One of Morgan’s eyebrows lifted. “Mischief? That’s your explanation?”
“That is my guess.”
“She’s twenty-two,” he said flatly. “Finn Collins makes mischief. He’s maybe half her age.”
Jane said nothing for a time. Neither did Morgan. His silence felt like a tactic to prompt another response from her. Jane wanted to believe it only worked because the pressure of what she was trying to hold back was greater than the pressure of his silence. “Rebecca has always found a certain amount of perverse pleasure in creating situations that will end badly. More often than not, she creates them around me. I thought I was being clever and careful with our correspondence. I was so certain she did not suspect that it was my intention to leave New York. I told Alex, of course, but he would never have shared a confidence with his sister. David did not know.”
Jane pressed her lips together briefly. Gathering her thoughts, she shook her head slightly. “It does not matter how she found out. The most obvious conclusion is that she did. She read the letter before I posted it and exchanged the photographs. She might have been trying to ensure that you would make a proposal and that I would leave, but it’s also possible that she saw into the future to this very end and knew your disappointment would be profound and that I would be stranded.”
Morgan unfolded his arms and examined the photograph again before his gaze returned to Jane. “Was that difficult to say?”
“Not as difficult as it should have been. Whatever little satisfaction comes from speaking ill of others is transitory at best. Making a habit of it poisons one’s soul. If Rebecca were here, she would take issue with everything I told you, and you would believe her.”
“Would I? How do you know?”
“Everyone believes Rebecca,” she said simply. In Jane’s mind it was as absolute a fact as the earth’s revolution around the sun. “Regardless of what she’s done, has thought about doing, or will do, it is unfair to lay all the blame at her feet.”
“Cousin Frances,” said Morgan. “I thought we would get around to her eventually.”
Jane said nothing.
“That’s what you meant, isn’t it? She bears some of the responsibility.”
“It’s done,” Jane said tiredly. “There is nothing to be gained from sifting through the confusion to the source of it. I am here. Your correspondence was with me. I wrote the letters you received.”
“All of them? Are you sure?”
Jane suddenly felt cold to her marrow. A moment earlier there had been no doubt. Now it niggled at her, shaking her defenses. “I suppose it does not matter if I did or not,” she said on a thread of sound. “You proposed to the woman in the photograph.”
“It seems so.” Morgan tossed Rebecca Ewing’s picture sideways. It struck the beveled edge of the table and fell on the floor. He left it there. “How well do you think you know me, Miss Middlebourne?”
Jane turned on her side, slipping one arm under her pillow to elevate her head. She tugged on blankets until they covered her shoulder. “Much less than I thought I did.”
“Not so different from me, then.”
“I suppose not.”
“Are there things you want to know? Something more than, say, the color of my hair.”
“Did you pen all of your own correspondence?”
The right corner of Morgan’s mouth kicked up. Amusement gave way to a chuckle deep at the back of his throat. “Yes. I take it your question arises because I am more tolerable on the page than in person. Better written than spoken.”
Jane smiled a little herself. He had spared her from making the blunt observation. “Have you ever been married?”
“Ah. So you do wonder what I left out. No, Miss Middlebourne, I have never been married.”
“There must be single women in Bitter Springs.”
“Yes. One of them trotted off to refill my beer in the saloon. That’s when I left.”
“You didn’t want the beer?”
“I did, but I wanted to see you more.”
Jane was skeptical and she let him see it in her narrowing eyes.
Morgan held up his hands, palms out. “I swear. I was concerned. I could see you weren’t well when you stepped off the train.”
