Inside the secret compartment was a stack of letters, tightly tied in yellow ribbon.
She withdrew the letters, holding them in both hands. She had no right. Curiosity was not enough. Morna was a woman with secrets, some of them confusing, true, but they were her secrets.
Sarah studied the handwriting on the envelope. Large and sprawling, it seemed to be written in a masculine hand. If she opened this letter, she would read words that weren’t meant for her. Perhaps the words would be commonplace, the correspondence of acquaintances, friends. Or perhaps they were more, words of love, of devotion, and of sorrow.
God forgive her, but she couldn’t go for the rest of her life without knowing.
She replaced the false bottom and loaded the items back into the drawer before returning to her room. Once back in her chamber, she sat on the chair beside the window, resting for a moment with the letters onher lap as if to give herself another chance to do the proper thing.
She began with the oldest letter, one that seemed much read if the fragile folds were any indication. The letter was dated five years earlier.
Dearling,
Her eyes widened at the endearment, but she continued reading.
Forgive me for writing you, but your father has told me the truth he kept hidden all these years. Forgive me for once believing that you would love another.
I have no right to be in your life, now, but I want you to know that you have been forever in mine. I have never forgotten you, dearling, and every day that passes does so with my earnest prayers for your joy and health.
There was no name at the bottom of the letter. The second letter, however, was signed with a bold M. This time, there was no salutation.
You say that it’s wrong, that we cannot love each other. I say, how do we stop? By words? By actions? What more can be done to us, dearling, than to marry us to other people?
The third letter of the thirteen covered three pages, detailing his life, his children, his loneliness for the woman he called dearling. At the end of it, he signed his name, and she knew. Michael.
She skipped the remainder of the letters, hesitating over the last one. Finally, she opened it to find that it was dated only a few months earlier. Slowly, she began to read, thinking that her own heart would break.
I shall not write you again, dearling, nor shall I see you, I fear.
My heart is tired, and the beating of it has been of great concern to my family of late. My eldest son is posting this letter for me, and I hope it reaches you soon. Perhaps my soul will visit you at your English castle to say farewell before my letter arrives.
I shall love you into eternity. I shall wait for you there.
Tears blurred Sarah’s vision, stinging her eyes.
Morna Tulloch had found herself with child, just when her lover had been tricked into marriage. To protect her unborn child, she’d married an English duke desperate for an heiress. She’d managed to have a life away from Scotland.
Her memories of her mother, wrapped in the gauze of time, now saw a smile less happy than bittersweet and a faraway look less contemplative as simply longing.
Perhaps her mother had never told Michael that she’d borne his child, hiding that secret from everyone, everyone but Sarah, to whom she showed the false bottom of the secretary and whom she called dearling.
Had she wanted Sarah to know, in the end? For that matter, had her mother simply willed herself to death? Could one die of a broken heart?
Sarah stood, walked to the fireplace and knelt, building a fire. Once it was caught, she fed the letters to the flames, hiding the secret of her mother’s love and sorrow.
Douglas left his solicitor’s office feeling a little more heartened. The Duke of Herridge could not dissolve his marriage without his consent. Even if Sarah wanted their marriage to end, she would have to prove he’d been an adulterer, as well as guilty of several other sins. As long as he drew breath, he would contest any such action.
There was still time to court his wife.
Unfortunately, there was one task still remaining to do first.
The carriage stopped, and he exited, striding up the steps to the Duke of Herridge’s house.
Simons opened the door.
“I’m surprised you’re not out doing your master’s bidding,” Douglas said.
“This is my master’s bidding, Mr. Eston.” There was a small smile playing around Simons’s lips, an expression so irritating that Douglas gave some thought to knocking it from his face.
