my lord.’
And for the first time, Adrian wondered how much of his mail was read properly, and how much Hendricks had chosen to censor. For there was a chance that each letter he had received from Rupert had been full of warnings that his secretary had not seen fit to convey. ‘Hendricks.’
‘My lord?’
Adrian reached into the pocket in his coat, and held out the locket containing the miniature. ‘Describe this to me.’
‘It is Lady Folbroke, my Lord,’ said the man, puzzled.
‘But what does it look like?’
‘It is done on ivory. In the painting, she is younger. Sixteen, perhaps. Her hair is longer and darker than it is now. Her face not so full.’
‘And the quality of the work?’
‘It does not do her justice, my lord.’
‘I see.’ And he had been displaying the ruined picture to the man for who knew how long, with no mention of it, with no clue that things were not as he thought they were.
‘I mean to write to her, today.’
‘Will you be needing my help, my lord?’
‘No. This is something I must do for myself.’ Then I shall hope that you are not so far gone in love for her that you do not deliver the letter. For I know we are rivals for her affection, even if you do not admit it.
There was a rattle as Hendricks opened the desk drawer and got out the little frame that Adrian sometimes used to help him in his rare correspondence, with the notches to space the letters and the little bar on the paper so he could write a straight line. He arranged the pen and ink, explaining the location of each item as he placed them. Then he stood back to allow Adrian the seat.
‘A few minutes’ privacy, please, Mr Hendricks.’ God knew, the composing of the thing would be hard enough without having to concern himself with other eyes than his catching sight of the letter.
‘Very good, my lord.’
When he was sure that the valet and secretary had left him alone in the room, he put pen to ink, and hoped for the best.
Dear Emily,
Now he was lost as to what he must say next. He got the little miniature back out of his pocket, rubbed his finger across the face of it again and set it next to the letter. It did not matter what was truly there. For a little while longer, he must believe in what he wanted to see.
Almost without thinking, he picked it up and touched it again. It had been years since he’d seen Emily. And now that she was lost to him, he regretted not having looked at her more when he’d had the chance.
He dipped his pen again.
How are you faring in London?
No, that would not do. She would look at the line and think that if her welfare concerned him, he should have come and seen for himself long before now. Hendricks had said she’d thrown the last letter into the fire, just as he had the note from Rupert.
But he could not very well lead with a demand that she reveal the identity of her lover. Or a description of the events that had made his contacting her necessary. There had to be some preamble, some words that she would want to hear that would make her read more than a line or two.
And so he wrote the words that he knew she most deserved to hear.
I am sorry. Sorry for so many things that I hardly know where to start. But you have felt the sting of my neglect, and could give me a beginning, if I asked. Was it worse that I abandoned you? Or that I married you at all in the slipshod, neglectful way that I did, never asking your opinion in the matter, or taking the time to know your mind on the subject? I am sure that rumours of my disgraceful behaviour in London have reached you. Too many of those rumours are true. And I am sorry for the shame that they might have caused you.
And for burdening you with the responsibility of my property and all that it entails, I am equally sorry. If it gave you pleasure, then I am glad of it. But if it caused you pain or worry to take on the part of a man while receiving none of the privileges, then I am sorry for that as well.
He paused to wet his pen again. How could he tell her the rest?
I wish to assure you that none of what has happened between us is any fault of yours. In many ways, you are a better wife than I deserved.
All perfectly true, if a trifle understated. The fault lies with me.
I am blind.
Say it, he commanded himself, as though he could order his hand to move and write the words. Just say it. No dancing about.
There are certain impediments to our marriage.
No, that was not right. It sounded as if he had another wife.
Problems.
And that was too small. She was well aware that there were problems, unless she was as blind as he.
I am unable to be the husband that you deserve.
And that made him sound impotent. He cast another paper to the floor. He began again.
I have been hiding from you the cause of our separation. I find that I am unable to explain the difficulty, and my conscience can no longer bear the weight of the secret. Were I to come into your presence, it would be plain enough. And so, my dear, I think it is time that we talked. If you are as bothered by this prolonged separation as I am, then I would have you come to my rooms this evening to discuss it. And if you are not, then I will plead all the harder that you grant me an hour of your time. If you cast this on the fire, as you did the last missive, know that I will not relent until we have spoken.
I think I have guessed the reason for your recent visit, and there are things that must be settled between us before any more time passes. For my part, I wish to begin again and start fresh as though the last years that passed have never occurred.
If you do not, I can hardly blame you. If another has captured your affection, then I am glad for him and will regret my folly for waiting too long and losing the chance for happiness between us.
Either way, if you come to me tonight, you need have no fear of reproach. You will find me a humbled man, willing to take any course of action that puts your happiness ahead of my own. With my most heartfelt respect.
His pen hovered for a moment and added, ‘and love’, before signing his name. After the last week, it would be a lie to say that she had all his love. But she held the place closest to his heart.
And now, he began the other letter that he knew he must write. He scribbled the words hurriedly, not caring how they would look, just wishing to be done with it before he changed his mind, or said something he might regret. Then he blotted the ink, and fumbled for the wax and seal as he waited for it to cool. He addressed only one paper with a name and called for Hendricks, handing his secretary the two letters. ‘One to my lover. If you do not know by now how to reach her, then wait for evening and send this back in the carriage I know she will send. And the other …’ he moved the second letter carefully to the side ‘…
