AS THE CORONATION DREW NEARER,CAROLINE WAS CALLEDupon to work late a few times a week, arranging for Annabel to stay with Betty. Such was the busyness of the queen’s schedule, that one night it was almost eight when Caroline let herself inside the house, praying that Frank was still out and she could have a moment to herself.
To her relief, the house was empty, and Caroline sat down on the sofa, looking around at the dusty, cluttered room. Ever since she’d been in Balmoral, she could hardly bear to be surrounded by Frank’s old junk anymore.
Was this really the place she called home?
Why couldn’t she take a leaf out of Frank’s book and turn the tables on him, force him to let her and Annabel go? Betty seemed to think she could bulldoze through him, take Annabel and run, and Miranda said that she should be able to win custody, given his gambling and underhanded business techniques. In any case, he didn’t even want Annabel, did he?
But they didn’t know Frank like she did. After years of this pattern, she was unable to see how to change it, how to stand up to him. He was right: she wasn’t quick-witted enough to get him to drop his claims over Annabel – neither did she have the funds to hire a lawyer to do so.
He would replace his first free servant with another, younger one, coercing Annabel to wash dead people’s clothes so that he could gamble away the pennies she brought in.
It would destroy Caroline to leave her daughter with such a man.
And suddenly, like a surge of yellow bile forcing itself up her throat, she felt the thrust of utter hatred that this one man was allowed to dictate the misery that was her life.
She sank lower into the sofa.
And that was when she saw it.
An envelope lay discarded on the table, the edge jagged from being torn open.
The opposite of official, it was small and handwritten, addressed to Mr Frank Brimstone.
As Caroline picked it up to put it away, she saw that there, beneath the envelope, was the letter itself. A single sheet of white paper.
After glancing over to the front door, she opened it.
Dear Mr Brimstone,
Just in case it has skipped your attention, I have just seen your wife having dinner with Angus Buchannon in Balmoral Castle, where he is the head gardener. Rumours are rife that they are more than just friends. Doesn’t your daughter share his auburn wavy hair?
Yours truly,
A friend
As if it were on fire, Caroline dropped the paper.
Her pulse began to race.
‘What?’
It was hard to breathe. Her hands flustered as she bent to pick the letter back up, her eyes blurring as she read and reread it.
Even though it was anonymous, it bore the mark of Miss Driscoll. Only she would make it her business. Exposing Caroline would threaten her position as assistant dresser.
And the palace would never know that Driscoll was behind it.
The letter must have arrived after Caroline had left for work. Frank had to have read it, stewed on it for a while, and then gone to the pub. She groaned as she thought of her inheritance money in his bank account. Would he see this as a sign that he could spend it?
But hadn’t she herself misbehaved, dancing with another man, taking a bath in his house, for heaven’s sake – she balked at the very thought she could have been so brazen.
She had let her guard down, forgotten for a moment that she had made vows to Frank.
But how would Frank play this? He needed her, she knew that now. Miss Driscoll hadn’t guessed how much Frank would put up with to keep Caroline’s income arriving into his lockbox every week. If Caroline knew Frank, he would use this to punish her, extract even more work hours from her.
Calmly, she got to her feet, clearing the table. If he found the place looking neat, at least it might win her a lesser punishment.
After tidying the living room, she padded upstairs to the bedroom and began to tidy his clothes, strewn over the floor and bed as usual.
