The anger helped a little. It was easier to be angry at Helena than to feel the crushing weight of loss that pressed down on his chest.
But underneath the anger, there was something else. Something that felt dangerously like despair.;
What if she's right?
The thought surfaced before he could push it away. What if Lydia was right? What if his love for her really was a kind of madness, a fever that would eventually break, leaving him hollow and regretful?
What if Helena was right, and the kindest thing really was to let go?
No.
He rejected the thought with every fibre of his being. His love for Lydia wasn't madness. It was the best thing he'd ever felt. The truest. The most real.
But she didn't believe that. And as long as she didn't believe it, nothing he said would matter.
A knock at the door interrupted his spiral.
"Go away, Boggins."
The door opened anyway. Boggins entered, his expression carefully neutral but his eyes betraying concern.
"Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. But I believe there's something you need to see."
"I'm not in the mood for…"
"It's about your mother, Your Grace."
Frederick went very still. "What about my mother?"
"I've been debating whether to show you this for some time. The timing never seemed right." Boggins held up an envelope,yellowed with age, sealed with wax that had cracked but not broken. "I found it three months ago, while overseeing repairs to the music room. It was hidden behind the piano."
"What is it?"
"A letter. Addressed to 'whoever finds this.'" Boggins crossed the room and held out the envelope. "I believe it was written by your mother, Your Grace. Shortly before she died."
Frederick took the envelope with hands that trembled slightly. The paper was fragile, the ink faded, but still legible. And the handwriting…
He had seen his mother's handwriting only a handful of times, in household accounts and formal correspondence. But he recognised it now, the elegant loops and careful strokes of a woman who had been trained to write beautifully.
"Where exactly did you find this?"
"Behind the piano in the music room. The one that's been covered since…"
"Since she died. Yes." Frederick’s throat was tight. "Have you read it?"
"No, Your Grace. It wasn't addressed to me."
"It wasn't addressed to anyone in particular."
"No. But I believe it was meant for you." Boggins stepped back. "I'll leave you alone, Your Grace. Take what time you need."
He withdrew, closing the door behind him with his usual precision.
Frederick stared at the envelope for a long moment. Then, carefully, he broke the seal.
To whoever finds this,
I don't know who you are, or when you're reading this. Perhaps years have passed. Perhaps decades. Perhaps you're a servant, or a stranger, or someone I loved who never knew how much.
