Chapter 29 #2
He had expected her here—after all, he and Margaret had left her in Brighton, and she had spoken of staying to avoid the eyes of London. But the silence of the room told otherwise. She was gone.
His fists tightened against the armrests. “Whatever the cost,” he muttered, the words slipping out before he could catch them. The empty room caught the stark and unyielding vow. “Somewhere in this house lies the truth, and I will not leave until I find it.”
The door creaked open, breaking his train of thought. A footman stepped inside, a stack of papers in his hands, his head bowed low.
“Your Grace,” the man murmured, setting the bundle carefully upon the desk. “All that could be found. Letters received and drafts Her Grace left behind.”
Sebastian’s eyes snapped to the pile, his pulse quickening despite himself. He gave a curt nod. “Leave me.”
The servant withdrew, closing the door softly, and Sebastian reached for the papers, his hands unsteady though his jaw was iron.
Sebastian tore the string loose, scattering the bundle across the desk.
Sheets rustled, inked lines of receipts, half-written invitations, a note from some distant acquaintance catching his eye.
He rifled faster, the sharp scratch of paper loud in the silence, but nothing met him.
No explanation. Not even a hint of where she had gone.
His hand stilled at last, resting on a blank sheet, his breath unsteady. Empty. All of it was empty.
He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath the force of his weight, fury and weariness coiling together in his chest.
Sebastian let the final paper fall, its whisper against the desk loud in the hollow room. Useless—every sheet was useless.
A knock sounded, and Parsons entered with his usual measured tread. His gaze swept the scattered letters, then returned to his master with quiet concern.
“Your Grace,” he said, “shall I have supper laid in your chambers? You have only just returned from your journey.”
Sebastian drew a breath, forcing control into his voice. “Yes. Food. And wine. I will rest tonight.” His hand clenched on the armrest. “Tomorrow I will search this house from cellar to roof. The libraries, the offices, every locked drawer. Whatever lies buried here, I will uncover it.”
Parsons hesitated, the faintest crease at his brow. “May I ask, Sir… what is it you seek?”
Sebastian’s gaze cut to him, steady, unyielding. “Answers.” The single word rang final, brooking no further inquiry.
The butler inclined his head, accepting the rebuff with grace. “Very well, Your Grace. I shall see to your supper.”
When the door closed behind him, Sebastian pressed his palms flat against the desk, his breath coming hard. Tomorrow, he would begin looking for answers.
The next morning broke gray and listless, the kind of light that dulled the sea-facing windows and leeched warmth from the chambers. By the time Parsons arrived to announce breakfast, Sebastian was already dressed, his boots polished and coat set square.
He began in his mother’s withdrawing room.
The escritoire stood neatly locked, but he forced the key from its hidden compartment in the drawer beneath.
Inside, he found only the expected correspondence half-finished, invitations declined, and a few charitable accounts written in his mother’s tidy hand.
He rifled through them, page by page, but found nothing beyond the banalities of society life.
From there, he moved to the estate ledgers kept in the steward’s office.
He hauled each great book down from the shelf, the weight of years in his arms. He leafed through the accounts, scanning columns of numbers, grain deliveries, rents collected, and salaries for servants.
Nothing amiss, nothing to explain the face that haunted Margaret’s memory.
He slammed one ledger shut, the crack echoing through the still room, before dragging another into the light.
Hours passed. Dust clung to his fingers, and ink smeared the cuffs of his coat.
He had been at it so long that the hours blurred together, broken only by the rustle of turning pages.
He prowled the library next, pulling volumes down from the shelves, not to read their contents but to test their spines for hidden recesses and to shake loose any folded letters pressed between the pages.
Several times, slips of paper did fall, a nursery rhyme of his scrawled in a childish hand, a list of dinner guests, a pressed flower, but nothing that carried the weight he sought.
The air was close, heavy with dust and the faint tang of ink. Sebastian’s coat lay discarded over a chair, his cravat tugged loose, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. He bent over the steward’s desk, eyes bloodshot from relentless searching.
A discreet cough sounded in the doorway. Parsons entered with a tray of fresh bread, cold meats, and a pot of steaming chocolate, the scent filling the stale office.
“Your Grace,” the butler said softly, “you have eaten nothing since breakfast. A mouthful, at least, before you make yourself ill.”
Sebastian did not look up, his hand dragging across another column of figures. “Set it down, Parsons.”
The tray was placed carefully upon a side table. “Shall I pour you a cup, Sir?”
“No.” His voice was curt but not unkind. He straightened only long enough to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands, then bent again to the ledger. “I have no use for it. Leave me.”
Parsons hesitated, his lined face drawn with concern. “If you will not eat, perhaps a walk in the air might—”
“Thank you, Parsons.” Sebastian’s tone hardened, though his gaze remained fixed on the neat rows of ink, as though the truth itself were hidden between the lines.
The butler inclined his head, retreating in silence.
When the door shut, Sebastian shoved the untouched tray farther aside, his jaw tight.
Hunger clawed at his belly, thirst burned at his throat, but he ignored both.
His hands returned to the work—ledger after ledger, book after book—until the hours blurred together, marked only by the soft thud of volumes hitting the desk and the rasp of his breath in the hollow stillness.
By noon, he had stalked through three anterooms, two parlors, and the long gallery.
Drawers were yanked open, cabinets emptied, desk-lids lifted.
He examined even the small items: the lining of a writing-box, the hollow behind a mirror’s frame, the base of a candlestick that came away too easily in his hand. Still nothing.
At last, he found himself in the library’s farthest alcove, surrounded by towers of books and scattered papers.
He leaned heavily against the table, breath tight in his chest, eyes burning from hours of fruitless searching.
His reflection in the tall window was grim, almost unrecognizable—a man hunted by questions that refused to yield.
His hand skimmed along the highest shelf of the alcove, fingertips brushing spines worn smooth with age. Most volumes yielded dust, a few slipped loose at his touch. But one, its leather cracked, its title gilt in faded letters—Sermons for the Devout Household—resisted when he tried to tug it free.
Sebastian frowned, dragging the chair beneath him and climbing up to wrest it loose. The weight was wrong. Too light for its size. His pulse quickened.
With a sharp pull, the volume came away, and in his hands, it opened not to pages but to a hollowed core, a box crudely fashioned, the edges stiff with glue and age. Inside lay a single folded paper, yellowed and brittle.
His breath caught.
For a moment, he simply stared, unwilling to disturb the silence that pressed thick about him. Then, slowly, he drew it out. The wax seal was cracked, the angular and deliberate hand unmistakably his uncle’s.
He unfolded it, the scrawl within hurried, uneven, unlike the man he dimly remembered:
There is no absolution for me. The weight of it follows, pressing, choking. I cannot bear the look of those who trust me, nor the memory of the awful thing I have done. God may forgive, but I cannot. It is better this way. Let the name Redmere be spared my stain.
—G.R.
Sebastian’s vision blurred. His hand trembled, the paper rustling in his grip. He pressed it flat against the table, his jaw tightening, his chest a knot of fury and grief. He blinked hard, once, twice, but the ink did not vanish. The words burned all the clearer, “…the awful thing I have done…”
His hand slackened. The page slipped from his grip, fluttered down onto the blotter. “No…” His voice broke hoarse, filling the empty library. “God above—what did you do?”
Sebastian’s chest constricted. He staggered back, dropping heavily into the chair, staring at the damning words until they seared into his sight. A suicide note. His uncle’s last testament.
For a heartbeat, Sebastian sat utterly still, listening to the frantic pound of his own pulse. Then he snatched it up again, his eyes darting over the script, desperate for some other meaning.
“There must be more,” he muttered, the sound half-growl, half-plea. “Something I misread.”
But there was no mistake. His mother’s beloved brother had written it. A confession without detail, yes, but a confession, nonetheless. The awful thing. Something so black, it had driven him to end his life.
“No,” he said again, louder now, rising suddenly to his feet. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his brow, as though he might shove the thought back where it came from. “Not him. God, not him.”
His throat burned. He sank into the chair once more, the paper trembling in his grip. The words blurred, searing themselves into him until he could bear no more. His voice tore loose, ragged and furious, echoing against the shelves.
“Coward! You couldn’t even name it.”
The shout cracked through the stillness, shocking even himself.
Images of a little girl clutching the window latch with smoke all around her surged within him.
Parsons appeared in the doorway, breathless, no doubt summoned by the sound of Sebastian’s voice. “Your Grace?”
Sebastian’s head snapped up, his eyes hard. He closed the letter quickly, sliding it beneath his palm. “Leave me.”
“Your Grace, are you—”
“I said, leave me!”
The butler withdrew, the door shutting fast behind him.
Alone again, Sebastian pressed both hands to his face, dragging them down until his palms covered the letter. His heart pounded so loudly it seemed to echo in the rafters.
This was no phantom of Margaret’s grief, no nightmare conjured from fever. His uncle had left behind words of damnation. Words that proved—something. That tied him to a deed so vile, he would rather end his life than bear it.
Sebastian gripped the edge of the desk until the wood creaked beneath his palms. “What did you do, George?” His voice cracked, raw with fury and grief. “What did you do to her?”
Sebastian’s throat burned as he whispered into the stillness, “Margaret… was this what haunted you?”
The paper shook faintly in his grasp, the words etched there burning like a brand upon his mind. He rose too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and crossed to the door. His hand lingered on the latch, breath uneven.
“Parsons,” he called, scarcely more than a whisper.
The butler appeared almost at once, as if he had been waiting just beyond. His brows drew together at the sight of Sebastian’s face. “Your Grace?”
Sebastian lifted the note, though his grip was white knuckled. “Have the carriage brought round. At once.”
Parsons hesitated only a heartbeat. “To London, Sir?”
“Yes.” His voice was hoarse, hollow. “Without delay.”
The older man inclined his head, though worry flickered in his eyes. “Shall I send for food to carry with you? You have not eaten.”
“No.” Sebastian closed his fist around the paper, as though it might vanish if he loosed it. “Only the carriage.”
Parsons bowed and withdrew at once. Within minutes, the clatter of harnesses and the rumble of wheels echoed through the courtyard.
Sebastian descended the steps with long, unsteady strides, the bitter air cutting sharply against his skin. He climbed into the carriage without a backward glance, the note still clutched tight in his hand.
The door shut. The whip cracked. And in a storm of hooves and wheels, he was gone.