“We will stay for ten minutes, no more.” Devlin scooped up the letters. “It’s too cold to sit on the floor. Come.”
He led her into one of the box pews, spread the letters out on the wooden shelf meant for prayer books and hymnals. “We should place them in chronological order.”
“They are all dated, so the task should not be too difficult.”
There were seven letters in total—six from the maid named Susan and one from Charlotte Drake. Devlin had no idea how long they spent reading each one, but an hour slipped away from them. He held Juliet close to his chest as she read them aloud for a final time.
“Evidently, the baron inherited his cold heart from his father,” Juliet said with an air of melancholy. “What sort of man takes advantage of a young girl?”
Juliet referred to her father as the baron more so these last few days. Her tone contained an air of detachment when she spoke his name. Yet Devlin knew that the baron’s lack of devotion caused her great pain.
“The sort of man who married a barren woman yet desperately craved a son. The sort who placed society’s expectations over his love and loyalty to his wife.”
The sort who saw servants as commodities, not people.
Juliet squinted at the letter in her hand. “Susan’s writing is poor, but you can feel her distress leaping off the page.”
Devlin focused on the letter that mattered most to him—Charlotte Drake’s confession. The one placed in the kneeler so that the Lord might acknowledge the dreadful part she had played, so that the Lord might offer his forgiveness.
“During her time as mistress of Blackwater, my grandmother hired a tutor to teach the servants to read and write. My mother told me that Charlotte sought to improve the lives of those in her service.” Devlin could picture the beaming look of pride on his mother’s face when she spoke of the lady’s altruism. “Only now do we discover that the woman was a damn hypocrite.”
Juliet pursed her lips. Compassion swam in her green eyes. “Perhaps misguided is a more appropriate word. In encouraging Susan to carry Bromfield’s child, perhaps she hoped to improve the girl’s life. We know nothing of Susan’s background. She might have had an ailing mother in need of medicine. There could well have been five hungry mouths to feed at home. The Bromfields might have paid her handsomely for the child.”
For the first time since meeting her, Juliet’s words lacked conviction. As always, she looked for the good not the corrupt. But one damning piece of information conveyed the reality of the situation.
“Juliet, the girl did not want to give up her child and begged my grandmother for her assistance.”
Devlin blinked to clear the image of a frail girl sent away from Blackwater to live with her abusers. A girl frightened and alone and left with those who cared only for the unborn babe.
“I know.” Juliet sighed.
“She feared for her life,” Devlin persisted, angry that a relation of his could behave so cruelly. “Someone must have taken pity on her there, for how else would she have had the means to send these letters?”
“It’s clear the Bromfields trusted your grandmother. No doubt they hoped she would write to the maid, make her see that her child would have a better life.”
Devlin dragged his hand down his face. Now he knew why the baron risked everything to ensure no one discovered the truth. But there were still too many questions. Questions he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask. Questions that would bring unwelcome answers.
Juliet shivered at his side. She wrapped the altar cloth firmly about her shoulders.
“Let us return to the house,” he said, gathering up the letters. “We can discuss the matter further while nestled beneath the coverlet.”
Juliet’s eyes brightened. “And how might we do that from separate rooms?” Her teasing tone sent his heart pounding.
“I thought that because it’s so cold out, and because I fear the baron might return, that we could sleep together tonight.” He intended to sleep with her every night and hoped she would have no complaint.
“You’re frightened?” She raised a mocking brow. “Frightened of the baron?”
“Of course not. I’m frightened of leaving you alone, of not being there should anything untoward happen.”
I’m frightened of losing you.
“And it would give us an opportunity to discuss the letters,” he added in a logical tone, “an opportunity to converse privately.”
A smile touched her lips. “An opportunity to converse, or an opportunity to dance?”
“Both.”
“Both? But it will soon be dawn.”