For all my father has done for Ginevra, for Mr. Costa—the cost of the lawyer, the daily absence from his own business affairs—this is by far the most tender thing he can do for them. It is a great honor few servants ever experience.
I squeeze Ginevra"s hand harder. She smiles softly at my father and gives a small, simple nod of her head.
We dock in Newport and enter another carriage, our carriage with Mr. Morgan on the reins. As we turn onto Bellevue Avenue, we see them.
People are rushing south, away from the town center, toward the cottages. Hundreds of them, clogging the avenue.
“What is going on here?” Father sits forward, sticks his head out the carriage window. It is the worst thing he can do.
They see him. The yelling starts as well as the cheers. As in the courtroom, the world
