Page 7 of The Inheritance At Bourton

There was a whole person her father had been, and Rowan had known him, and every so often, she felt a twinge of jealousy about that.

They worked through the morning. The finds accumulated slowly. Mostly useless. A train ticket from the early eighties. A shopping list. Several pressed flowers that made Leah wonder why they were significant. Who gave them to whom? A bookmark woven from ribbons. The entire library was one big memory chest that required a full-blown scavenger hunt to find.

“I’ll make lunch,” she offered just after one.

It was simple fare, a can of tomato soup and grilled cheese. They ate at the kitchen table in dusty clothes, lost in their thoughts. Neither of them discussed what might happen if they didn’t find the smoking gun needed to retain her inheritance. They didn’t talk about what would happen if she lost the estate and Rowan found himself homeless as well.

They finished their lunch and went back to work.

Her back ached from reaching and bending. Book after book. They cleared one shelf after another. Leah had a paper cut on her right index finger that burned with every turn of a page. She'd sneezed so many times she'd lost count.

“I’m losing hope, Rowan,” she murmured.

Leah sat on the floor with piles of books all around her. She refused to think of the mess and the tedious work that would happen when it came time to put them all back.

And then she realized that might not be necessary because she might have to pack up all of her father’s precious books and give them away.

There was one wall left—the last hope for proof that she was the legitimate heir.

"That's enough," Rowan said. He was sitting on the floor, too, his back against the desk, long legs stretched out between the stacks, dust in his hair. "We've been at it nine hours."

"There's a whole wall left."

"It'll still be there tomorrow."

She looked at the remaining shelves and then down at the book in her hands. Nothing in it. She closed it and set it on the pile.

"We found receipts, a newspaper article, recipes, and a grocery list," she said. "Nine hours."

He nodded.

She leaned her head back against the chair behind her and looked at the ceiling. Somewhere in this village, Madeline Hargrove was sitting in her handsome house behind her iron gate, waiting. "He kept everything, Rowan. A man like that does not leave the question of his marriage undocumented. It's here. It has to be here. He knew he was leaving me this estate. He had to know there could be questions about my paternity. Wouldn’t he prepare for that?"

"Maybe it is."

"Maybe it's not. Maybe he never registered it because he didn't know he had to. Maybe there's nothing to find, and Whitfield calls next week and tells me I've been living in someone else's house for the last month."

He didn't argue with her, which she appreciated more than she could say. He just sat there, quiet, while she stared at the ceiling and let herself feel the full weight of the day.

She looked at him.

He was already looking at her. She knew that expression. He was deciding whether to say something.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Rowan."

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, and she could hear the rasp of stubble under his palm. "It's not a thing I know. It's a thing I heard. Once. A long time ago."

She sat up straighter. "We had a deal. Complete, brutal honesty."

"I remember the deal."

"Then whatever you're sitting on, get off it."

He looked at her for a long moment. "I've never personally seen it. But my father once told me there was a secret room in this house."