Page 117 of The Clifftop Cottage

It was thinner than the others, barely more than a folded slip of paper.

Her heart began to thump.

Very carefully, she eased it free, out of the gap.

Lucky had abandoned the windowsill and returned to watch, tail curling around his paws.

“This is a terrible idea,” she told him.

He purred again.

Erica slipped the letter into her pocket before she could change her mind.

Then she stepped outside.

The air was cold but calm, the sea below the cliff unusually still. She walked past the patch of torn earth where they had dug the night before and through the little gate that always needed an extra shove before it opened.

By the time she reached the edge of the cliff, the sky had brightened to a soft grey-blue.

Only then did she unfold the letter.

My dearest Isobel,

I think of you more often than is sensible for a man who ought to be attending to his duties. Your hair, so bright it catches the light like flame. It follows me even into sleep, and it is a strange sorrow to wake and find you gone.

I write to ease your fears, if I can. My family are aware of our attachment. Though they do not welcome it as I might wish, they have promised that you shall not want for anything. I have secured what arrangements I can to see that you are provided for.

I regret only that I cannot stand beside you openly.

At your urging I have at last consulted a physician. He speaks of a weakness in my chest and warns that it must be watched carefully. I believe he is overly cautious. You know well I have never been easily undone.

Do not trouble your heart on my account.

When I am restored we shall find our way forward together, not in secrecy, but plainly and without shame.

Until that day, remember that I remain

Yours most faithfully,

Charles

Erica read the letter twice.

Then a third time.

Eventually, she let the letter fall to her side, still held loosely in her hand. Her gaze drifted out across the horizon, searching for something – clarity, perhaps.

But the sea lay quiet and grey beneath the cliff, offering nothing back.

So that was it.

Charles had been ill. Perhaps he had never even met the child Isobel carried. Perhaps he had died believing he still had years ahead of him.

But the promises in his letter hadn’t vanished with him. Someone had honoured them.

Maybe Isobel had stayed.

Maybe she’d raised her son here, quietly, out of sight.