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They handed her the paper. It wasn’t the letter itself but rather an envelope protecting it. The letter was a fragile, ruined thing, smoke stained and charred. She needed more light. She went out from beneath the willow and sat cross-legged in the sun near the water, examining the words that were there, pondering the words that weren’t.
After a time, Georgie joined her. “Any discoveries?” They were teasing. And also, not.
“Your mother called Lady Beverly by her Christian name.”
“Penelope. That’s hardly a discovery.”
“It means the Beverly lower down can only refer to her husband.”
“Where does it say Beverly?”
She showed them, the distinctive capital B evident in a soot-darkened sentence that terminated early, bitten off by the flame.
They scrunched their brow, trying to make it out, then gave a defeated shrug. “I have difficulty deciphering everything after the first paragraph.”
She nodded. The first paragraph was unscathed. The apology, the revelation, the farewell—all there, in a hurried but elegant hand. Reading the rest required eye strain and inference.
“Tell me about Lord Beverly.”
They snorted. “My mother usually referred to him in Welsh. I forget the phrase. It translated to sheep’s fart. As good a description as you’ll ever get.”
“So he wasn’t like your father, aware and accepting of his wife’s entanglement?”
“Lord Beverly?” They were incredulous. “He was the unwitting cuckold par excellence. A horned sheep’s fart, you could say.”
“What does this mean to you?” She squinted. “Beverly was for Auch…It’s too burnt.”
“Auchmithie,” they supplied. “The village where Mother and Lady Beverly were staying.”
“Was it widely known that Lord Beverly also went to Scotland that spring?”
“I’ve never heard that he did. Parliament was in session. He wouldn’t have traveled for pleasure.”
“Not pleasure,” she mused. “Dominance. Revenge.”
Georgie stared. “You suggest he learned of the infidelity? And pursued them? To do what? Drag his wife home? Slay my mother?” Their mouth had a sarcastic twist. “How very Gothic.”
“It’s not any more Gothic than his lady wife and her lover faking their demise.”
Georgie’s features gentled as they studied her. “You offer me a villain, to make my mother’s actions more forgivable. Thank you. But it’s not necessary.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary. Only possible.”
They loosed a breath and gazed moodily over the fishing pond. “Beverly is dead now. Maybe he did pursue my mother and Lady Beverly with evil purpose. I can’t know for certain. I’m not sure how much it would change things if I did.”
“There’s something else.” She pointed at the letter’s ragged black bottom, the very last semilegible line. “Something your mother wanted your father to tell the king when…”
“The king?” Their gaze swung back to her. “When…when what?”
“That part of the sentence is cinders.”
“The king.” They frowned. “Could she have wanted my father to denounce Lord Beverly? I can’t really picture him banging on the door of Kew Palace.”
“Georgie.” She was almost afraid to say it. “Could you be the king?”
Their face was suddenly naked. “Me? How could it be me?”
“I saw that model ship.” She gave them a wry look. “Your handiwork wasn’t at all subtle. Your father never mentioned it to you, but what if it became a little joke between him and your mother? And their pet name for you?” She could imagine Mr. and Mrs. Redmayne laughing about the youthful vandalism, amused, exasperated, and fond, and so proud of their child, for whom the name Georgina didn’t quite fit, along with the too-tight pronouns he and she.
