Sophia glanced at the manuscript. “Have you?”
“The pens began it.”
That won a small, unwilling smile from Sophia, but Emma did not soften.
“Frances.”
Frances hated the gentleness in her sister’s voice. Gentleness was far more dangerous than accusation. It allowed no graceful defense.
She returned to her chair but did not sit. “Andrew has gone to the countryside.”
“We know,” Emma echoed.
“Of course you know. Philip told you.”
“Philip told me enough.”
“How generous of him to be selectively informative.”
Emma came farther into the room. “And you are here alone?”
“I am not alone. There are at least thirty servants in this house, unless Andrew took them all too in some act of domestic conquest.”
Sophia’s eyes filled with concern. “Frances.”
The word was so soft that Frances’s composure wavered. She looked away. Emma drew out the chair opposite the desk and sat, as though settling in for a siege. Sophia perched on the edge of the settee.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Emma voiced herself. “Tell us the truth.”
Frances gave a faint laugh. “That seems to be a fashionable demand lately.”
“And rarely an easy one.”
“No,” Frances replied. “It is not.”
She looked down at the ribbon still lying in her palm.
“Lady Ravenshaw gave me a letter.”
Emma’s expression sharpened. “What letter?”
Frances hesitated. “One supposedly written by Mary before she died. It was addressed to Andrew, and it made it seem as though the child was his, or at least that Mary believed he owed the child some claim.”
Sophia’s hand rose to her mouth. “Goodness…”
“I took it to him,” Frances continued. “He said it was a lie. But he wouldn’t tell me anything more.”
Only then did she realize that she had carried it from the nursery. Sophia saw it, and her expression changed with painful understanding. Frances closed her hand around it.
Emma’s voice softened. “You miss the baby.”
Frances said nothing.
“And Andrew,” Emma added.
Frances’s head lifted at once. “That is not the same thing.”
