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There is interminable night in the absence you have left.
Two years have I dreamed of you, knowing your return to be a thing of fanciful wishing. Would that I could paint the world our color and craft you a throne by my side. Would that I could hold your babe as my own—
He paused. Herbabe… the author of the letter spoke of Benjamin.
For all that is wrong in the world, it is brought to balance for your existence. Exist for me, my darling, and know that I exist for you.
It was a love letter, of that there was no doubt. Three paragraphs followed of similar nature, recounting the softness of her dark hair, the brightness of her eyes, the fullness of her laugh—Petrarchan in everything but form. The end of the letter was not full of whimsy but revelation.
Enclosed, I hope you will find an allowance large enough to secure your comfort for a month. The house will require some tenderness. I know it to be fact. I will siphon away what more I can without raising the alarm on our correspondence. Your nesting there should go unnoticed for as long as need be.
Surely, he could not mean the house in Five Fields? The house Benjamin still occupied?
That I could, I would thread you the riches of the world. More, I would dress you in gowns of gold and slipper your feet in diamonds. Until such a time as the world shifts on its axis and we can be as one, I will care for you and protect you as a man does a wife.
Yours now, tomorrow, forever,
A.P
The initials rang with no familiarity. Benjamin had half expected to find his father’s name at the bottom of the letter, but his father was a Gareth Fletcher, not anAP. This was not the penmanship of a downtrodden soldier, less the verbiage. His father hadn’t a shilling to his name if what his mother said had been the truth. He had never had reason to doubt her before, but how much of her stories could he believe? She had left him no clue as to a lover for a start, even less of one who might supply her with money enough off which to live. The roof over their heads, the food in their bellies… had aught and more come from thisAP?
Gingerly, he pried open another envelope and read. He was four love letters deep into the pile when he decided to cease his investigation, finding nothing of matter or insight in them. It was not until he reached the very last lines of the very last letter he had chosen that the plot thickened.
To catch glimpses of you in my dreams reminds me of those nights and days I spent watching you through the cracks in doors. I remember with all-clarity your smile in the reflection of your mistress’ vanity when I spied upon you, as might a bird spy upon a nymph. Would that I could tell you how hollow my home feels for your leave.
Mistress. Vanity. Leave.
The letter slipped from his grasp, and his skin prickled.
The man who had loved his mother had been in the same household as her mistress, but there was onlyoneEnglish lady for whom she had worked: the Duchess of Gamston. And if the writer spoke of the house in which she worked as his home…
“God in Heaven,no!”
The Duke of Gamston had been his mother’s lover.
The Duke of Gamston, whom he so abhorred, had owned the house in which he lived, had owned everything about him.
Benjamin got to his feet and ran from the study to be sick.
So startled was he that he didn’t even notice the missing poems that had also graced the drawer.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
It had been five days, thirteen hours, and seven minutes since Charlotte had watched Benjamin Fletcher walk out of Gamston’s study. She knew without a doubt that her timekeeping was spotless, for the ticking of Gamston’s grandfather clock had been the only thing to keep her from screaming as he left.
She had not imagined she would suffer the loss of him as profoundly as she did, especially not after the dread conjured by his final kiss. The dread gave way to a new squall of emotions, chief of which was heartbreak.
Josephine was putting the final touches on her hair that morning: a long, twisting rope plait down her back. With a contended sigh, she stepped away to fetch a nicer ribbon, leaving Charlotte to study her reflection in the mirror.
“I look a woman in mourning,” she breathed upon Josie’s return. “And why should I? I have lost no one and nothing.”
Josie wrestled with a frown behind her. “The heart is a funny thing.”
Charlotte pressed her finger to her maid’s toiling hand. “What do you mean by that, Josie?”
“Only that we cannot always dictate its wants, my lady.” She bit her lip, having seemingly spoken out of turn. After all, Charlotte had said nothing of her ruin—her father and Gamston having done their utmost to keep scandal at bay.
“You know something of Huxley and me, do you not? Have there been… rumors?”
