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Please, Trenton, for my sake as well as your own, please heed my plea. Take the necessary steps. It’s the only way.
All my love, Ariana
Dustin reread the letter three times before he looked up, confused and uneasy. He was about to express his worry, when he noted his brother’s taut shoulders and rigid stance. A wave of compassion swept through him as he realized what Trenton had inferred from the note, obviously having read the lines but not between them. And now, beneath his proud exterior, Dustin’s invincible older brother was emotionally crumbling.
There was no way Dustin would permit that.
“Trent …” He went over to lay a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You don’t understand. … It’s not what it seems.”
“I understand perfectly, Dustin.” Trenton didn’t turn around, but his voice was hoarse, laden with emotion. “Ariana’s right. I was a fool to believe otherwise. I am insane. … It’s the only possible explanation for all this. I don’t blame her for being afraid. I’m twice her size. … I’d be able to crush her with my bare hands. How can she continue to live with me, share my life, my bed?” He swallowed audibly. “Perhaps an asylum of some kind is the only way.”
“Listen to me, you blind, stubborn fool!” Dustin exploded. “Ariana doesn’t believe one wretched word in this letter. … She’s trying to tell you something!”
Abruptly, Trenton turned. “What the hell are you talking about? She’s making her feelings perfectly clear!”
The anguish on his brother’s face was nearly Dustin’s undoing. “The handwriting is Ariana’s, Trent. But the sentiments are not.” He waved the letter under Trenton’s nose. “Read it again; only this time really read it.” Arms folded across his chest, he waited patiently while Trenton reread the note.
“She wants me to seek help.” Trenton’s eyes were red-rimmed and grim. “If I don’t heed her plea—”
“Precisely: her plea. She’s asking for your help, Trent. What worries me is, I don’t know why.” Ignoring Trenton’s skeptical look, Dustin pointed to the flowing hand. “See? She’s hoping you’ll believe in her love enough to realize she’d never leave you like this. She reinforces that with every line. Would you really feel soothed knowing she’s with Baxter? She knows damned well you wouldn’t! Is she truly afraid of you? Think about that, Trent. Is she? Has she ever been?”
A sliver of an image flashed through Trenton’s mind: the Covington maze; the night he and Ariana had met.
“What’s the matter, misty angel? Are you afraid of me?”
“No … I’m not afraid … I’m still not afraid. …”
Their forced wedding ceremony … their wedding night … time after countless time when she could have been—should have been—terrified of him, she wasn’t.
“No,” Trenton admitted aloud. “Ariana is not afraid of me.
“That’s right. Nor does she believe you’re delusional or unstable. I was with her last evening. I should know.”
“If you only knew how badly I want to believe you’re right.” A flicker of hope glinted in Trenton’s eyes.
That did it. Dustin scanned the rest of the letter—and made a decision, one he felt confident Ariana intended that he make. It was the strongest hint she was providing; and the least likely one for Trenton to understand. But Dustin knew something Trenton did not.
“Let your wife convince you herself.” Dustin gestured toward the door. “Follow me.”
“What?”
“Just do as I say.” Dustin didn’t wait but flung open the drawing-room doors and made his way down the hall and up the stairway to the second level. Several times he glanced behind him to make certain Trenton was following. He was, treading with automatic, wooden footsteps.
Until he saw where they were heading.
“Why are we going into that room?” he demanded, halting in his tracks.
“You’ll see.” Dustin swung open the door and waited. “If you don’t enter on your own, I’ll drag you in. The choice is yours.”
Trenton’s eyes narrowed on his brother’s face. Then he complied. “All right, Dustin. I’ll go into Father’s sitting room. But if this is your idea of comfort or your attempt at making a point …” He stopped, his voice catching in his throat.
“It’s not Father’s sitting room any longer, Trent,” Dustin said softly. “It’s yours.”
“What have you done?” Trenton choked, his legs carrying him forward of their own volition.
“It’s not what I’ve done. It’s what Ariana has done. That’s how I knew her letter was a lie. She left the greatest part of her soul amid these walls. … She left you her heart. Broddington’s walls are empty no longer, Trent. Ariana has seen to that. All because she loves you … deeply. As for what I did, my part was easy. I had only to assist her. The concept, the designs, the personal touches … they’re all your wife’s.”
Slowly, reverently, Trenton surveyed the room: the sweeping mahogany desk at the window, the thick oriental rug on the floor, the enlarged marble fireplace on the eastern wall. And the walls themselves: lined with drawings and sketches Trenton recognized immediately from a joyous lifetime ago—his father’s creations.
