Then I sit up absolutely straight. “Wait, what did you just say?”
Francis spares me a distracted glance. “That her story was beautiful?”
“No,” I snap back. “You said something about her soul...”
“Oh,” he answers, “I said it was as if she poured her soul into the paper.”
I lunge forward at Francis and grab ahold of his shoulders. “Holy shit! That’s it! That has to be it!”
Francis tries to pry my fingers off him, to no avail. “What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”
“The story! Her soul!” I stand and drag Francis up to stand with me. “Where is it? Do you still have it?”
“Her story or her soul?”
I give him a surprisingly violent shake. “The story, you idiot!”
He does break free from me then, stepping away and holding his hands up to defend himself. “I don’t have it. I sent it back to her at Lambeth.”
I can taste the disappointment in my mouth. “No,” I groan. “Why would you do that?”
“Because she asked me to. She asked me to send it back to her in the letter she wrote saying that she never wanted to see me again.”
“Francis, I need that letter. If you can get it...” My words abruptly trail off. “Wait, did you just say that Catherine broke up with you?”
He doesn’t answer, which is telling.
I rub at my eyes as I try to gather my shifting thoughts. “Also, I should have asked this earlier, but why did you call me ‘wife’ the last time I saw you? Did you and Catherine secretly get married?”
Francis looks to the ground before leveling his heavy stare in my direction. “We both knew that her family would never approve of the match. But they couldn’t prevent us from being married in our hearts.”
I breathe out a torrential sigh of relief.
“And our bodies,” he adds.
I can’t keep my nose from scrunching as I give him a slow blink. “Okay, well, that’s private information. The important thing is that you and Catherine weren’t lawfully married. That’s an important distinction we should both agree on.”
Francis straightens his shirt, even though there are hardly any wrinkles.
I venture a step closer, keeping my voice calm. “So, why did you come to the palace if Catherine called things off with you?”
“Because I loved her,” he answers automatically. “I still love her.”
I nod as the subtle hurt etches across his cheeks. “And do you accept the fact that she might not love you back anymore?”
Francis opens his mouth to answer, then stops. He turns to look toward the hearth, speaking more to it than to me. “Neither of us can know how she feels until we save her.”
If we were in session together, this would be where I’d dive into some Emotionally Focused Therapy with Francis. We’d identify unhelpful thought patterns and work on balanced thinking. But unfortunately, we’re not in session, and right now I need Catherine’s writing if there’s any chance of my getting home.
“You’re not wrong,” I tell him. “But if we want to find out how Catherine really feels, then getting that story is our biggest hope of bringing her back.”
Francis pivots to face me, planting his feet. “I sent the story back to her at Lambeth, but I’m sure the Dowager Duchess intercepted all my letters. And I’m certain they’re still in her keeping.”
I’ve watched enough crime shows to know how deadly a paper trail can be. Those letters might have been used as evidence to prove Catherine’s “guilt” in her lifetime, which means they could also be used to prove the guilt in mine.
“Why would the Dowager keep your letters to Catherine?” I ask.
“Because it furthered her purpose of having Catherine believe that I forgot about her. And the Dowager likes to keep things. As her secretary, I saw that she would often withhold and steal correspondence from her wards as a form of punishment.”
