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Baxter kneaded his taut neck muscles. “I have it.”
“Please show it to me.”
“Sprite …” Baxter began gently, bending to reach for her hands, “I don’t think that’s a good—”
“I want to see it, Baxter.” Ariana snatched her fingers away, defying her brother for the first time in her young life.
“Very well,” Baxter agreed, his brow knit with concern. “I’ll get it.”
Ariana sank back into the chair the moment she was alone, trying to absorb the shock she’d suffered—and the one she had yet to bear. Her sister’s suicide note. What would it say? And what of the journal Baxter had relinquished? Had it described Trenton as a madman, a mu
rderer? Ariana closed her eyes, lowering her head to ward off the bleak despair. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. How could she have been so totally wrong about her husband?
Violent, groundless jealousy. The memory of Trenton’s unwarranted tirade yesterday stirred to life, in Ariana’s mind, refusing to be stifled. Had jealousy been its cause? Jealousy, incited by discovering her with Dustin? Irrational … groundless. Yes … both. Violent. Lord, yes … Trenton had been capable of almost anything. But … murder?
As if from a great distance Ariana heard Coolidge’s voice asking if Her Grace were feeling well, and her own automatic reply, assuring him that she was perfectly fine. Gratefully, she accepted a cup of tea, then dismissed him, sitting back to await her brother’s return.
Baxter reached the study just as Coolidge emerged.
“The telegraph?” Baxter asked at once.
“Everything has been arranged, my lord. The telegraph will be sent immediately.”
“Good.” Baxter glanced past him into the study. “Is my sister all right?”
“I’m not sure. She’s terribly pale. I poured her a cup of tea.”
“Thank you, Coolidge.” Baxter removed the folded sheet from his pocket and stared down at it. How long had it been since he’d read Vanessa’s final words? “I’ll take care of things from here,” he vowed quietly.
“Of course, sir.” Coolidge held the door ajar for Baxter to enter, then closed it securely.
“Ariana?” Baxter frowned at her bent head and glazed expression.
Ariana stood at once, placing her teacup on the table and advancing toward her brother, hand extended. “Let me see the letter.”
Wordlessly, Baxter gave it to her, standing protectively by her side while she read.
Ariana’s hands shook as she smoothed out the page, instantly recognizing Vanessa’s bold, flowing hand.
Dear Baxter:
I never meant for it to come to this, but my choices have all been seized. Each day I prayed for it to end, for the sun to shine again, yet my prayers went unanswered. The pain that possesses me becomes more than I can bear, and even you, dear brother, can do nothing to stop its perpetual assault. All I crave is peace, and there appears to be but one way to attain it. Do not be angry, with me or yourself, for numbness will mean blessed relief and I am too much a coward to refuse it.
Know always that I love you and that you were right about Trenton. Had I only listened, we could all have been spared these months of sorrow.
My course is set. Prosper and grieve not.
Vanessa
Ariana raised her head, tears trickling down her cheeks. Wordlessly, she thrust the letter back at Baxter, internally numb, outwardly limp and unresisting as he gathered her against him.
“I’m sorry, sprite,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I tried to warn you.”
“And you’re saying that the journal is even worse than this?” she asked in a small, strangled voice.
Baxter swallowed audibly. “Yes. This letter implies suicide … the journal alludes to something much worse.”
Ariana pulled away. “I have to leave now.” She drew a quivering breath and headed for the door.
