Chapter Eleven
The letter arrived on a grey Thursday morning, delivered by a rider who had clearly urged his horse hard along the muddy roads.
Fiona was in the breakfast room when Mrs Blackley brought it in—not the yellow parlour, but the smaller, more intimate chamber where she and Christian had lately taken to sharing their morning meals.
He sat across from her, still a little rumpled with sleep, the late hour of the previous night very much in evidence.
His hair, no longer confined to its usual queue, fell loosely about his shoulders, and there was a quiet ease in his expression that softened the habitual severity of his features.
She had done that, Fiona thought with a private flicker of satisfaction. She had put that softness there.
“A letter for Miss Hart, Your Grace.” Mrs Blackley set the silver salver carefully upon the table, the precision of the gesture suggesting she already suspected the contents might prove unwelcome. “From London.”
Fiona’s stomach tightened.
She recognised the hand at once—bold, impatient strokes that could belong to no one else.
Mother.
“Thank you, Mrs Blackley.” She kept her voice steady as she took the letter, waiting until the housekeeper had withdrawn before breaking the seal.
Christian watched her across the table, a faint line forming between his brows.
“Fiona?” he said quietly. “What is it?”
She did not answer.
She was already reading, her eyes moving rapidly over the familiar script as a slow dread began to gather in her chest.