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“What are you thinking about?” Alice asked.

“I spent years defending my father’s memory,” Rosamund murmured. “I told everyone that he was a man of honor, ruined by a predator. Now, I can see that it was never black and white.”

“You are allowed to be furious with anyone,” Alice said wryly.

A chuckle escaped Rosamund’s lips, as she spluttered, “That is terrible advice!”

“Oh, but it is completely honest,” Alice corrected. “You need honesty as your anchor right now.”

That was what Rosamund was willing to hold on to as she felt the shift between the relationship between Rosewood Cottage and Ashbourne Hall. There were still sharp edges, but the poison was gone. Evaporated.

As for the Duke, he no longer seemed to command the space with a rigid posture. He smiled more and appeared more at ease. More often than not, he would go to Rosamund at the Rosewood Cottage instead of summoning her to his study at Ashbourne. He would carry bound volumes and various documents to her instead, more easily volunteering information that he had collected. He would spread bank statements and letters on her wooden dining table. He no longer asked her if she would be strong enough for the truth; he just shared them.

“It is truly remarkable,” Alice commented, looking up from her latest creative work, a knitted sweater.

“What is?” Rosamund asked.

“Have you not noticed the sheer mathematical precision of His Grace’s arrival,” Alice said. “I had no idea the Duke of Westbourne was so deeply devoted to Rosewood Cottage afternoon tea that he must discuss business here at precisely four o’ clock.”

“It must be coincidence,” Rosamund murmured, although she herself could not believe that. “He is, after all, occupied during the morning hours.”

“Naturally,” Alice said, with a knowing smile.

At that moment, the clock struck four. Then, there was a knock on the door, and there he was. The Duke of Westbourne wore a simple dark riding coat, his hair perfectly tousled, as always, even after battling the strong breeze outside.

“I hope I am not intruding,” Peregrine said, his grey eyes light up the moment his eyes fell on Rosamund. “I am here with more information that you may want to know more of. These belong to your mother.”

Rosamund’s ears perked up at the mention of her mother. Everyone talked about her father, but not her mother. Not anymore, anyway.

“My mother?” she echoed.

“I have gotten hold of her private papers,” the Duke explained, as he stepped into the cottage. “I thought you should be the one to open it.”

They gathered around the dining table, all three of them. Alice rose to pour fresh tea while Rosamund opened the box. Inside, she found a collection of tied bundles. There were rose petals, recipes, and letters, among many other, random things.

For about an hour, the trio sorted through the mundane remnants of a life that had already passed. It seemed like they would not get anything else until they reached the bottom of the box, and saw a stack of letters wrapped in a faded, stringy ribbon.

“These letters are not from my father,” Rosamund remarked.

“Look at the signature,” the Duke suggested, leaning toward her to see better. His proximity sent a subtle jolt of warmth through the air between them.

“Eleanor Vale,” Rosamund read aloud.

She began to skim the letters. The early ones were warm and almost joyful. They included gossip about London seasons. It even mentioned a shared girlhood that showed Rosamund’s mother knew Eleanor Vale before they even married.

However, as she read the later letters, the tone significantly shifted. The ink grew darker, as well, with more blots on the paper, as if the writer’s emotions had become more intense.

“...You cannot pretend that the past never happened because you have secured a title. You have made a promise.”

“Do not send Ashbourne to answer for you again. You will not like it when the truth comes out.”

“Nobody truly forgets.”

Dread filled Rosamund as she felt the underlying malice in the letters. Someone had been sending her mother these letters, and she never knew. Her life had seemed so serene before her father’s scandalous ruin. It appeared that things were never really quite right even when she was young.

“Why would a woman in my mother’s past be threatening her?” Rosamund murmured thoughtfully. “It does not make sense!”

“We must not leap to assumptions until we understand the full context of these letters,” the Duke advised.