Susan . . . whom Fox had said he would always love.
Who was she then? Another love? A relative? Madeline’s mother?
Was Susan the woman whose presence lingered in the house like a wisp of perfume and faint laughter on the wind?
And Honoria Hampsteadhadbetrayed him in the end. The warning in the letter had come true.
Despite Leah’s promises to herself—to wait until Fox revealed his past to her—she could not contain her own rampant need to unravel the mystery.
Curiosity would not let her be.
Not as she checked on Madeline in the nursery. Not as she directed Mrs. Gilmour to assist the upstairs maids in ironing and hanging the newly-arrived curtains. Not as she balanced the household accounts and reviewed letters of recommendation for prospective stewards.
Questions burrowed their way into her psyche.
What had Susan been to Fox to so thoroughly earn his love? To become a woman he would discuss with such unabashed, open affection?
What had Honoria Hampstead done precisely to merit such scathing anger?
Finally, Leah could staunch her curiosity no longer.
The room in the shuttered south wing was altered now. Crates had been dismantled or pushed aside, but a collection of items still remained near the window—old boxes, stacked bits of furniture, dusty travel trunks. The two small chests beneath the window lay untouched amid the chaos.
Holding her voluminous skirts high, Leah picked her way across the room to the trunks.
Raising the lid of the smaller one, the bundles of correspondence and books were just as she had last seen them.
Carefully, Leah lifted out the sheets of foolscap that lay loose atop the books and packets of letters—six of them in all.
She set aside the torn scrap of the letter outlining the situation with Honoria. A quick perusal of the box didn’t reveal any more of that particular letter.
As for the rest of the loose papers, some were written in a loopy feminine hand, others in a slashing masculine one. In other words, both sides of the correspondence. How unusual to have two sets of letters—the ones sent, as well as the ones received. To have the entire conversation, as it were. Somehow, the letters were reunited, perhaps when the couple wed?
Regardless, the tenor of the words left no doubt as to their romantic purpose. Leah read one of the man’s letters first:
Dearest love,
Have I told you yet today how ardently I adore you? How greatly I miss your smile? The world is dreary without you beside me. I hear a woman speak and I turn, hoping to find you there, but alas, I am ever disappointed. I finally screwed my courage to the sticking point, as Lady Macbeth so eloquently stated, and spoke with your brother yesterday evening. He has granted us his blessing. I cannot sleep for thinking of you, of anticipating the joy of finally (finally!) claiming you as my wife in every way . . .
She flipped the letter over. It was signed, Your Ever-loving Captain.
Leah swallowed and closed her eyes.
It was a rather ghastly sort of pain, to witness her husband so full of love. To know that he had once eagerly longed for marriage.
To know that her own marriage would likely never grow into a love like this, no matter how deeply Leah wished for it.
Of a surety, he had kissedthisbride most soundly after their vows.
The woman’s reply was equally ardent.
Darling,
Seeing you yesterday was like a fever dream. How did you manage to sneak into Mrs. Knapp’s garden party? I keep replaying our stolen kiss in my mind. How can love feel like this? As if my heart has wandered out of my chest, and now resides in your own? Oh, please care for yourself most gently. You are precious cargo, and I should suffer the torments of Hell were anything to happen to you.
Leah flipped the letter over, reading the signature:
Your soon-to-be wife, Susan.
