look back, sensing a presence – though somehow, she wasn’t frightened. It was as though it was smiling on her, telling her that all would be fine.
Edmund paused in the doorway, looking down on his wife before she knew he was there. She was curled on the settee, reading one of the books she had found in his library. He hadn’t told her, but he had always had a feeling it was written by his great-uncle. Edmund had been the one to read Andrew’s letters aloud, and he recognized the script. It was eerie, how many similarities he shared with the man. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought Andrew was his ancestor, rather than his own grandfather.
He wished he didn’t have to enter and break her solace. But he had news, and it was better she know sooner rather than later.
“Hannah,” he said softly, trying not to scare her, but his wife was not one who was startled easily. She looked up at him with a smile, and he wondered whether she knew he was there the entire time and had been allowing him to announce himself at his own leisure.
“Edmund,” she said, her voice as comforting and soothing as ever. “What do you think?” She waved her hand around the room, and he was startled to find the painting from upstairs on the wall, in addition to a lamp and a chair that he could only hope Falton had carried down.
“It suits the room,” he said in amazement, “as though it was meant to be.”
She nodded.
“Look on the back of the painting,” she said, and he did as she bid. “It seems that Isabel was a painter too.”
“As you are,” he said, shock filling him as he looked up at her in wonder.
“Yes,” she said, setting her book aside as she stared at him intently. “I know you said that you don’t think things are meant to be, but does it not seem like too much of a coincidence, Isabel and Andrew, and you and I—”
“No,” he said, shaking his head adamantly. “It cannot be. They ended in tragedy.”
“So they did,” she said, “but perhaps we are meant to make things right.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a soft laugh. “We are nearly done the letters.”
“We are.”
“It’s so sad,” she said now, quite wistfully. “They loved each other so much. Most of their writings to one another are simply descriptions of what they felt, and a longing to be together. That she had to marry his brother… well, it wasn’t fair.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“And that his brother was so horrible to her… it must have been devasting for him to have to watch it.”
“I think that’s why he had them stay with him as much as possible. To be close to her, yes, but it must also have been torturous to see her married to another.” He could hardly imagine if he had to see Hannah with his brother. “But if she was near, perhaps he was able to protect her as much as he could.”
“That’s what he says,” she agreed with a sigh. “The part about their code, to meet in the guest house when Alastair was in the village…” she didn’t mention the part they had assumed, that he was there to find pleasure with the local women, “the light flickering off the mirror as a sign Alastair had gone – it is quite romantic.”
“Except for the fact that we know the ending.”
That Alastair had learned of the affair and burned the house down, with Isabel still inside.
“Yes,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
“Speaking of brothers…” he said slowly, “my own is coming for a visit soon.”
“Here?”
“Yes. Apparently, he wishes to visit before his nuptials.”
“But why?”
Edmund didn’t like the worry apparent upon her face, and he crossed the room and sat next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“Not to worry,” he said, “I’ll be here with you the entire time he is here. Hopefully, I can quickly ascertain what he wants and then he’ll be gone.”
“Very well,” she said, managing a smile for him, and he tugged his arm tighter around her, his heart reaching out to her when she snuggled in close next to him.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that he loved her, but he couldn’t – not yet. For while he thought he did, his emotions had been dormant for so long that he wasn’t even sure if he properly understood what