“Do we?” Hugo opened a drawer and withdrew a folded piece of paper, placing it carefully on the desk between them. “Because this isn’t about Richmond.”
Then what…?
Sybil stared at the letter, noting the familiar handwriting across the front in her father’s precise script. Her blood turned to ice.
“Where did you get that?” The words came out sharper than she’d intended.
“Your father gave it to me last night. At the theater.” Hugo’s tone was carefully neutral, watching her face for reactions. “He asked me to deliver it.”
“He had no right,” she said, her hands clenching involuntarily. “No right to contact you, to involve you in family matters?—”
“Sybil.” Hugo’s voice cut through her rising panic with quiet authority. “You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. I can burn it right now, in this fireplace, and tell him you refused to receive it.”
Burn it. Make it disappear like all his other attempts at contact over the years.
The offer was tempting. Eight years of carefully constructed walls, eight years of protecting herself from their judgment and disappointment. Why risk that now?
Because Anthea was right. Because I need to put the past behind me if I’m ever going to move forward.
“What did he say to you?” she asked instead.
“That he’d made the gravest mistake of his life. That he wanted a chance to explain, to make amends.” Hugo leaned back in his chair, studying her expression. “That he couldn’t bear to lose another daughter to his own failures.”
“And you believed him?”
“I believed his pain was genuine.” Hugo’s response was measured and diplomatic. “Whether his regret translates to meaningful change remains to be seen.”
Meaningful change. After all these years.
Sybil stared at the letter, her mind racing. Part of her wanted to snatch it up immediately, desperate for any connection to the parents she’d cut from her life. Another part wanted to flee the room entirely, to maintain the protective distance that had served her so well.
“If I read this,” she said slowly, “and if I decide to meet with them, I need to do it alone.”
Hugo’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Sybil?—”
“No.” Her tone brooked no argument. “This is something I have to face myself. Without protection, without someone else to lean on if things go badly.”
Without you there to witness my potential humiliation.
“Are you certain?”
No. I’m terrified. But some things can’t be delegated.
“Yes.”
Hugo nodded reluctantly though she could see the protective instincts warring in his expression. “Very well. But I want your word that you’ll come to me afterward. Whatever that letter contains, whatever they say to you, you don’t face the aftermath alone.”
“Agreed.”
With trembling fingers, she picked up the letter and broke the seal.
My dearest Sybil,
I know I have no right to ask for your attention, much less your forgiveness. The choices your mother and I made eight years ago were unforgivable, and the pain we caused both you and Emmeline haunts us daily.
We have lived with our mistakes, with the knowledge that our coldness and pride cost us both our daughters. But recently, watching you at your wedding, seeing the remarkable woman you’ve become despite our failures, we realized that silence is another form of cowardice.
There are things you don’t know about what happened after Emmeline left our house. Things that might help you understand why the ton believes the story they do, and why we never corrected their assumptions.
