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Helena's voice caught. "I did not return to demand forgiveness. I returned because the moment I saw your name in the Times—your marriage—I realized I would regret it forever if I did not try to make amends." Her breath shook, and she looked away. "I said terrible things to you the night I left. I meant them, in that moment. But they have haunted me since."

A silence stretched between them, thick with every conversation they had never dared to have.

Julian stared at the cold glass of the window, the reflection of the two of them seated like adversaries in the world's quietest chess match. "I was not blameless either. You left, and I never wrote. I never tried to make things right. Instead, I buried myself in expeditions, in work, in anything that would keep me far away from this house and its memories."

Helena closed her eyes. "Thomas would have hated what we became."

Julian stood, unable to bear the tightness in his chest. He crossed to the fireplace, kneeled, and poked at the logs until sparks rose up and died again.

Helena watched him. "Why did you push Adelaide away?"

He set the poker down. "Why does it matter?"

Helena's mouth drew tight. "Because I saw you with her, Julian. I saw the way you looked at her, the way she looked at you. And then I saw her in the hallway just now, gray as a ghost." She leaned forward. "Did you marry her simply to fill a void?"

He kept his eyes on the fire. "I married her because I thought it was the right thing. I thought I could give her stability, a place, a future."

"And did you?"

He laughed. It was an ugly sound. "I gave her a house full of old wounds and a husband who cannot let go of the past."

Helena's gaze sharpened. "Is it about Thomas?"

Julian turned to face her, mouth set in a hard line. "While cataloging his journals, I found a letter he wrote you. Unsent. It was stuck in the binding, with a ring of old wax—he must have meant to post it and never did."

Helena's hands went still. "What did it say?"

He could barely speak the words. "He wrote that he was in love with Adelaide. That he intended to propose when he returned. He said she was the only woman in the world who could possibly understand him." Julian's fists clenched. "And then he died before he could ever tell her."

Helena's face went blank with shock. "He never told me that."

"Of course not. He never told anyone." Julian dropped his hands to his sides, every nerve raw. "How can I live in this house with her, knowing that Thomas meant her to be his? How can I look at her and not feel like a grave robber, taking what was meant for a dead brother?"

Helena stood abruptly and crossed to him, catching his hands in hers. "You are an idiot," she said, the words soft but deadly. "Do you honestly believe Thomas would want you to wither away for his sake? He was a fool and a romantic, but he would have hated this martyrdom you have built around him. He would have wanted you to be happy, Julian. He would have wanted her to be happy too."

He looked at her, the firelight hollowing out the lines of her face. "I cannot."

"You can," Helena replied, squeezing his hands until it hurt. "You have spent thirteen years punishing yourself for a thing no one could have prevented. Not you, not me, not Adelaide." She let go and stepped back. "Let yourself live, Julian. Let yourself have something that is yours."

He wanted to believe her. He wanted it so badly it made him dizzy.

She wiped her eyes, steadied herself, and added, "You should go to her."

He nodded.

Helena lingered for a moment in the firelight, searching his face for any sign of change. She must have seen something there, because she smiled—a fragile, beautiful thing—and slipped out of the study without another word.

Julian stood for a long time, letting the heat from the hearth warm the chill in his bones. At last, he climbed the stairs to the second floor, the hallway muffled and empty.

He went to Adelaide's door and knocked. No answer. He knocked again, gently.

He pressed his ear to the panel. Silence.

Julian turned the handle and stepped inside. The room was dim. Her gloves and hat lay atop the trunk. The bed was undisturbed, the lamp unlit. At first, he thought she must be in the washroom, but the silence was too complete.

He stepped out and nearly collided with Mrs. Rutherford, who hovered in the hall with her hands clasped so tight the knuckles had gone white.

"Where is she?" he demanded.