Page 32 of The Virtues of Christmas
This was not the speech Michael had rehearsed, but he should have, for the recitation nearly broke his heart, while Whitlow appeared entirely unmoved.
“Henrietta’s failing was that she trusted the wrong man,” Michael went on more softly. “She trusted youto forgive her for straying into the wrong pair of arms, and in that, she erred. I’d guess she wrote to you, asking permission to come home, and you denied her. Read that letter, Whitlow.”
Whitlow subsided into his chair, regarding Beltram’s letter like the foul excrescence it was.
Michael rose and leaned across the desk. “Read it, or I’ll read it to you loudly enough that the whole house will hear me. Then I’ll read it in the tavern. I’ll read it to her brothers. I’ll read it in the church if I must, or the village square. I’ll read the damned thing in the House of Lords, and then all will know of your shame. Not hers. Beltram’s—and yours.”
Whitlow read the letter, then sat unmoving, his gaze on the portrait over the mantel.
“Will you apologize to your daughter, Whitlow?”
He nodded once, a tear trickling unchecked down his weathered cheek.
“Then I’ll wish you the joy of the season and take my leave.”
