black, the color of truth and lies. His aura is still as gray as it was when his wife died. “But you know something, don’t you?” Alba says. “Why won’t you tell me?”
“It’s probably best this way.” Edward falters, hoping that’s true. “It seems this is how Mother wanted it.”
Alba looks down at the box and forgets to look up again. After a minute of watching her, of wishing he could undo years of lies, Edward gently closes the door behind him.
Several hours later, after a long and liquid lunch, the siblings return to Stone & Stone to find Alba gone. Charles questions the pretty receptionist, who says Alba left an hour ago.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Charlotte sighs. “What are we supposed to do now?”
“Go home,” Charles says. “She’ll be there. She probably couldn’t stand another endless bickering trip up the M4, and took a train.”
“Good point,” Charlotte says. “I should do the same.”
“Shut up,” Edward snaps, “and have a little sensitivity. How the hell must she be feeling now, knowing every minute of her life was a lie?”
“Oh, don’t be so bloody dramatic,” his brother says. “She’ll be fine. Let’s go. By the time she gets home, she’ll be fine.”
“She’ll be better than I will,” Charlotte says, “after another three hours in your car.”
“Well, then,” Edward says, ignoring her, “let’s get a bloody move on.”
He doesn’t want to leave Alba alone for long, just in case she’s not okay at all. He wants to invite her to stay with him and Tilly in London for a while, to answer some of the hundreds of questions she’ll have. But he won’t be able to, because Alba isn’t going home, at least not to Ashby Hall. While Edward is unlocking his car, Alba is sitting on the train back to Cambridge, clutching a shoebox to her chest.
Chapter Nine
Alba sits on her bedroom floor with the shoebox in her lap. She’s read every letter, every poem, is familiar with every endearment, turn of phrase, every sentence steeped in love and longing. Reading them took a while; the words were blurred by Alba’s tears. But it all makes sense now. This is why her father left, why her siblings hated her. She’d always thought she was just the new baby who stole their thunder. But she was so much worse. She was their half sister, the constant reminder of her mother’s betrayal. When did they find out? she wonders. How long have they known?
Alba leans against her bookshelves and shuts her eyes. A soft wind whistles through the pipes in the wall, a low, sorrowful tone matching her mood exactly. She thinks of her father. Or rather, the man she believed to be her father. When did he discover that she wasn’t really his daughter? And does this mean he’s still alive? Memories of Lord Ashby are scarce but Alba dredges the depths of her blank, black mind for something.
The first picture she sees is the piano in the playroom at Ashby Hall. Her mother bought it, a miniature version of the Steinway grand that furnished the foyer, for Alba’s seventh birthday. A tutor came every Wednesday afternoon at four o’clock, until it became clear that musicality was not one of Alba’s talents, and the piano was left to look pretty and collect dust.
Then one night, Alba couldn’t sleep, so she crept downstairs to her playroom to find a favorite doll she’d forgotten was there. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, falling in silver stripes across the piano’s shiny black surface, and suddenly it seemed magical, as spooky as a coffin, as enticing as a forbidden room.
Alba crept over to the piano and slid onto the stool. She pushed at a soft pedal with her bare foot and slowly pressed the keys. Muffled notes slipped into the air and Alba listened. What had sounded dull and simple during the day, at night became exciting and eerie. Intrigued, Alba explored every ivory key. The notes were still a jumbled racket, but in the darkness she started to hear words floating into her head. They looped around, linking together, sliding and colliding in rhythms and rhymes. Alba jumped off the stool, ran across the room, found a notebook and a crayon and started scribbling her words on the page so she wouldn’t forget the little songs. After that Alba crept downstairs every night to hit random notes and write down the words that came with them. Then, one evening, her father walked past the playroom.