on his door. Outside his window was what passed for daylight in London, so he supposed he had to answer.
When Will opened the door, Sam let out a low whistle. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but you look even worse than Hartley.” He handed Will a folded sheet of ivory paper. “A messenger brought this for you,” Sam said. “I’d have let you sleep, but figured the letter was from—” He cleared his throat.
“It is,” Will said, recognizing the handwriting at once. “Thank you.”
Back in his room, he broke the seal.
Dearest Will, your play was every bit as lovely and brilliant as I knew it would be, and I hope you’re as proud of yourself as I am of you. I regret not being able to join in your celebrations, but I’m afraid I’m under the weather. Or—why beat around the bush—it’s rather worse than that, and there’s nothing for it but to go home. It seems that London does not agree with me. It manifestly does agree with you—I’ve seldom seen you happier. Watching you with your friends at the theater was almost like seeing how things might have been if the events of a few years ago never happened, and I’m glad you have that.
Will put the letter down and paced across the room. That last line sat badly with him. He didn’t want to believe that Martin looked at him and saw the ghost of someone long gone, as something that had once been whole but now was broken. He wanted Martin to see him the way he was and love him for it, but it really sounded like Martin was telling him to stay in London in order to resemble someone who was long gone. He needed to talk to Martin, to hear from Martin’s own mouth that this was only a misunderstanding. But Martin wasn’t there. He was heading home, and Will had a sinking feeling that home meant Lindley Priory—the last time they had talked about it, Martin told Will that he wished they had never left the place.
My solicitor wrote to inform me that he found a tenant for Friars’ Gate. In my return letter, I asked him to draw up an agreement that would give you a life interest in the two acres surrounding the gamekeeper’s cottage as well as the cottage itself. It seems that this is something I have the right to do despite the entail. I want you to have that; I want you to know that no matter what you have a place to go, that no matter what you’ll always have a choice. Before this spring I’m not certain I knew that I did have choices. You helped me remember. Regardless of anything else, the cottage is yours to use.
I’m about to get teary and I’m afraid that doesn’t do my lungs the least bit of good, so I’ll end this letter now, with the reminder that I remain and will always be,
Yours,
Martin
“What the hell,” Will muttered, staring at the letter. The man couldn’t have let him know his plans ahead of time? Will would have had his bag packed and been ready to leave by the time the play ended last night. He began absently throwing his belongings into his satchel with one hand while rereading the letter.
“Where are you going?” Hartley asked, when Will appeared downstairs with his satchel slung over his shoulder.
“North,” Will grit out. “Look at this.” He held out Martin’s letter.
“Good,” Hartley said a moment later. “This is better than last year. He noticed he wasn’t well and so he took steps to care for himself. This is good, yes?”
“Yes,” Will said, struck by the truth of his brother’s observation. “I suppose it’s very good. But why the hell does he need to go to Cumberland? Not only can he not stand the place, but he knows my work and my friends are here and he’s going to put himself a two days’ stagecoach trip away from that?” Will passed a hand over his jaw. “No. That’s selfish of me. He said he can use the dower house there. I should be glad.”
“Should you?” Hartley looked up from where he was assembling a stack of sandwiches.
“Yes,” Will insisted. “Am I going to have to explain friendship to you again?”
“Perhaps, because I’d be far from glad if Sam moved to Cumberland, even if it were for the best reasons in the world.” He wrapped the sandwiches in a napkin and stuck them