She shook her head.
“Do consider,” he said. “I do not know if it is my place to tell you this, but there really were letters, you know—to Lord Markham and to you.”
There was a coldness about her head and in her nostrils.
“Letters?” Somehow no sound came out with the word.
“From your father.” He took one step closer and possessed himself of both her hands, which he held very tightly. “I have no idea if they were kept, Susanna, or what their contents were. But ought you not at least to see Lady Markham?”
There had been letters—one of them for her.
Her father had written her a letter!
Disclosingwhat? What had the letter to Lord Markham disclosed?
But as quickly as shock had come, panic followed on its heels.
“It would be as well if they have been destroyed,” she said, pulling her hands free again and going back to the seat to rescue her gloves. “There is no point in trying to go back after all these years to rake up an old unhappiness that drove a man to his death.” She fumbled to pull on the gloves. “It can only cause more unhappiness for the living.”
“Have you evernotbeen back there, Susanna?” he asked.
He did not explain his meaning. He did not have to. Of course she had never let go of the past. How could she? Those things had happened and her suffering had been dreadful. The past was a part of her. But she had moved beyond it. She lived a life that was secure and meaningful and happy when compared to the lives of many thousands of other people. Nothing could be served by going back. It was too late.
“William Osbourne wanted to be heard,” he said. “He had something to say.”
“Then he should havesaidit,” she said, whirling about to face him, “to Lord Markham and to me. He said precious little to me in twelve years. He would not even talk about my mother, who was a yawning emptiness in my life. He might have spoken to me instead of killing himself. He might have loved me instead of seeking the comfort of death.”
“You loved him,” he said softly.
“Of courseI loved him.”
“Then forgive him,” he said.
“Why?” She was swiping angrily at the tears that were spilling from her eyes, her back toward him.
“It is what love does,” he said.
She laughed—a shaky, pathetic sound.
“All the time,” he said. “Allthe time.”
If he just knew. If he justknew.
“Very well.” She spun around to face him. “Let us go, then. Take me to them. Let us ask about the letters—and their contents. But know in advance, Lord Whitleaf, that it may be a Pandora’s box that will be opened, that once it is open it will be impossible to close it again.”
“But this does not concernme,” he said. “I believe it is something you need to do for yourself. The letters may not even still exist, Susanna, and yours may never have been opened before it was destroyed. It is just that I think you ought to meet Lady Markham and Edith again. You need to give them a chance—the chance you believe your father denied you.”
She stared at him and then nodded curtly.
“Let us go, then,” she said.
“Ifwe can find our way out of this maze,” he said, his eyes suddenly softening into a smile.
“Now I really,reallywish we could be lost here forever,” she told him, smiling ruefully despite herself.
“Me too,” he agreed. “We should have gone and built a cabin on the top of Mount Snowdon when we had a chance, Susanna.”
He offered her his arm and she took it.
