Yes. I am sure this is what I want.
I descended the stairs into the foyer, where the front doors were already open and waiting, revealing the thundering sky and the sheets of silver-gray rain. I thought I could hear the sounds of the carriage coming up from the stables, but it was impossible to tell over the low roar of the storm.
“Miss Leavold.”
I started, surprised to see the white-haired man from York. He’d been standing in the doorway to the parlor, concealed by the rainy morning shadows, but the fresh drops on his jacket indicated that he hadn’t been inside long.
“You,” I said. “You came here a few weeks ago.”
He inclined his head politely, agreeing. “It is interesting that you know that, Miss Leavold. I was under the impression that you were out visiting with friends at that time. I had insisted on coming here to visit you myself, and then conveniently you were not home.”
I paused. I couldn’t puzzle the right information out of his words.
He seemed to understand this. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small white card.
Jonathan Wright, Esq.
33 Portage Street, York
“I’m an old friend of Edward Wickes,” he said. “We studied law together, and we now frequently assist each other when the need arises. For example, when trying to hunt down a certain young woman known to live at Markham Hall.”
My confusion was not abated at all. “Why would Solicitor Wickes be looking for me? And why send you to come talk to me—why not simply write?”
“He did write, Miss Leavold. He’s been writing you for almost three months now. And you haven’t answered a single letter. The situation was important enough that he felt there must be a more dramatic intervention. So he called upon me.”
“He hasn’t written,” I said. “Or the letters got sent to the wrong address. Or—”
“Or,” he said softly, “somebody’s been taking them before you could read them.”
“But who—” No. It was ridiculous. None of the servants cared enough about me to steal my mail, and while Mrs. Brightmore hated me, I couldn’t picture her confiscating letters. Surely not.
Right?
“Whatever the case may be, I am here to deliver two messages. One is that Mr. Wickes is very anxious to see you, but his health makes it impossible for him to leave London at present. He is hoping that you will visit him as soon as you can arrange for a visit. He has even offered to pay for the trip himself, if you need him to.”
I shook my head, still feeling confused. “No, that won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’ll be traveling to London today actually. We leave this afternoon.”
Mr. Wright looked over my dress, the small white rosebuds in my hair. “After your wedding,” he said.
“Yes.”
He glanced at the floor a moment, and in that moment, I saw that he made a decision, swallowing back something with visible effort.
“The second message Mr. Wickes wants to convey is that you yet have a relative living. Your aunt, Esther Leavold. She is lately returned from India and was most horrified to learn of your circumstances. She wishes to be reunited with you at once, and she wants you to know that you are invited to come live with her.” He looked at my dress again. “Although it has only been since today that I understood Mr. Markham’s intentions for you. I am afraid your aunt and Mr. Wickes had no idea that your situation was changing so drastically.”
His words were not filtering in properly, not finding residence in anything I was prepared to understand. I felt the need to sit immediately, and he sensed this, taking my elbow and guiding me to a low ancient bench. I sat, my head feeling light.
“I have an aunt? Who wishes to take me in? I have family?” My voice broke on this last word, broke hard, and I felt tears pricking at the back of my eyelids. “I’ve never heard of her. And I didn’t think—I mean, I had rather given up on…”
I couldn’t finish. But I didn’t need to. Mr. Wright understood. I’d been orphaned. I had grieved and accepted that there would be no one out there bound to me by blood, no one who was born with an obligation to love me and care for me. And I had survived the grief. Adapted and grown and against all odds had found a new life for myself here in the North, in Mr. Markham’s arms. And now everything had changed in an instant.
“I should go,” Mr. Wright said. “I have been given the distinct impression that Mr. Markham does not want me to talk to you.”
I looked up, my eyes wet. “You have?”
Mr. Wright knelt in front of me, very easily for a man of his years, and gave me a grave but kind look. “It is not my place to advise you on anything of a personal nature, but I feel compelled to warn you that some perceive Mr. Markham to be a dangerous man.”
I was already shaking my head, but he held up a hand. “I know it is not what you want to hear. But have you given any thought to why Mr. Markham wouldn’t want us to communicate? Have you considered that he might have taken Mr. Wickes’ letters before you could read them?”
