“You took the child in. You gave her your name’s protection. You stood between her and scandal.”
“And now scandal has found her, regardless.”
“Because someone else is twisting the silence,” Mrs. Turner clarified. “That is my point.”
Andrew looked at her.
She stepped nearer. “Your wife deserves the truth.”
He closed his eyes for one brief moment. There it was again, the truth, spoken as though it were a simple key and not a blade that might cut in every direction.
“When I have proof,” he told them, opening his eyes, “she shall have it.”
Mrs. Turner’s mouth pressed into a line. “Proof?”
“I will not accuse the wrong man because suspicion suits my wishes. I will not speak Mary’s story into drawing rooms because it would ease my own position. And I will not break faith with the dead without certainty.”
“No one is asking you to speak it into drawing rooms,” Mrs. Turner urged. “Only to your wife.”
“My wife would ask questions I cannot yet answer.”
“Then answer what you can.”
“I have.”
“Have you?” she asked softly.
The words found their mark with dreadful ease. Andrew turned away. For a moment, no one spoke. The fire shifted low in the grate. Somewhere above, the baby cried once, then quieted, and all three of them looked toward the ceiling. That small cry seemed to settle the matter more firmly in him.
“I will not give her up,” Andrew assured them.
Mrs. Turner’s eyes filled, though her voice remained steady. “No one here would ask it of you.”
“If Ravenshaw is the father–”
“Then he is a dangerous man,” Mr. Turner finished.
Andrew looked at him. “Mary said the father would harm the child if the truth came out.”
Mrs. Turner’s face had gone pale. “She told you that?”
“Not in those exact words, but near enough. I think Ravenshaw’s wife came to Frances with a forged or altered letter. I think Mary said the father was a viscount. I think Lady Ravenshaw had reason to fear the truth.” His hand tightened upon the mantle. “But thinking is not proof.”
Mr. Turner nodded slowly. “Mary left few things behind.”
“I know.”
“They are still upstairs,” Mrs. Turner said. “In the old blue room. I could not bring myself to send them away.”
Andrew looked at her.
“She had a chest,” Mrs. Turner continued. “Only clothes, mostly. A prayer book. A little novel or two. Some ribbons. Nothing of consequence, I thought.”
“Nothing is of no consequence now,” Andrew replied, but he knew that could easily change.
That afternoon, he went to the old blue room. It had been Mary’s during her final weeks, because it looked east over the orchard and caught the gentlest morning light. Now the shutters were half-closed, and the air smelled of cold linen, lavender, and dust. A narrow bed stood against the wall. The coverlet had been folded away. The washstand was bare.
In the corner rested the chest. Andrew stood before it longer than he wished to admit. He had faced creditors at twenty. He had managed failing estates. He had buried both parents. He had held a dying woman’s hand while promising to protect a child he had never intended to love. Yet opening that chest felt like intrusion.
