Snatching up the letter, Frederick unfolded the paper, and cold swept through him, starting at his chest and spilling outward until his hands and feet were numb. The words blurred, then steadied again as he forced his eyes to move, line by line, even as every instinct urged him to stop.
Forgive me. I did what I thought best, but I made a mess of things. No matter what I do, I cannot set them to rights again, and I haven’t the strength to watch it all come undone. My burdens are too heavy to bear. I am not a coward. This is simply the proper course. You are stronger than I, and I know you will see this through.
Frederick stared at the paper, reading the jagged strokes of ink again and again as though that might erase the words before him and the thoughts they inspired. Father had died from a sudden illness. That was all. Yet even as Frederick grasped at that assurance, a voice of reason hurried to point out that a great many poisons mimic such deaths.
“This is simply the proper course.”That line tolled like a bell in his head, each repetition louder than the last. Frederick couldn’t blink as he stared at the letter.
Father could not have done this. Yet the confession before him told another story. Or hinted at it, rather. Vague yet specific, the letter conveyed everything and nothing at the same time—as though he were determined that his son know the truth, without fully admitting his sin.
The paper quivered in his grasp, the faint scent of dust and tobacco clinging to it like a ghost, and Frederick could almost see him sitting at this very desk, pen poised, the weight of ruin pressing down until he could no longer breathe.
The letter proved nothing.
Yet Father’s own words rose to his thoughts again and again, condemning the man. There had been no illness, no cruel trick of fate. The man had chosen his end, neatly and deliberately, and left this pitiful scrap behind to explain what he could not bring himself to say aloud.
The letter slipped from his fingers and fell to the desk as the strength drained from his legs; Frederick sank into the chair, and it groaned beneath his weight, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness of the room. A hollow numbness spread through him, too vast to be called grief, too consuming to be anything else. It pressed against his ribs, heavy and airless, until even breathing felt like an effort.
For a long while, he could only stare at the familiar hand as he tried to reconcile the past with this present. It was as though his father had died a second time, and this death was the crueler of the two. The first had been sudden. Senseless. This one was deliberate. Chosen.
A hollow opened in his chest, deep and wide. The chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk where his father must have sat when he wrote those words, knowing full well what he meant to do. The quiet pressed in around him, thick and absolute, and Frederick forced air into his lungs, but itwas heavy and sour, tainted with disbelief and the sick, twisting knowledge that he had been abandoned to bear this ruin.
The thought struck like a blow, sharp and sudden enough to steal his breath.Father had known.The debts, the ruin, the folly of that final investment. All of it. And rather than warn his son or helm this sinking ship to its end, Father had left Frederick to go down with the wreck. All those assurances about him being “stronger,” about “managing in ways he could not,” were nothing more than excuses. A thin, trembling defense to make cowardice sound like sacrifice.
“This is simply the proper course.”
Frederick’s pulse thudded in his ears, and his hand curled into a fist upon the desk as the words burned into his mind. His father’s final act had not been one of courage or care. It had been a surrender made even more selfish and cowardly by this pitiful plea for understanding and forgiveness. It was a half-hearted deathbed confession, which in and of itself was a desire to ease one’s conscience by receiving “absolution” by forcing one’s secret upon another and leaving that so-called loved one to maintain the lie or bear the consequences that the deceased ought to have borne himself.
And now, Frederick knew the truth of his father’s passing.
There was no history of instability. No sign that passion clouded his judgment. Thus, no degree of understanding would be granted, and neither society, the church, nor the law viewed self-murder with any degree of tolerance. The punishment would be swift and painful—and would fall entirely on his innocent family when his grave was desecrated and his assets seized. Only the debts would remain, and Frederick would have no means of paying them.
With these few words, Father ensured that Frederick would bear the weight of that final deception, left to maintain the lie or see his family face ever greater destruction.
The devil take the man and his lies! He spoke of strength and duty whilst sloughing them off when it grew inconvenient, dressing up his cowardice as “the proper course,” and twisting his selfishness into sacrifice.
Frederick slammed a fist on the desk, rattling the inkwell and toppling the stack of letters beside it. The pain shot up his arm, but it did nothing to cool the heat surging through him. Rising to his feet, Frederick paced the length of the room like a caged animal, his breath coming hard as the lie burned like a coal in his chest. Father had ruined them, and then sought to tidy his conscience with a few lines.
The old house creaked around him as if mocking his fury. Vosses stared down from the walls, their painted faces solemn and unfeeling, while he clenched his fists and glared at the ghost that had undone them all. The fury built until it filled every inch of him, crowding out breath, thought, and reason as the very walls of the study pressed in on him. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out the faint tick of the clock and the whisper of wind at the window.
A raw shout ripped free as Frederick swept an arm across the desk, the sound ringing through the house before he could stop it; papers scattered, and the inkwell toppled, splattering black rivulets across the surface like poisoned veins. Pressing both palms to the wood, he bowed his head as his chest heaved.
And something snapped within his heart.
The rage evaporated, leaving behind a stillness as cold and empty as a frosty pasture on a dark winter’s night. There was no grief left. No anger or desperation. No amount of pleading could undo what had been done, and only the hollow certainty of what he must do remained. Lifting his head, Frederick stared at the chaos before him, and though it chilled him to his marrow, relief tickled the edge of his heart: no one else would be harmed by his father’s actions.
Tearing the note into indecipherable pieces, Frederick crossed the room and tossed it into the fireplace to meet its final end. He would keep this secret—not for Father’s sake, but for his family’s. Ephraim Voss’s actions would not poison anyone else.
Frederick settled at the desk once more and righted the inkwell, glancing inside; there was enough left for a few lines, and he readied a note for Thea. Though he felt the urge to ramble and prevaricate, he wouldn’t salve his conscience by softening the truth: their future was gone, and it did no good to hope for anything different.
***
The dining room felt emptier than it ought. The tick of the clock on the mantelpiece filled every pause, and the gentle clatter of forks against china only made the silence heavier. With her brothers away at school, the table had grown somehow, and though she was grateful that Mama allowed Arabella and Jane to dine with them instead of the nursery with Bradford, their chatter did little to fill the space the boys had left.
Thea glanced at Mina, desperate for some conversation, but the silence was so oppressive that it felt like an actual weight in the air, and she knew that her cousin wasn’t bold enough to disturb it. And she almost sighed with relief when the door opened and Simmons strolled in with a salver.
“From Dunsby Hall,” he said, offering it to her.
Mama’s eyes brightened at once. “From Miss Voss, I hope. As you are not engaged to Mr. Voss, it wouldn’t be entirely appropriate to correspond.”
