This morning, Catherine had gone to her armoire, a little miserable hunk of wood, and pulled out from the bottom drawer her small collection of keepsakes, which included her family Bible, miniatures of her parents, and her favorite collection of English folk tales. Here, she kept the one piece of evidence that hinted at where her aunt might have gone after that day at Edington Hall.
Catherine slid it across the table. She watched as he carefully unfolded the old paper. His strong fingers gently opening the soft creases made her pelvic muscles tighten.
Be mistress of yourself, she reprimanded her traitorous body.
As he began to read, he started tapping the table with his finger. An unconscious impulse, she was sure. To her mortification, this mindless tic sent another pulse of desire through her.
She forced herself to focus on the letter instead. She had read it so many times that she knew the words by heart.
Dearest Catherine,
With great regret my darling girl, I must leave you. By staying away I hope that society may soon forget my actions and be kinder to you when you must enter it. I am afraid that, for now, we are not to see each other. I will miss you keenly and regret with everything that I am that I must part from you.
Your father will explain when you are older why exactly I have had to leave—one day, you will understand much better, although I fear you will judge me severely. I know you will be a good girl for your father and keep him well.
I am with Martha now but will soon be leaving her. I will send more word when I can. You and your father cannot know where I am going but one day I hope to see you again.
Forever yours,
Mary
John Breminster now held the last artifact Catherine had of her sad family history. Her father was dead, her aunt was gone, and Forster House had been sold long ago. How strange that the very enemies that had destroyed her family were now the potential source of her salvation. This letter was the best last card she had to play.
He put the letter down. When he looked up, for a brief second, his mouth appeared softer, almost sorrowful. Then, just as quickly, his stony expression returned.
“You said you did not know Mary Forster’s location.”
“And I do not. Martha was my aunt’s old nurse. She was mine, too, when I was very small. She lives in Lulworth, only a half-day’s travel from Edington, in a cottage. As my aunt said, she planned to leave her—and I know that she did. I never heard from Mary again and I have no notion where she is now.”
He nodded slowly, as if unwilling to trust her.
“Still, Martha is the last known person to have seen my aunt and so I believe we should visit her first. If she has nothing of use, we will not have traveled very far out of our way.”
“You are sure the old woman is still alive?”
“I know she is. I still supply her with a small annuity. She is very old and very poor but she may know something.”
Catherine saw a flicker of emotion flash across his lips. Pity? She wondered if it was for Martha or herself.
“That is generous of you…” He trailed off and she realized that he had stopped short of alluding to her own limited means. She blushed and hated herself for it.
“I don’t give her much.” She felt her face grow hotter under his gaze. “Only a few pounds a year but it makes a material difference to her happiness. The ruin of my family did not only affect us—it also hurt the people who depended on Forster House. I try to do my best by them when I can, which, I am ashamed to say, is not often.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes on the desk. He seemed disturbed by her statement. Why he would care, she couldn’t fathom.
“Nevertheless, Martha would talk to me and answer my questions.”
“Very well. We go there first. We can stay at the same inn this evening—it is on the same road.”
Catherine paused. She knew she had to ask the question that came next. He seemed to be taking the search seriously but she still wasn’t prepared to trust his judgment.
“As a valued servant to my family, Martha knew much about us. Have you questioned your servants? The ones who knew your father well and may have even handled his correspondence?”
“Of course,” he snapped. “I questioned every man, woman, and child in that house about my father’s last days, the letters he sent, and whether he visited any unusual locations. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Do you think I am addlepated?”
“Not exactly. Although I do conjecture that men of stronger mental powers than yourself have missed what is right in front of him.”
“Very amusing, Catherine.” Her given name on his lips sounded far too personal—the collection of syllables sent a flutter of unwelcome pleasure through her body. “Only our housekeeper, Mrs. Morrison, had my father’s confidence and she has been in our service since he was a boy. She even knew your aunt. I asked her if she knew what happened to Mary Forster. She told me herself she knows nothing of her location. She would not lie.”
