The quickest way to repair a broken heart is to use it.
~A scientist’s observations on love
Who knows what would have happened if I’d simply remained upstairs? Yet when I found Golda’s chambers empty, my instincts drew me to investigate the crash downstairs. I hadn’t seen my patient since Gabe had brought me back from the ruins, nor had I heard stirring there, and worry seeped into my thoughts. I made my way toward the center of the house, where the noise had come from. Hurrying down the hall, I peeked into the cracked-open morning room door. I only saw Burke, his face pale and drawn. I nudged the door open further to look for Golda, but the door squeaked with a terrible dying-mouse noise.
Several pairs of eyes turned to me, and my gaze locked onto a heart-stopping sight. It was there, on the floor—the letter. I took one step toward it but stopped at the sight of both Celeste and Essie. No one looked at each other. The tension was palpable.
Burke strode forward and stooped to collect the letter, then held it out to Clara. “I believe you dropped this.”
She paled, then frowned, backing away from the letter and folding her arms. “So that’s what all this has been about lately, has it? You think—”
He stepped near and spoke low, private words that left her even paler.
Her gaze radiated heat. “How dare you.” The words were low and succinct. After delivering them, she spun and walked toward the door with one last glance, and slipped out.
I opened my mouth to say something—anything—but Essie stumbled forward, head bowed and hands clasped over her apron. “It’s mine, sir. Don’t blame her. I’d no idea it would cause trouble. I meant no harm.”
Burke spun on the girl and I launched forward, diving between them. “No, it isn’t hers, either. I promise you, it isn’t. Please, it’s not what you think. This letter simply needs to be thrown away—it was all a misunderstanding.” How could I confess the truth now—after keeping it veiled for so long? My silence sickened me as much as my rash words usually did.
He glared at me. “Did you write it?”
“No, I—”
Burke faced the room with a growl, waving the letter. “Will someone please claim this letter before I go mad?”
“Very well then, I will.”
A hush draped us. Golda Gresham’s aura preceded her into the room, spreading the cluster of people as if parting the Red Sea when she approached Burke. Mr. Gresham shot her a look of challenge, daring her to claim this love letter written for another man. Shadows had etched themselves into his long face, making it even more somber. How could you? he mouthed and stalked from the room when she did not back down.
With one black-gloved hand and all the quiet elegance in the world, Golda plucked that letter from her son’s fingers. No one moved.
“You?” Celeste was pale, her fingers clutching the back of a chair. “You wrote . . .” A storm of emotions played over her face. Hurt, betrayal, fury. It was as if Golda had once again stripped her of the hope of love.
Golda turned those icy blue eyes on her in answer. She paused before her son and turned to glare at the lot of them. “What is the meaning of this? Can you all not handle a civilized conversation?” Silence reigned. “How wretched that a mere letter can create such a ripple simply because no one knows how to talk to one another about it.” She looked once more over those gathered, pocketed the letter, and turned to me. “If you please, Miss Duvall, I’d like a word with you.”
With one last glance at the stricken watchers, I followed her down the hall to the drawing room. My head throbbed terribly against the warmth of two popping fires, and I massaged my temples after settling Golda in a high-backed chair. I stared at my patient’s profile leaning against ivory fabric as she opened the letter and began to read, poring over the lines within, and all I could do was wait and observe. Wind howled outside. Drops splattered the windows. I quaked. She lost herself in that letter for endless minutes, her face a mask.
“Miss Duvall, you never told me when we spoke before. How did you even come to know about this letter?”
“I’m the one who found it. The letter was in a desk that was given to our family years ago. I brought it to this house to find out who it was meant for . . . and give it to them.”
Finally she lifted her gaze from that lovely page to my face, those stunning blue slits looking me over. “Yet just now you said it was best discarded. You weren’t going to give it to me.”
I straightened. “Because I believe in the sanctity of marriage, no matter its state. How could I, in good conscience, bring before you a relic of a past love when you were struggling so to leave it behind?”
She merely stared. Surely she did not mean to keep up the pretense that Grayson Aberdeen was a former servant.
I dove back in. “Aunt Maisie told me of the Aberdeens and the forced annulment, the rumors of you stealing a family heirloom and being kept away from the man you loved. It’s a tragic story, but I cannot aid in allowing it to haunt this house forever. I simply saw no good coming of the letter, or in bringing it to light again, once I knew . . .”
She lowered the letter to her lap, her pale face white against the glowing lights around us. “Aunt Maisie told you all that?”
“She called you Rose, but I’m certain it was you. It has to be.” I shivered at the memory of that lonely tomb of a house where I’d met the once-great Aberdeens.
“It seems Aunt Maisie hasn’t told you the entire story. I was that girl and I did take a family heirloom, but it was given to me. And what’s more, this letter wasn’t written by some lovesick peasant girl begging for her wealthy lover to return to her—not at all. Since you seem to be so misinformed as to my loves and dalliances, I suppose I should give you the entire story.”
Anticipation flitted up my spine.
“You, in particular, need to hear it, and one day you’ll understand why. Lock the door and sit down.”