“Awful,” Lydia answers. “And I’m sick of it. Sick of you both.”
“Sick of it? You’re the one who’s been lying to me all this time. You and Emmett played me for a fool.”
Her mouth is a grim line, but her eyes are soft. “I shouldn’t have kept his secrets for him. I was trying to protect you both. I love the two of you so much, it causes me pain to see you hurting. I hate that I’ve contributed to that hurt. I want nothing more than to see you happy.”
“We—” I start to argue, to tell her all the ways we’re doomed, but she interrupts me by pulling a box from behind her back.
She sets it down next to me, and I peer inside to see rows of neatly folded paper.
Lydia rises and throws my curtains open, flooding the room with enough pale dawn light to read by.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask.
Lydia pauses in the doorway. “Just read them. The rest is up to you... to you both.”
She closes the door behind her. I reach out and open the top letter.
It’s dated August 28, 1848.
Ivy,
I wished to write you sooner, but I’ve been in prison and my broken hand has only just now healed enough to hold a quill. But you’ve never left my mind, all this time.
If I were braver or crueler I never would have let you walk down that aisle and marry him. I’ll carry that regret with me for the rest of my life. Could I have saved you?
I find comfort in knowing you’re somewhere better, that nothing can hurt you, that you’re beyond Bram’s grasp, but if there’s anything left of you in this world, please haunt me.
Yours,
Emmett
With shaking hands, I unfold the next letter.
October 1848
Ivy,
I dreamed of you last night. Was that you visiting me? We were back in Kensington Palace and you were kissing me like I was someone worthy of you.
Love,
Emmett
Winter 1848
Ivy,
Time has gotten so hazy. I don’t know when it is, only that I feel your absence in every second.
Come back to me,
Emmett
Winter, still 1848
Ivy,
It’s so cold and all I do is miss you.
