The Land Beneath Us (Sunrise at Normandy #3) - Sarah Sundin Page 0,49

good name, your money, and your family. You’ve also given me your kindness, trust, and respect. With this letter I am prepared to lose many, if not all, of these.

Clay’s eyes hazed over. Had she cheated on him? Had she found someone else and cheated on him? They might not be in love, but their vows meant something, didn’t they?

He bolted to standing. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Sounds good.”

“By myself. See you later.” He marched out, tossed a wave to elderly Mrs. Trevithick in the kitchen, and jogged downstairs from the flat above the fish-and-chips shop.

He ran alongside the Bude Canal, past holiday cottages and tourist shops. The locals were used to seeing Rangers running. Even if it was Christmas Day.

Clay ran faster, hating himself for getting fooled by another woman—and hating himself for thinking the worst of Leah before he had the facts.

He crossed the footbridge over the lock at the end of the canal and jogged onto the beach. The tide was way out, and Clay sank to his knees on the sand under the overcast sky. Waves crashed before him, and low green bluffs curled around the beach.

“Lord, please let me be wrong.” He opened Leah’s letter again.

On November 2, Darlene accused me of stealing twenty dollars from her. The money was my own pay from the library, but Mrs. Perry believed Darlene and evicted me from the boardinghouse. It’s taken me all this time to work up the courage to tell you.

You see, Clay, Mrs. Perry had a reason to believe Darlene. When I was younger, I often stole. I stole food. I stole lovely things that other children misplaced. I stole lonely things that other children mistreated. A few months ago, I mentioned this to Darlene, and she told Mrs. Perry when she accused me of stealing her pay.

I haven’t stolen anything in years, and the Lord has forgiven me and has wiped my slate clean. However, Darlene and Mrs. Perry will never see me as anything but a thieving orphan. I’ll understand if you see me the same way. When you proposed, I should have told you about my past. I knew you’d been gravely injured by theft, and telling you would have been kind and fair. I’m sure you never would have married me if you’d known I used to steal. Since I didn’t tell you at that time, I’ll understand if you should annul the marriage.

For future correspondence, see the address below. Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy are letting me rent a little house on their property.

Please know I’m sorry for all I’ve done.

With deep regret,

Leah

The scarf itched and choked, and Clay tugged it off and dropped it to the sand.

Leah had a history of stealing?

Who was she? Was she an “Allotment Annie,” one of those women who tricked soldiers into marrying them so they could collect the allotment, maybe even the life insurance?

Clay rested his hands on his knees, stared at the golden sand, and groaned. No, of course not. She hadn’t tricked him. He was the one who’d pushed for marriage.

He sighed, smoothed the letter, and tucked it inside his sweater.

Growing up, he’d always had everything he needed. What if he hadn’t? What if he’d spent his childhood in an orphanage? Or on the streets? Would he have turned to theft? “I don’t know, Lord. I don’t know what I would have done in her place.”

The scarf lay rejected in a heap beside him. Clay drew it across his lap and brushed away grains of sand.

He couldn’t blame her for not telling him earlier. First, it was all in her past, in her youth, forgiven and overcome. Second, if everyone thought like Darlene and Mrs. Perry, she was wise to keep quiet.

He dug his fingers into the knit where Leah’s fingers had worked. Telling him had taken courage, especially since she thought he’d annul the marriage. Why would she think that? Why would she think he’d abandon her and make her give up that little baby?

Realization slammed into his chest. Abandonment was all she knew. Why would she expect anything else from him?

He had to reassure her. Clay pushed to his feet and draped the scarf around his neck.

A chill wind slapped him in the face.

November 15? She’d written that letter a month and a half ago. By saving her letter for a Christmas treat, he’d left her in the lurch.

She wouldn’t receive his reply for another week or two, maybe four.

That wouldn’t do. He marched back across the sand. He’d