Chapter 27 #2
The first pages were filled with elegant handwriting, looping and confident.
Mentions of Tobias appeared almost immediately.
Cecily felt heat rise in her cheeks as she read lines about his “steady strength,” his “unfortunate stubbornness,” their “years of closeness strained only by circumstance.” Viola wrote of him with a familiarity that made Cecily’s stomach twist.
She knew him long before I did. She believed he would always be hers.
Cecily closed the journal and let her hand rest on the cover, steadying the faint tremor running through her fingers.
A tight flicker of jealousy rose in her.
She closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose, listening to the quiet of the room before she opened the book again.
Her eyes probed the next page carefully, searching line by line for anything that might hint at a plan, a secret, or even the smallest misstep Viola might have left behind.
But page after page held nothing more than vanity, longing, and self-assurance. No incriminating notes, plans, or mention of Creed or the estate’s troubles.
It was just full of Viola’s voice, confident of her place in Tobias’s life.
Cecily shut the journal and slipped it back into the drawer, her shoulders tight as she rose to her feet.
She turned slowly, her eyes traveling over each corner she had already searched.
The dressing table, the writing desk, the wardrobe, and the small drawers tucked neatly beneath the window.
She had opened every one. She had sifted through every folded letter, every scrap of parchment, every ribbon and trinket that might have concealed something more.
There was nothing left.
For a moment, she felt the urge to sink into the nearest chair, but she pushed it aside.
She had not come this far to give up now.
She scanned the room again, searching for anything she might have overlooked.
Her gaze drifted to the bed, and though the thought felt foolish, she approached it, unwilling to leave any possibility unexplored.
It was neatly made, the coverlet smooth, the pillows arranged with the same precise care as everything else in the room.
It was foolish to hope, foolish to think Viola would hide anything so important in a place so obvious.
But Cecily felt the last threads of desperation tug at her, urging her to try, urging her not to leave without exhausting every possibility.
She reached for the nearest pillow and lifted it carefully, half-expecting nothing more than another embroidered handkerchief or a sachet of lavender.
Instead, a neat stack of folded letters lay hidden beneath, tied with a pale ribbon.
She inhaled sharply.
Her hands trembled as she slowly untied the ribbon and opened the first letter.
The handwriting was unmistakably Lord Stanhope’s.
She had seen the same precise, heavy script when Viola had flourished one of his notes at a dinner party to impress the guests.
Cecily felt a small tightening in her chest as the familiar strokes came into view.
She read quickly, her heart beating faster with every line.
As she read through the letters, what caught her attention were the lines written beside them in a different hand. Viola’s. The ink was slightly darker, the strokes sharper, pressed into the margins and between the paragraphs as though she had been unable to contain her thoughts.
At first, Cecily frowned, unsure why Viola would write directly on her father’s correspondence.
Then the pattern became clear. Viola had not been answering him on the page for his sake.
She had been answering for herself. The letters had become something closer to a private journal, a place where she could record the thoughts she would never dare include in the replies she actually sent.
She had filled the empty spaces with the things she could not say aloud.
Fears about her age. Frustrations over suitors who had declined her.
Sharp, urgent lines insisting she must secure Tobias, that she would not be left behind while others married.
The margins held the truth she hid from everyone.
Viola’s desperation spilled across the page in those cramped notes, revealing far more than she ever intended another person to see.
As Cecily moved through the stack, the tone of the letters shifted, each line colder and more it in calculating than the last. There are lucrative opportunities before us, provided Fairbourne can be guided toward cooperation.
Another page followed. The mines present considerable potential once their owner is made reliant on outside support.
A primary investor would be in a position to direct future operations.
Cecily’s stomach tightened.
Another letter revealed the rest, the ink pressed into the page with a firmness that made Cecily’s stomach twist. She read a line twice before she could move on, her eyes filling with angry tears.
You must keep Fairbourne close. His regard will make him easier to guide, and once he relies on your fortune, the rest will follow.
She turned to the next sheet, her fingers tightening around the paper.
Creed will continue the necessary interference at the mine. Small setbacks will force Fairbourne to seek assistance, and once weakened, the estate can be taken in full.
Cecily pressed her hand to her mouth.
This is enough. More than enough, she thought, too upset by the contents of the letters to feel any sense of triumph or relief.
She opened the final letter. A short passage mentioned Mrs. Bracknell.
You handled Mrs. Bracknell well. Appealing to her sympathies allowed you to undermine the piano teacher Fairbourne seems so taken with.
Cecily stared at the line, reading it over and over again as her hands shook. So that was how Viola had managed it, how the household had shifted so quickly. Another line followed, calm and certain. The woman will not trouble us further. Her absence clears the way for what must come next.
Cecily folded the letters with trembling fingers and slipped them into her pocket.
This is all the proof we need, she thought, willing herself to keep her composure.
She lowered the pillow again, smoothing the fabric so it looked untouched. She straightened and took one last look around to be sure nothing appeared disturbed.
A faint creak sounded in the hallway.
She froze.
Another creak, closer this time.
Slow. Heavy. Not the light, confident steps Viola made.
Cecily’s pulse jumped. She edged silently toward the door, pressing her ear against the wood.
The latch shifted, and Cecily stepped back just as the door swung inward.
Silas Creed filled the doorway, his shoulders hunched, his eyes wild with recognition. His gaze dropped to her pocket, then snapped back to her face. His breath came fast and ragged, as though he had run up the stairs.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said, his voice rough.
Cecily’s heart hammered as she took a step back.
Creed lunged at her with desperate force, his hands reaching for her as if he could snatch the truth back out of her grasp before it escaped the room.