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“What about the doorway?” asked Tom.
“What doorway?”
“They’ve finished breaking through the wall down by the new bathing room. Mr. Carson wants you to have a look at the doorway. In case you want it bigger.”
“Right,” said Daniel. “We’ll do that first.”
Once they had, they consulted the housekeeper, who confirmed that the contents of his mother’s desk had been packed up into a box that was wooden, as far as she recalled. She couldn’t remember anything distinct about it, however.
And so they set about examining all the wooden boxes that had been brought down from the attic and put in the blue parlor and another room beyond it. The day waned as the pile of those that werenotthe one they wanted grew. Sandwiches were brought in lieu of dinner, and the search went on. At last, a final box was discovered. This one had been shoved behind others, had tipped over, and been hastily repacked. It did contain papers, in a jumble.
“This looks like the things from her desk,” said Daniel. “Yes.” He lifted out an empty inkwell, a crystal paperweight, and some small ornaments. “This is the one.”
He carried it back to the estate office and, once he’d removed the larger items, upended it onto the desk. A litter of receipts and correspondence and household accounts rained down. Daniel poked through them. A packet of letters tied with a black ribbon sat on top. Miss Pendleton leaned over his shoulder. He breathed in her light scent and felt as if he’d gone molten. Everything fled his brain except those kisses.
“That’s odd,” she said.
Odd that she could set him afire by mere proximity? But she couldn’t mean that. “What is?”
“That looks very like my mother’s handwriting.” She picked up the packet of letters. “And her notepaper. Itisher notepaper.” She untied the ribbon and spread the letters out. “This is her hand. And this one. And this. What are letters from my mother doing here?” She read one of the addresses. “Who is Miss Serena Walsden?”
“That was my mother’s name before she married,” replied Daniel. He bent closer. “This one is her handwriting. And this.” Quickly he separated the missives into two piles, one written by his mother and the other apparently by Miss Pendleton’s.
She sat down beside him. “Katharine Keighley,” she said, touching the address on a letter. “That wasmymother’s name before she married.”
Side by side, they stared down at the preserved correspondence.
Daniel shuffled through the piles, examining each one. “They seem to date from 1792 to 1811.”
“My mother died in 1811. Her letters must have been sent back to her correspondents. Papa and the solicitor took care of all that sort of thing.”
Daniel tried to remember anything particular about that year and his mother. Nothing came to mind. He would have been eighteen and in London.
“So here is the connection between our families,” Miss Pendleton murmured. “Our mothers were acquainted. Friends.”
He looked down at the scattered letters.
“Do you suppose the reason I have Rose Cottage is in there? It must be. Can we read them, do you think?”
“They were in her desk, not hidden or secret,” Daniel replied. “I think we can.” He was curious but also a little apprehensive for some reason.
Miss Pendleton nodded. Daniel thought she looked as if she felt the same. She sorted the missives. “We should go in order by date.” She checked each letter and laid out the two sets in order.
He smiled. “Always methodical.”
Seeming too unsettled to smile back she handed him a letter. “This is the first. From your mother.”
Slowly he unfolded the page. Nearly thirty years old, the ink was a little faded. “Dear Kate,” he read.
“No one called my mother Kate.”
“Apparentlymymother did.” He acknowledged the bewilderment in her gaze, suspecting his face mirrored it. Looking down, he began reading aloud again.
Dear Kate,
And so we are to be married in the same year, very nearly in the same month. I certainly wish you great happiness. Isn’t it odd to do so by letter from far away when we spent every day of the last three years together? And can it have been only three? Somehow, though our school years were brief, they made me feel as if I’ve known you all my life. I am well aware that my existence BK (before Kate) did not include you, and yet I expect you to recall every detail. Perhaps because I was always pouring out confidences, whether you wished to hear them or not!
I hope this Sir Jared fellow is worthy of you and understands what a gem he is getting. Tell him I will make him sorry if he does not!
