Martin drew in a long breath, briefly squeezed her fingers. Glanced away through the window.
She waited, praying. What more she could say?
"He's a member of the family who was here over Christmas and New Year that year, then returned for the Easter gathering." Martin looked down at her.
She smiled brilliantly, joyously. "Can you remember…?"
He shook his head. "There are more candidates than you suppose. That side of the family's extensive, and many visited frequently. Every Christmas and New Year, every Easter, and at least twice every summer, there were huge house parties held here. We regularly slept more than seventy."
"So who would know? Allie?"
"No." After a moment, he said, "I'll need to check in my father's study."
She knew he hadn't been in there yet, knew he would want to check alone. She smiled. "I need to look in on Reggie, then talk to Allie."
Slipping her fingers from his, she stretched up and kissed his cheek. He accepted the caress but immediately turned his head. Met her eyes, then bent his head and touched his lips to hers.
In a simple, achingly sweet kiss.
"Join me when you finish with Allie."
Martin opened the door of his father's study, a square room with windows looking west along the cliffs. Allie had yet to penetrate this far; the room was dim and dark. Crossing to the windows, he pulled aside the curtains, stood looking down, watching the river glint as it wended eastward.
All about him was quiet… watchful. Was it fancy that made him feel his father so close, as if his presence still permeated this room a full year after his death? Drawing breath, mentally girding his loins, he turned.
Took in the mahogany desk, the admiral's chair behind it, the leather worn to a smooth shine. The blotter, a few marks upon it, the pen sitting in an inkstand long dry. There were no papers left lying on the desk. Everything had been tidied away. Not by him, by the solicitor.
He didn't even know where his father had died, or how, only that he had. Martin recalled the date, realized it had been exactly a year later that he'd first set eyes on Amanda.
The thought of her, of all she'd said, melted his inertia. Sent the past retreating to a manageable distance. Put the present into perspective.
Walking to the desk, he drew out the chair and sat. Scanned the account books and ledgers lining the room, noted new volumes, none unexpected, none out of place. His lips twisted-naturally not. Looking down at the desk, he ignored the dust and reached for the first drawer on the left.
Pens, pencils, various odds and ends-and a piece of scrimshaw he'd given his father as a gift years ago. Martin considered it-knowing his father's propensity for rigidity it seemed odd he'd kept it there, where he would have seen it every day… frowning, he slid the drawer closed and opened the next.
Letters, old ones, yellowing with age-quite a pile. Curious, he lifted them out, shuffled through them…
They were all addressed to him. In his father's hand.
He stared. Couldn't imagine what… wondered when they'd been written.
There was only one way to find out. Reopening the top drawer, he found a letter opener and slit the first packet. He glanced only at the date, then opened the others, placing them in chronological order. The missives spanned nine years; the first had been written four days after he'd left-been banished.
Drawing a breath, he steeled himself, and picked up the first sheet.
r /> Martin, my son-I was wrong. So wrong. In my arrogance and…
He had to stop, look up, force himself to breathe. His hand was shaking; he put the letter down-rose, paced to the window, wrestled with the latch and threw the sash up. Leaned out, welcomed the rush of cool valley air. Breathed deeply. Steadied his whirling wits.
Then, returning to the desk, he sat, picked up the letter and read every word.
Reaching the end, he stared at the door as the past as he'd known it disintegrated, then re-formed. He closed his eyes, for long moments sat absolutely still, imagining…
What the break must have meant to his mother.
What that, and the guilt and anguish poured out in the letter, must have done to his father. His righteous, always so concerned over doing the correct thing-being seen to have done the correct thing-father.
Eventually, he opened his eyes and read the rest of the letters. The last included an enclosure from his mother, written just before her death. In it, she pleaded with him to forgive them both and return so his father could right the wrong he'd done. Her words, more than any, left him shattered.