‘No,’ Flo said, adamant. ‘I distinctly recall Pru telling me Bryce had gone after Rosie. That’s what he’d told her in his letters.’
‘Letters?’ Beth’s eyes boggled. ‘As in, more than one?’
‘Oh, yes. He and Pru kept in touch, and he explained a bit about the situation, about why Rosie had left, but I don’t recall the specifics, only that Bryce wanted to come home and bring you both with him.’ Flo smiled sadly. ‘That was why Pru never once gave up looking for you. She wanted you to know where you’d come from because that’s what your dad wanted.’
Beth had heard enough. She pressed a hand to her chest, certain her heart was breaking. Her dad had wanted to bring her home. Pru had searched for her for more than twenty years. And all the while, Rosie had done her best to remain hidden.
A rage like she’d never known burned inside her. Because she was now certain that her own mother had denied her everything she’d ever wanted. Family. Stability. A sense of belonging. And for that, Beth wouldneverforgive her.
‘Ohmy…’ Flo stared into the distance, her eyes wide.
‘What is it?’ Suddenly Beth was desperate—desperate to hear that Flo had it all wrong, that she now recalled a detail that would redeem Rosie. Exonerate her from all wrongdoing. Flo lowered her hand from her mouth, her eyes seeking Beth’s. ‘It just occurred to me … I think I might still have those letters.’
Forgetting about her mother, Beth stood, trying not to let on that she was ready to tear the house apart to find them and failing miserably. ‘Where do you think they are?’
Flo pointed to the shelving on the opposite side of the room. ‘The jewellery box.’
With her heart pounding, Beth rushed across the room and carefully lifted the silver box from the shelf. The initials etched into the lid reminded her of what Flo had said on the day they’d met. ‘Your family heirloom?’
Flo shook her head. ‘No, sweetheart. It was Pru’s, but before that, it was her mother’s. And originally, it belonged to Lucy Anderson, your great-great-grandmother. Pru left it in my care, but now it’s yours. I should’ve given it to you a long time ago.’
Looking down at the box she held, Beth couldn’t quite comprehend it. This washerfamily heirloom? She’d spent a lifetime wishing for one.
Her heart couldn’t take many more surprises today. And yet …
‘You think the letters are in here?’ She ran her fingertips over the floral design.
‘I remember seeing Pru place one of your father’s letters inside it. Perhaps they’re all still in there.’
With her heart in her mouth, Beth tried opening the lid, but it wouldn’t budge, and the tiny keyhole sat empty.
‘I’m guessing you don’t have the key?’
Flo shook her head. ‘Take it. See if you can jimmy it open.’
Grateful for the reprieve, Beth didn’t need to be told twice. She squeezed Flo’s hand and kissed her cheek.
‘Thank you, Flo. I’ll let you know what I find.’ She stopped short at the door. ‘Oh, and I’ll be back later to finish cleaning the bathroom.’
‘Forget about that,’ Flo told her, waving her off. ‘You’ve got more important matters to attend to. Now, go!’
* * *
‘Please,’ she begged, sitting on her bed with the silver box and a hair pin in hand. ‘Please contain the letters.’
As beautiful as the box was, and despite it being a family heirloom, Beth was prepared to take a crowbar to it if necessary. There was a chance it held her father’s words—and answers, some of which she’d been seeking her whole life—so she was unwilling to accept defeat. Shewouldopen it. By any means necessary.
Sending up another murmured plea, she stuck the hair pin in and wiggled it around, slowly, gently. Just as she was on the verge of throwing it aside and seeking out any kind of destructive tool she could lay her hands on, she felt rather than heard something click.
With her heart thumping relentlessly in her chest, she tried the lid and—yes!—it cracked open.
Inside, just as she’d hoped and as Flo had suspected, were several envelopes, each one turned slightly yellow with age. She lifted them out carefully and spread them in front of her. They were all addressed to Pru in the same messy scrawl.
Beth ran her fingers over the handwriting. Had her father addressed these?
There were eight in total. Eight letters. If her father had written these, they were all she had of him.
Taking a deep breath, she sorted them in order of their postage dates—two had been sent only months before she’d been born, then one each year after that, with the most recent dated just after her fifth birthday.
