As they nibbled mustard and cress sandwiches and drank their tea, Laura opened each letter, smoothing out the fragilepaper.
“They are love letters to Nathaniel’s mother, Olivia, from someone who signs himself,Your loving protector.”
“He did little to protect her at the end,” Dora saidwryly.
Laura folded them. “I’m not going to read them.”
Dora looked disappointed. “Oh, why not?”
“I know they appeal to the poet in you, Dora, but I’m… Wait a moment.” Laura examined a plain white envelope. “This one is from Nathaniel’s father, Lord Lanyon.”
Dora moved closer. “What does it say?”
Laura read quickly. “It’s as we feared. He refuses to acknowledge the child as his.” She read down. “He accuses Olivia of debasing herself and the Lanyon name with the steward at Wolfram. He writes that she broke his heart, and that he will never set eyes on her again.” Tears blurred Laura’s vision. “How sad.”
“Men!” Dorahuffed.
Laura folded the letter, added it to the rest and retied the blue ribbon. “Although he was a boy, Nathaniel must have heard something of this. It would have been a bitter, lonely time for him.”
“Will you tell him you know?”
“I cannot.” Laura handed the letters to Dora. “You must return these to where you found them.”
“But surely this needs to be discussed between you.”
“I hope it will be someday. Right now, it’s enough to know.”
Laura now understood some of what made Nathaniel behave the way he did. No wonder he found trust and intimacy difficult, especially after the rumors concerning Amanda and Mallory. He was more open with his dogs and horses than withLaura.
“The rumors about Nathaniel’s first wife and her affair with the gardener is like history repeating itself,” Dora said. “It would be doubly hard for him.”
“Yes, even if they weren’t true. Poor Nathaniel. So much sadness in his life.”
Dora raised her brows. “How do you know they weren’t true?”
“Cilla didn’t believe it.”
“How could she be sure?”
Laura pulled the shawl closer around her shoulders. “She was Amanda’s friend and confidant.”
“But might Amanda have lied to her?”
“Dora, do stop this. It is not going to help anyone.”
“What do you intend to do?”
Laura stood. “We shall return to London tomorrow.”
“I forgot to tell you. The ladies from the church committee called to see you while you were ill.”
“Oh, dear, I did invite them. I’ll write and apologize, donate to the church fête. Really, Dora, this house should be lived in by someone who can involve themselves in village affairs. I shall ask Nathaniel to sell it.”
“I quite agree. Before we do,” Dora said, “I want to show you something else I found in one of the larger bedchambers while you were sleeping.”
Laura followed her cryptic aunt up the stairs. They entered an airy bedchamber. “There!” Dora saidtriumphantly.
During her inspection of the house, Laura hadn’t entered this room. It smelled musty, and the furniture was covered in dust sheets. A portrait in a gilt frame hung on the far wall. A lady with a calm, attractive face sat with a small dog perched on her knee, dressed in the fashion of the last century. Painted by a well-known artist, the folds of her rose-patterned damask gown were so cleverly wrought they looked almost real. Her auburn hair was arranged in ringlets at her nape. She had a strong face, with a long nose, a generous mouth and a whimsical expression in her eyes.
