He held the paper out. Alistair snatched it. Edward saw the tremor that ran through his fingers as he scanned the page. Then Alistair crushed the letter in his fist.
“That was written before the fire,” he said through his teeth.
“Which,” Glenmore said mildly, “makes it all the more fortunate that your debts have become … painful. A fire, however destructive, often opens the mind to possibilities.”
Edward intervened then, because Isla looked ready to throw herself bodily at Glenmore and Alistair looked ready to hurl himself to the gallows.
“You are correct,” Edward said coolly, “that the fire has reduced the value. Drastically. Unfortunate, as you say for Strathmore.”
Glenmore inclined his head. “Reality does not bend to sentiment.”
“No,” Edward agreed. “But it does bend to scrutiny. One wonders how quickly the creditors approached you after the fire. Almost as if they expected it.”
At that, Glenmore’s eyes hardened. Not a full give-away but enough to confirm Edward’s suspicions. Isla moved then, stepping forward with a steadiness that belied the fury snapping in her eyes.
“Is this what it is?” she asked quietly. “All of this …” She gestured to the blackened wing behind her. “… because my mother chose another man over you?”
Glenmore stiffened. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“What nonsense,” he said sharply. “You imagine I nurse thirty-year grievances like some jilted boy?”
Isla reached into her apron pocket and withdrew the bundle she had carried since morning, the salvaged letters. She unfolded the top one, the charred edges trembling in her fingers, and held it out.
“You wrote to her,” she said softly. “Nigel. You called her dearest. You signed yourself hers. You told her she had ruined you for other women.”
Glenmore’s face drained of blood. For a heartbeat, the courtyard seemed to freeze. Edward watched the letters as if they were live powder. Isla’s hands did not shake now; her voice did not falter.
“She kept them,” Isla said. “She hid them in a chest. She did not burn them. Whatever her choice was, she kept you in her thoughts enough to keep your words, perhaps to read them again.”
A sound escaped Glenmore, not quite a breath, not quite a choke. His gaze darted to the letters again, then away, then back, as if he could not decide whether to look at them or flee from them.
“She kept them,” he repeated hoarsely.
Isla nodded. “It pains me to admit it. But yes. She must have cared for you once.”
Glenmore swallowed hard. He looked, for the first time since Edward had known him, like a man who had been struck, hard and deep, where it mattered. The bailiffs shifted uneasily. Alistair looked disgusted, wounded, curious, and afraid all at once. Edward decided the time was right.
“If Strathmore is for sale,” he said, “I will buy it.”
Four pairs of heads snapped toward him.
Isla stared.
Alistair blinked rapidly. “You … what?”
Edward stepped closer, keeping his voice level. “If the estate must be sold to settle debts, then let it remain in the family by marriage. I will pay the creditors. You will retain Strathmore as your ancestral home. You can rebuild without Glenmore’s interference. This feud can die here.”
But Alistair, foolish, stubborn, prideful Alistair, shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I will not be kept by a brother-in-law. I will not have people saying Strathmore survives only because Wexford threw a coin purse at it.”
“This is not charity,” Edward snapped. “This is family.”
“Family?” Alistair shot back. “We are Drummonds. We stand or fall on our own legs. I will not sell Strathmore to you.”
Edward swore inwardly. The refusal, perversely, steadied something in him. Alistair was many things, reckless, burdensome, blind but he was not a liar, nor a plotter in some grand scheme to fleecing the Ravenscrofts. That, at least, was settled. Glenmore had gone still, watching the exchange with unreadable eyes. Then, slowly, he looked at Isla again.
“The letters,” he said. His voice sounded older than Edward had ever heard. “May I …?”
