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She was about to reiterate that no, he hadn’t that power—she was aware that Mr. Hill wasn’t the sharpest needle in the sewing kit, but honestly—when he pulled out a piece of paper. Cream linen. The kind stocked here and at Mollybrook. The kind Diantha used to write her letters on, back when she had people to write to. Back when she had a person to write to. A sister.

He began reading, holding the paper in front of him as if reading a royal proclamation. “‘I hesitate to share this story, which was told to me in confidence, but after some soul searching, I determined its teller wouldn’t mind, given the circumstances.’”

Oh. Oh no. Diantha’s mouth flooded with the tang of metal. She knew those words. She knew this letter.

“When did you find that letter? Where did you find it?” She had instructed Thea to burn it. Diantha didn’t care for the way her questions came out, soft and breathy, but they had to be asked.

She was surprised when he answered readily. “I found it in your sister’s things after she died. She saved all your letters.”

That he hadn’t discovered the letter until Thea was already gone was some comfort. Diantha had no doubt Thea would not have survived the discovery of the sisters’ correspondence. In addition to the contents of the letter Mr. Hill held, some very unflattering things had been said about him in others.

She wondered that Mr. Hill had kept the letters for so long. Had he foreseen a future in which they might provide him a useful bit of leverage? She wouldn’t have thought him capable of such strategic forward thinking.

He returned to his oddly formal recitation, and Diantha knew what was coming: the tale of a dalliance Lady Harcourt undertook in the summer of 1808, a story the lady had recounted to Diantha. A story the lady would not have recounted to Diantha had she been in full possession of her faculties.

Why had Diantha decided to tell her sister? What right had she to do so?

It had been sheer force of habit. The sisters had told each other everything, in person and, after Diantha came to work for Lady Harcourt, via letters. A thought wasn’t a thought until it was verbalized, or written, to Thea.

She missed that so very much.

But also, Thea had been enjoying somewhat of a flirtation with the butcher, and Diantha had wanted to illustrate that morality wasn’t always black and white.

She had been trying to suggest that her sister find happiness where she could.

She was fairly certain she had said nothing overtly about the butcher in her letters to Thea. That must be the case, for had Mr. Hill believed the sisters had plotted to cuckold him, he would not be here on a mission of matrimony but of murder. She supposed that was some cold consolation.

Mr. Hill continued reading: “‘She said that, paradoxically, the summer in question, and her activities therein, served to strengthen her marriage. The freedom and joy she experienced had a kind of rejuvenating effect. It allowed her to return renewed, better prepared to bear the circumstances of her life.’”

Diantha had thought she was being circumspect by not naming Lady Harcourt, but why had she thought that a sufficient precaution? She’d known Thea would recognize her unnamed lady narrator, so why shouldn’t Mr. Hill? He wasn’t the sharpest needle, yes, but he had always been very finely tuned to gossip, gossip so often being a source for leverage and therefore gain.

“‘She wasn’t saying that outcome—a refreshed marriage—justified her actions, merely that her actions had that unexpected benefit. She was remarkably philosophical about the supposed sin. She—and her son—had spent years victim to her husband’s tyrannical impulses.’”

Yes. Just as Thea had been victim to this man’s tyrannical impulses.

And the butcher had been such a jovial man.

Mr. Hill continued. “‘She felt her suffering inoculated her, morally speaking, and mused about whether the unkindness she had done her husband was actually an unkindness, given that he didn’t know about it.’”

“Mr. Hill. I don’t need to hear any more. I—”

He ignored her. Continued speaking as if she weren’t even present, as if he were issuing a royal proclamation.

She reminded herself that she was not his subject.

Yet.

“‘But I am telling you this backward,’” he read. “‘I have yet to tell you about the summer in question. I very likely don’t need to spell it all out. You can imagine that she had a perfectly lovely summer. Her husband was in Town. She was at the seaside. The man in question was a painter also visiting the shore. She showed me a miniature of her that he painted. I, of course, didn’t know her back then, but I believe there was a quality of freedom, of liberation, depicted in her countenance that went beyond the mere fact of her relative youth.’”

“Mr. Hill, that is quite enough.”

“I’m not sure it is.”

A knock on the door had him falling blessedly silent.

It was Mrs. Saunders with tea. Diantha didn’t know whether to be glad for the interruption or dismayed that the arrival of refreshment would seem an invitation for Mr. Hill to settle in and stay awhile.

As the housekeeper set down the tray, Diantha tried to calm herself: her heart, her breath, her very being.