He threw one letter down and reached for another. He knew most of these missives would not be interesting. “What do you mean?”
“Now that I know you. And Henrietta. He was your father. He may have done bad things. As did my aunt. But, like her, he couldn’t have been all one thing or another. Like her, he must have been a complicated person. It makes it difficult to dig through his old correspondence without compunction.”
Her broad-mindedness moved him but he didn’t want to show it. It felt like too much at once, as he sat in this room and dug through these old letters.
“Well, banish your scruples. Because I don’t want to sort through all these papers alone.”
“Very well.” She sighed and picked up a sheet of paper. “Have you found anything of interest?”
“Nothing that pertains to Mary Forster,” John said, looking back at Catherine, who was now silent, her attention fixed on a letter in her hand.
“What is it?”
“Oh, I don’t think you want to know.”
“Dear God, what?” He felt the blood drain from his face.What now?
She grinned. “I am afraid to say that you were the most atrocious student at Eton College.”
He felt the blood return to his face. He was pretty sure that, this time, however, it was turning him a shade of red visible even in the low candle light.
“What does it say?” He tried to reach for the letter but she put it out of reach.
“Master John insists upon neglecting his lessons. He pays the servants to bring him sweets from town, often aided by his friends Tremberley, Montaigne, and Leith—equally disobedient boys.”
“Give it back.” He reached again for the letter. He knew it was somewhat ridiculous of him, but he didn’t want her reading any more about his childhood antics and thinking he was even more entitled and spoiled than she must already.
“No! This reading is too good.”
He rose to come round the desk and she popped up from her chair, trying to evade him by rushing to the corner. He pursued her, catching her round the waist and pinning her other arm with his own. With his other hand, he managed to pry the paper from her fingers.
She was laughing and squirming beneath him, trying to snatch the paper back. He couldn’t help but keep her in place for the game of it.
“Hold still,” he said, trying to pin her and read the paper at the same time. “This letter was written by Headmaster Heath. He always got it wrong. Montaigne, Trem, and I were bounders, but Leith followed the rules—or, mostly, anyway.”
He was panting from the exertion of taking the note. He looked down at her and could see she was breathing hard too.
He thought of earlier that day, her naked before him, and the combination of these two realities undid him.
He kissed her, pressing her to him. She gave a sigh of surprised approval when their lips met.
“You nearly killed me today,” he murmured into her neck. “But I suspect you already know that.”
“I do, rather.” She pressed herself into him, returning his gesture. He groaned. “But,” she said, breaking away, “we’re not done sorting these letters.”
She walked back and took a seat at her desk, leaving him stunned. She had just walked away from him! As if she hadn’t a care in the world for him. She now held a letter in her hand, which she quickly discarded as irrelevant. He still stood in the corner of the room.
“It doesn’t feel good to be left, does it?” she said, tartly, picking up another.
“Excuse me?” he said, walking over to her.
“You always walk away,” she said, waving her hand.
“I’m sorry about…what happened here…the other day.”
“It’s fine. I don’t care.”
“It doesn’t seem that way.”
