“There must have been a bee in the room.”
“At Grosvenor Place? In late September?”
“Just open the letter, Miss Harland, before you die of curiosity.”
She chuckled. “So formal? You called me darling Daphne in the dark last night.”
“Now I know you’re lying. ‘Darling’ isn’t in my vocabulary.”
She glanced at the letter again but didn’t break the seal. If she didn’t stop nibbling her lip, she’d make it bleed.
“Would you like me to read it first?” Cursed saints. Was he destined to become her hero? Would he lay his coat on the ground so she could avoid the mud?
She handed him the letter. “Would you mind?”
He’d expected her to refuse. That she trusted him with something so personal was more than he deserved. “Be assured, I shall keep your confidence.”
“I know. You may be many things, but you’re not an idle gossip.”
He broke the seal. A waft of perfume made his nose itch as he peeled back the folds, his heart racing. He read slowly at first, then faster, the words blurring as the pattern emerged. The pallor. The cramping. The barely concealed fear.
He swallowed hard, willing his hand to steady.
Despite armour of steel, the words pierced clean through.
“What is it? Tell me.” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “It’s something terrible. I can see the horror in your eyes.”
Horrorwas the right word.
But he wasn’t reliving a nightmare.
He was understanding it for the first time.
“How did your mother die?” He fought to keep the desperation from his voice, but he needed answers as much as she did.
“Dysentery. That’s what my father said.” She shifted to the edge of the seat. “Does Mrs Flavell suggest something else?”
Panic flickered in her eyes when he didn’t answer.
She grabbed his knee as if needing an anchor. “Tell me.”
He cleared his throat. “She went to see Mrs Flavell to ask how a lady might avoid conceiving.”
Miss Harland firmed her grip on his knee, though he was grateful for the distraction. “That can’t be right. My mother desperately wanted another child. My parents tried for years.”
“Mrs Flavell feared it was already too late,” he said. “Your mother looked pale. She clutched her abdomen and had to rush to use the pot.”
He’d seen those signs before. In his own home. Though his mother had blamed the damp, bad meat, or the water from the well.
Both women. Both sick. Neither surviving the year.
He knew what killed his mother.
He had never spoken it aloud.
He braced himself before reading the next line.
“She asked Mrs Flavell for a loan. Your father kept a tight grip on the purse strings.” Gamblers always did when the money was gone. “She said she needed to repay a debt but refused to name her creditor.”
