It is always you.
You are the thought that keeps me upright, the memory that steadies my hands, the future I whisper to myself when hope seems foolish.
I will love you for eternity.
—Q
Mary-Ann stood motionless, the letter trembling in her hands. She traced the edge of the parchment, thinking not only of what had reached her, but what had not. How many letters had vanished into silence? How many truths had been kept from them both?
There was no flourish, no explanation. Just his voice. Undeniably his. Left behind like a heartbeat pressed into the page.
She sat slowly on the edge of the bed, the paper still open across her palm. And for the first time in days, she let the tears come.
Later, once her breath had steadied and the letter lay carefully folded on her desk, Mary-Ann descended the stairs in search of answers. She found Mrs. Aldridge in the laundry, folding linen with practiced precision. The scent of starch and lavender lingered in the warm air.
Mary-Ann didn’t speak at first. She stepped inside and held out the letter.
The housekeeper looked up, saw the paper, and paused.
“I found it inside the ledger,” Mary-Ann said softly. “Did you…?”
Mrs. Aldridge wiped her hands on her apron. “It was tucked there when I retrieved the book, yes. I wasn’t sure if you’d already read it or if it had been hidden.”
“It hadn’t,” Mary-Ann said. Her fingers closed gently around the folded sheet. “Do you know where it came from?”
Mrs. Aldridge shook her head. “Only that Mr. Hollis found it among a parcel the Brigade sent over. Said it had been caught up in the mess of lost correspondence. He recognized the handwriting and thought it might be meant for you. He didn’t read it, of course.”
“No,” Mary-Ann said quietly. “Of course.”
Mrs. Aldridge looked at her for a long moment. “It matters, doesn’t it?”
Mary-Ann nodded. “It changes everything.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Friday morningsun filtered through the dining room’s tall windows, casting a warm glow over the silver teapot and neatly arranged toast rack. Mary-Ann stirred her tea, watching the steam curl upward, her thoughts already two steps ahead.
Her father sat at the head of the table, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, a newspaper spread open before him. He hadn’t said much. He rarely did the first thing in the morning, but there was a crease between his brows that hadn’t been there last week.
“Father,” she said softly.
He looked up. “Yes, my girl?”
She smiled faintly at the endearment. “I wondered if we might spend some time today reviewing the ledgers together. I know Mr. Wilkinson has been overseeing things, but I… I’d like to see them with you.”
Mr. Seaton folded the paper slowly. “Of course. I’ve missed working beside you.”
The words warmed her more than the tea. A memory surfaced. She was eleven years old, seated beside him at this very table with a pencil twice her size and ink smudged on her cheek. She had begged to help with the cargo manifests, only to fall asleep in the middle of the column. He’d carried her to bed and finished the work by lamplight.
She reached for a slice of toast, gathering her thoughts.
“You used to wrinkle your nose at coffee,” he said suddenly, a small smile touching his mouth. “Now you take it darker than I do.”
She looked at him, surprised. “I’ve had reasons to stay sharp lately.”
He studied her for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “Good.”
“Has theArgent Windreported in yet?” she asked casually, referring to one of their smaller coastal ships.
