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“What is it?” Benedict asked, stepping around to face me.
I could not tear my eyes from it. “It is a letter from my father.”
Chapter18
THEA
Benedict’s hands came around my shoulders, and he steered me into the empty parlor and toward the far end of the room where a group of chairs was set against the windows. I dropped into one while he more fully opened the drapes to provide me with better light.
He looked at me until I could tear my gaze from the yellowed paper, and the unexpected compassion in his eyes flooded me with warmth. “I will leave you now.”
I wanted to reach forward, to channel strength from his touch, but I could not seem to tear my fingers from the letter. A sealed, folded letter from the grave. “No,” I said, my voice a low, hoarse whisper. “Please, do not leave.”
It had seemed at first that Benedict had not heard me, but halfway across the room, he stopped. “I will remain here if you have need of me.”
It was more than he owed me after my flippant greeting this morning, and far more than I deserved. I sent him a grateful smile and shifted slightly so the light better streamed over my shoulder and onto the paper in my hands. My gaze first sought the name at the end of the letter and found it to be from the woman who Mother and I had lived with in Vienna following my father’s death. We had needed a place to rest and grieve, and Mrs. Richter was an old family friend. She’d visited us a handful of times in Sweden and we had gone to her in Vienna while my parents were both alive and happy. Her charity toward Mother and me in that time had meant a great deal to me, and I was sad to leave her following Mother’s death, but it could not have been helped. My guardian, Uncle Northcott—Father’s older brother—lived in England, so that was where I was sent.
Turning my attention away from my memories, I read through Mrs. Richter’s letter, my mind whirling like a windmill in a storm as I devoured the words.
Miss Dorothea Northcott—
You’ll forgive me, I hope, in time. I discovered this disparity about one year ago when sorting through a drawer in your mother’s old room, but was at a loss for how to proceed. In the year that you lived with us, you and your mother both grew quite dear to me, and it has been a struggle to know how to move forward with this new information. Initially, I attempted to forget that I ever laid eyes upon the paper I found, but it was impossible. My soul could not unlearn something that had been made known to me of this magnitude.
Again, I hope you will understand my reasons for bringing this to your attention. I do wish I could have done so myself instead of through this letter, but my gout has reared its beastly head, and I’m afraid I would not pass an ocean easily now.
There was a note tucked beneath the drawer of your mother’s writing desk in a way that could only have been put there if she was attempting to hide it. I retrieved the paper and found it to be your father’s final will. Evidently, your father divided your inheritance through the help of a man called Adam Robertson from a firm in Bath, Robertson and Sons. It was legally done. I have looked into the situation extensively, and I’m afraid the will is iron-clad and dated after the one that was read following his demise. You will not be able to dispute it. Write to me if you have any needs. I would be honored to do my best to fill them.
Please know that I am available should you require further explanation. According to the man, you are still entitled to a decent sum. I wish you well, and again, I beseech you to reach out to me if you have any need of assistance or guidance.
Yours, etc.
Sofia Richter
Postscript: I have included a letter I received from the solicitor Adam Robertson when I inquired about the will. It was to be delivered to you upon your father’s death, but as it came to pass, the firm was never informed of his demise. They sent it to my address under the misunderstanding that you were still here with me. I’m afraid I led them to that understanding so I might gain information in order to pass on to you. Now that they have been notified of the death and your address, you can expect to hear from Mr. Robertson, or you may write to him at the following location.
I swallowed thickly against a dry throat.
“Is it terrible news?” Benedict asked, his voice soft in a way I had not believed to be possible.
Was it? My inheritance had been divided; that was all I knew thus far. Yet,howdivided? And why? It was not overly large to begin with, but it was a healthy sum. It was robust enough to allow me to believe I could forge a life with any man I chose, that I could seek a love match and still be able to afford a decent tutor for my children and plenty of shoes or gowns as needed.
Playing the roles of kitchen maid, the seamstress’s assistant, even the governess had all been taxing, sometimes grueling work, but I had not intended for servitude or labor to be my lifeforever. The prospect that I could be without the security of my father’s modest fortune sliced panic through me like a hot blade. Perhaps more so now that I knew firsthand the difficulty of a life of labor.
“Thea?” Benedict questioned, rising from his seat. He stepped toward me tentatively, and at once I craved my mother’s comforting arms in a way I had not wished for in years.
“It is not good news,” I said.
He crossed the room faster and lowered himself in the chair beside me. My hands rested limply in my lap, the letters clutched weakly in my grasp. Benedict’s voice was low and steady, and I grasped onto it with the same force I wished I could clutch to him. “Whatever it is, remember that you are not alone. You have others to support you and carry you through whatever storm is presenting itself in that letter.”
I nodded, my eyelids drifting closed. He was correct. I had Lady Edith, Felicity, James, and Henry. As shocking as it was to admit so, I felt, at present, that I also had Benedict’s support as well. I looked to him, losing myself in his soft blue eyes, his dark brow lowered in concern that slipped into my chest and buoyed me up.
“It is from Mrs. Richter,” I admitted quietly. “My mother and I stayed at her house in Vienna after my father died, and I would still be there today if she had not seen fit to return me to my guardian. Neither of us knew at the time that my guardian would not want me.” That he would immediately put me on a carriage to Chelton with a note for Lady Edith explaining that he wanted no part in his young niece’s life, that he’d never asked for such responsibility. I could not fault him, I supposed, for knowing his limitations. But I did not like him for it, either.
“She was good to you, then?”
“Indeed.” My fingers sought the ring that now adorned my finger, the one I’d worn around my neck when forced to play the part of a servant boy. I yearned for my mother’s wisdom and advice now more than anything. She must have had a reason for hiding the will, and I desperately wanted to question her about it.
“Did she give you this ring?” Benedict asked.
