams."
"Or perhaps," Maggy mused, "we'll discover that dreams can change, grow with us, much like the ivy that climbs the manor walls."
"Indeed," Amelie nodded, gazing once more at the peaceful form of the young master, her charge, her responsibility, and in some strange way, her solace. "Dreams are resilient, even in the harshest winters."
"Let us hold onto that thought," Maggy said as she stood, preparing to leave the room. "For as long as winter endures, spring is sure to follow."
"Spring is sure to follow," Amelie echoed, her voice a mere whisper in the vast chamber. She leaned over the crib, placing a gentle kiss on the young master's forehead before gathering her letters and stepping out into the corridor.
As she made her way to Anna with the post, the fear that shadowed her heart fluttered away on the wings of a newfound resolve. For in the midst of uncertainty, she clung to the promise of spring, to the hope of dreams reborn, and to the enduring strength found in shared confidences and quiet moments of kinship.