Leah thought that the cat deliberately coaxed Madeline into hiding as part of some grand plan to dominate their lives.
But Mr. Dandy and his antics aside, the house settled into a rhythm.
Much-needed servants arrived thanks to Mr. Ashcroft and his list at the Old Drover’s Inn. The innkeep was rapidly becoming Leah’s own staffing agency.
Their supply of maids and footmen went from five to fifteen almost overnight. William had been chuffed to be promoted to butler, and Mrs. Buchan had a cousin, one Mrs. Gilmour, who arrived to be their housekeeper. Most importantly, Leah had hired a competent cook from a family just down the glen. Each new servant was paid a handsome wage and sworn to secrecy, on pain of dismissal, as to Madeline’s existence within the house.
Every day brought a new set of challenges—mold to be scrubbed off the window casings in the north bedrooms, water-damaged walls in the dining room to be repaired, the stained wallpaper in the study to be replaced—but Leah enjoyed watching the incremental changes coalesce into a gradual rehabilitation of life at Laverloch.
And if Fox was more like a ghost—rarely seen but heard groaning and cursing at the oddest hours—then he merely added to the ambiance.
The items from the south wing helped to make the castle feel more like a home. Additionally, Leah wrote letters to furniture makers in Aberdeen and Edinburgh, requesting specific cabinets, chests of drawers, side tables, chairs, and sofas.
Fortunately, a carpenter in Aberdeen had completed an enormous order of furniture only to have the customer back out of purchasing it. Leah was able to snap up half of the items she needed at a discounted price. Not that Fox with his ample budget cared, but Leah felt the hunter’s thrill of having snared a valuable quarry.
A draper from Forfar made the long journey with a carriage full of samples, and Leah spent an afternoon with two seamstresses choosing fabric for window curtains and bed hangings. She even ordered several new dresses for herself and Madeline.
But throughout it, those letters would not let her be.
She remained true to her vow; she did not return to the south wing to search for more answers.
But that did nothing to stem the tide of her curiosity.
She thought about the letters as she cataloged the linens with the new upstairs maids, as she planned meals and discussed the household budget with Mrs. Gilmour, as she inventoried Fox’s rapidly declining alcohol stores with William.
What had happened with Miss Hampstead? Had she betrayed Fox in the end? Was she also the woman behind the love letters? The one who was the sole owner of his heart?
Leah tried to brick off the monster of her curiosity—truly she did—but it rattled the bars of its cage on a daily basis. Because once she knew about the existence of the letters, one more fact became painfully obvious:
The house hummed with the memory of a lady who was unknown but still very much present.
Nameless and faceless, the woman arose everywhere.
She existed between the initials lovingly stitched onto Fox’s handkerchiefs. In the elegantly embroidered details of Madeline’s favorite blanket. In the matching gowns for Madeline’s dolls.
Only a lady of the house would create such treasures. Handkerchiefs didn’t come with initials embroidered. Monograms were stitched by the women who graced a man’s life—wife, mother, sister, daughter.
Every clue pointed to the same conclusion:
A woman had deeply loved both Madeline and Fox.
She had taken care to ensure their lives were comfortable—that the bed linens were of the finest quality, that there were exotic tapestries for the walls and porcelain for the tables and vases to hold flowers. All things gleaned from the crates of goods in the south wing.
A trunk in Madeline’s room yielded more finds—a trove of finely-stitched baby clothes, embroidered with vining lilies and whimsical elephants and monkeys. Leah lifted dress after dress, marveling at the cleverness of each design, at the care taken. The stitches were done in the same hand, by the same person, without question.
Who was the woman who had done this? Miss Hampstead with her fortune?
Regardless, Leah could practically see her, resting before a fire of an evening, belly rounded like Aileen’s, sewing away. Fox seated opposite her, reading quietly from a book, talking and smiling with ease . . . not a drop of alcohol in sight. Both of them, like Malcolm and Aileen, eagerly awaiting the arrival of their babe.
The scene gave Leah a covetous pang.
How she longed for something similar. To feel so loved, to experience such a sense of belonging.
Two weeks afterfinding the letters, Leah awoke as she had the previous fortnight—with a lead weight resting on her chest.
She opened her eyes and barely stifled a scream.
Today, unlike other days, the heavy weight was decidedly real.
