She looked at him with that smile of hers that was not really a smile but a beaming outward of some warmth or light. And let no one ever try telling him that he was good at expressing meaning in words.
“Everyone ought to have a twin,” she said. “Since you do not, you may borrow me.”
Her words might have sounded flippant, but they did not come across that way. She was offering something priceless. The sort of close connection she normally felt only with her brother. Though he wanted more than just toborrowher.
“Come and sit down.” He indicated one of the chairs, the one without books on it. It was not cold in the room. It must have been trapping sunlight all day and was still holding on to it.
She removed her cloak, sat, and relaxed back into the chair. “I have been trying to imagine,” she said, “that I had suddenly discovered a letter addressed to me in my mother’s handwriting. I would recognize it. My aunt once very generously gave me a letter my mother sent her after she learned she was expecting Bertrand and me, though she did not know at the time that there would be two of us. I am trying to imagine discovering a new letter. I know that breaking the seal and reading it would be the hardest thing I had ever done.”
He stood looking down at her, his hands at his back. “It feels like a very last chance,” he said. “But chance forwhat? I do not know. It is a one-way communication with no way of replying. And perhaps it is nothing anyway. Or further condemnation. It is foolish, is it not, to let the possibilities roll around in my head while I have the answer, whatever it is, in my pocket?”
Those large, calm, fathomless eyes looked steadily into his. Understanding him. Knowing how he felt. Feeling with him. What the devil was she doing with a fellow like him, with his workman’s hands and muscles, with his broken nose and dour manner? With a man who had made a mess of his life and was only just beginning—perhaps—to set it on some sort of course for the future?
“Sit down to read it,” she said softly.
But he could not sit. He went to stand at one of the windows, where the light from a candle would shine down upon anything he held in his hands. He took off his greatcoat and tossed it over the back of the desk chair, and he drew the letter from his pocket. His father had once held this. He had put it into the safe on top of the jewelry and shut the door. And Justin had been the next person to touch it. He held it to his nose for a moment, but nothing of his father lingered there. He broke the seal with his thumb, and his heartbeat drummed in his ears in such a way that he thought he might faint. She hadknownthat. She had suggested that he sit down. He concentrated on his breathing—on the feel of the air coming in and going out. And he unfolded the letter.
My dearest son.
He stared at the words for what might have been a minute or ten before he had the courage to let his eyes move lower.
There are times in life when one’s God-given freedom to choose good over evil at all times, no matter the circumstances or consequences, is snatched away, and one is left only with the choice between two evils. It is what is meant by the term “hell on earth,” I have come to understand.
I was faced with such a dilemma, as I hope you will never be. As I hope all those dear to me and even my worst enemies will never be. I chose one of the evils and sent you away. Perhaps I hoped the choice would not be irrevocable. I expected, perhaps, that you would seek help, and even maybe shelter, from your mother’s family or mine. I hoped they would set your feet on a good and prosperous path until I could somehow claim you again.
Alas, it was not to be. Whether by chance or by design, you disappeared, and put yourself beyond my reach. I believe—I must believe—that your steadiness of character has enabled you to make a decent life for yourself. It is my fervent hope that you have found some happiness with friends and even made a family of your own. It is the consequence of my own choice that I do not know and will never know.
I make no excuses. When a man marries, he has a great deal of power over his wife. Both the Church and the law see to that. It is unfair, even unjust, but it is the reality. He must compensate by offering her his unyielding support and protection, by treating her always with gentleness and courtesy. If in doing those things he must treat his own flesh and blood unjustly, then so be it. I made my choice. I honored my wife and disowned my son.
Ah, but not in my heart, Justin. If the words of a man who has somehow sullied his honor are of any importance to you, then know this. I did not for a moment doubt you. I have never, even for a single minute, stopped loving you. It would not be possible. You are the son of my ever-beloved first wife. You are my son.
Although I will be dead when you read this, and though I can never deserve or earn your forgiveness, I would ask for it. Not so much for myself—I will be dead, after all. But for yourself, Justin. If you still think bitterly of me, let the wound heal. And if you cannot love me, then love my other child, your sister. Love Maria.
Live a good life, my son. You were always good at loving. You lit up my life and your mother’s. You lit up Maria’s life. You were loved wherever you went. Do not allow bitterness and the injustice with which you were treated change you forever. Live a life filled with love. It is, ultimately, all that matters.
And his signature. Not his name or his title. Just one word.
Papa
Justin folded the letter neatly and deliberately, put it back into his pocket... and drew it out again. He turned.
Her head was against the back of the chair. But her eyes watched him. He strode toward her, handed her the letter, and went back to look out through the window onto darkness.
He concentrated upon his breathing as he had never done before, ignoring thought, quelling emotion. In, cool.Out, warm. I am breathing in. I am breathing out.Papa.No. In, out.My dearest son.No. In, cold. Out, warm.You lit up my life and your mother’s.
He did not know how long he had been standing there, breathing in, breathing out, before his concentration was broken. Arms had come about his waist from behind, and her body rested against his, the side of her head against his shoulder. She said nothing.
He crossed his arms over his waist, curling his fingers about her slender arms. And he took her warmth, her relaxation, into himself. He turned eventually and held her to him until he stooped down to scoop her up into his arms. He strode over to the chair where she had been sitting, sat down with her, grabbed her cloak from the arm of the chair, and wrapped it about her though there was no chill in the air. He held her tightly. A few minutes passed.
He felt the tremor first with his stomach muscles. Then there was the ache in his throat and down in his chest. He sniffed once. But it was no good. She nestled her head between his shoulder and neck.
And he wept.
With great, hideous gulps and sobs. With an almost total loss of dignity. And control. The armor he had built so painstakingly about himself was shattered. Gone without a trace.
“I am s-so s-s-sorry.”
“I am not,” she said. “I am not, Justin.”
