There was the slightest hint of a question in her tone, as though hoping Thea would correct her, but instead, she ignored the gentle prodding and did not mention that a masculine hand had addressed the missive.
It grieves me to write this, but I must. We cannot have a future together. Circumstances have made marriage impossible, and there is no good to be gained by denying it. Please do not argue with me. It cannot be.
—F.
The room blurred at the edges as she scoured it a second time, desperate to find a misunderstanding. And a third, this time hoping that the words had rearranged themselves into something entirely different, but they stood stark and final on the page, refusing to soften no matter how many times she read it.
Her pulse pounded in her throat, wild and uneven, but she forced herself to draw a breath. Then another. Slowly, deliberately, she forced air into her lungs as the sting in her eyes and the sharp, splintering ache in her chest grew. Panic would solve nothing. Nor tears.
With a steadying exhale, Thea folded the paper neatly, tucking it beneath the napkin on her lap as Mama’s voice broke through the fog.
“What is so very important that it couldn’t wait until he sees you again?”
“Nothing of consequence,” said Thea, reaching for her fork.
At her side, Mina’s brows rose, silently questioning that falsehood, though Mama accepted it readily enough. With a slight shake of her head, Thea returned to her meal. There was nothing to say. No reason to give Frederick’s letter any weight.
Cutting a piece of meat with steady hands, Thea brought it to her lips, chewing meticulously. Whatever storm raged at DunsbyHall had nothing to do with her, and if Frederick Voss believed a few hastily written sentences could undo the ties binding them together, he was sorely mistaken.
Chapter 18
Light filtered through the tall arched windows of St. Augustine’s, softened by the wavering glass so that it fell in uneven stripes across the flagstones. The scent of wax and wood lingered in the stillness, and the silence hung thick in the air, as real as the dust motes caught in the morning light. It was the kind of quiet that magnified even the smallest of sounds; the slight shift of boots reverberated through the nave as though attempting to reach the heavens themselves.
Frederick stood near one of the pillars, his gaze fixed on a strip of molding that ran along the capital—a modest vine motif whose curled leaves were brought to life by a craftsman’s steady hand. The ledger pressed against his chest as Frederick clutched it as though it bore something more substantial and weighty than parchment and ink.
“Are you certain about this?” asked Mr. Moulton.
Casting a look over his shoulder, Frederick turned to face the fellow. “Of all the decisions I have made of late, this is the only one I know is right.”
The solicitor gave a slow nod, his gaze turning contemplatively to the stones at his feet, which bore the names of people long passed, including Frederick’s ancestors.
“Thank you for coming,” said Frederick, though the words were woefully insufficient. “I know it is a great distance for you to travel, and you have made the journey so many times since taking on this business. And I doubt your presence is necessary tonight—”
But Mr. Moulton held up a staying hand, silencing Frederick’s apologies and excuses.
The vestry door opened, and Frederick jumped at the sound as it echoed through the nave. The time had come.
Frederick followed Mr. Moulton down the narrow aisle, their footfalls sounding loud against the stone. Though modest, the vestry bore the weight of centuries, with parish records lining the shelves along the far wall and a hulking table, scarred by generations of use, standing in the center. A narrow window on one side let in a pale sliver of light, illuminating it enough that they didn’t require candles.
Mr. Tudor and his churchwarden stood beside that table, his hands clasped behind his back, expression drawn with polite confusion; the curate’s gaze flicked between Mr. Moulton and the ledger in Frederick’s arms, curiosity tightening the lines about his mouth. Mr. Keats’s expression showed nothing, though that was to be expected.
“Mr. Voss,” said Mr. Tudor, inclining his head, “I believe I speak for both myself and Mr. Keats by expressing our confusion as to the purpose of this meeting. What matter is so urgent that it cannot wait until the next vestry council?”
“And in the company of your solicitor,” added Mr. Keats.
“I did not wish to involve the entire council in this discussion, as it is a delicate matter,” said Frederick, forcing the words out, though he didn’t know how to explain Mr. Moulton’s presence without admitting he was worried that this might devolve into a legal battle.
Mr. Tudor motioned for the newcomers to sit, and Frederick laid the ledger atop the table. Opening the cover, he removed a few of his notes and placed them beside the book.
“I wished to speak with you privately because, as the curate and his chosen churchwarden, what I am about to tell you will impact you the most.” Tapping his fingers against the wood, he added, “I must resign as the people’s chosen churchwarden.”
And with that, Frederick told them what he had discovered in the ledgers. Speaking evenly and ignoring the horror etched into Mr. Tudor’s expression, he detailed the whole of his father’s activities during his tenure as churchwarden. Mr. Keats did not move. His expression did not alter. His eyes remained fixed on Frederick, yet he gave no sign that the confession made any impression.
There were moments when the words threatened to choke him, but Frederick forced them out. He told them of the irregularities and the reasons behind Father’s thievery, and the air in the small vestry thickened as he spoke, the pauses between his words growing all the sharper.
Not once did his speech draw near to the subject of his father’s passing—or rather, the manner—yet it hung there in his mind, a shadow reaching throughout his thoughts, and Frederick could not shake the sense that each word he uttered caused that shadow to grow in his heart.
Reaching into his breast pocket, Frederick removed several banknotes and set them on the table before the pair, along with the tallied list of each theft. “This is the whole of the funds he stole. Everything accounted for.”
