I wrote this preface to Within the Heart last week. I’ve moved on. It’s not going to be in the final book. But it is still part of the work in progress, so I thought I’d share it with you.

The rain drummed on the roof above the tiny attic room, making it hard for Ruth to hear her brother’s thready voice. She leant closer to the bed, which was just a thin mattress on the floor, not even the mean bed that she had in the maid’s quarters where she should be, except that the butler had permitted her into this part of the attic to nurse her sick brother.

“Promise me, Ruth,” Ricky said. “Promise me you’ll go to London in my place. The streets are paved with gold in London, so they say. You’ll be rich, just like I always promised.”

Ruth clung to Ricky’s hand. “You’ll get better,” she said. “You’ll get better, and we’ll go together. That’s what we planned, Ricky. I can’t do it on my own.”

“You can,” Ricky said. “You have to. I’ll be in heaven watching you, Ruth. I’ll watch you every step of the way.”

“No, Ricky.”

“Yes. You can do it, twin. Do it for me.”

That wee bit of conversation had exhausted him. He fell back on his pillow and lapsed back into sleep.

The doctor wouldn’t come for a scullion, said the butler, but he sent for Mrs. Brown, the wise woman. She examined Ricky and said it was the ague. She suggested a mustard plaster, and Ruth made it with her own hands and applied it. But it didn’t help, and nor did the ginger tea that Ruth had to pay for with a few coins from the twin’s meager store.

Mrs. Brown came again and shook her head. “Prepare yourself for the worst, girl,” she advised Ruth, but how could Ruth prepare oneself for the loss of the only person that was hers in the whole world?

Ricky woke again a few more times, and in one of his lucid periods, he asked Ruth to read the letter. She was carrying it in her apron pocket, for it was too precious to leave with her possessions or his.

Ricky had made a posset for a London gentleman who was staying in the house, and the gentleman had been so impressed that he had offered Ricky a job. Ricky had asked for a letter to show the gentleman’s cook, and the gentleman had laughed and given it to him.

It had one sentence, the one Ricky had built his dream on. “Give this boy a job.” Then the man’s signature. That was all.

“See, Ricky,” said Ruth. “I cannot go. They’re expecting a boy.”

“Pretend to be me,” said Ricky. “Promise, Ruth.”

And in the end, Ruth promised.