Page 83 of The Devil in Her Bed
It wasn’t that she thought he would wish for her death—though perhaps he’d have reason to—but as much as she desired, admired, and all-out loved this man… she didn’t know who he’d become well enough to predict what he’d do. Everyone had a moral compass, and his was as of yet undefined.
Which was exciting at times, and also terrifying.
First, she needed to focus on the task at hand, to exonerate or condemn her parents in his eyes…
Best get to work.
Francesca whipped through the documents, scanning, dismissing, and handing one over to Chandler when she’d done so to select another. So far, none of this was new information, as through the course of her own investigation, she had talked to the same people, chatted with the investigators, and followed leads to their strange and fruitless ends for what felt like a multitude of years.
And then she saw it. A broken Cavendish seal with her father’s tidy scrawl on the outside. Her heart fluttered, then sank as she reached out to retrieve it.
Oh, Papa, she thought.What did you do?
Ever observant, Chandler sidled closer, reaching for it. “Is that it?” he demanded. “Let me—”
Francesca swatted his reaching hand away and shushed him, feeling rather than seeing his displeasure at this, though he relented. She opened the missive with trembling fingers and read the words that he claimed had damned them all.
To Whom It May Concern,
I trust this letter will reach the correct hands, as I feel its contents are of the highest relevance.
Some years prior, we, the staff at the Mont Claire estate, took in a stray and starving boy by the name of Declan Chandler and put him to work. He’s a good lad, solid of stature, respectful in his interactions, and a dedicated worker, which we all might agree is a missing trait in the youths of today. Decent by nature, is he. This wealth of moral character is inherent, I believe, despite his upbringing or lack thereof.
As he ages, it occurs to me that his future is uncertain, and I gather that many a young man turns to wayward moral turpitude without the guidance of a father.
Fatherhood was a lifelong ardent desire for me, and my only child, Pippa, is my most abiding joy. I have discussed this at length with my wife, Henrietta, and we share a most enthusiastic desire to adopt the boy into our family, so he may enjoy the benefits a proper upbringing can provide.
For the sake of brevity, I will now elucidate my point. I have been unable to obtain any records of Declan Chandler’s birth or parentage, and I would respectfully request your help in doing so in that I require certainty that my due diligence can be evidenced when I apply for adoption.
Any assistance in this respect would be very much appreciated.
Sincerest and most respectful regards,
Charles Timothy Hargrave II
Mont Claire Estate, Derbyshire
Francesca read the words again and again, blinking to clear her vision. She rubbed her fingers over the faded script with a heart full to bursting.
Until a laugh bubbled out of her chest, she hadn’t realized she was crying.
This letter was so undeniably her father. He claimed brevity in a missive much too long and full of digression. He was both regimented and sentimental, his script perfectly even and neat, his communication a bit untidy.
His heart as massive as the Atlantic.
“Francesca.” Chandler’s voice was mostly full of concern, though the threat of impatience hovered in the periphery. “Tell me, dammit. What’s wrong?”
Pippa is my most abiding joy.She caressed the sentence before handing the letter to him, reluctant to let it go just as much as she was eager for him to read it. To know.
Swamped by emotion, she allowed the tears to flow freely now. She’d seen her mother on the day of the massacre. She’d watched the devotion turn into sacrifice, and nary a day went by that she wasn’t grateful for and devastated by it.
But her father had been different. Indulgent but proper. Pleasant but distracted and sometimes aloof,but always devoted. Always. And she’d never gotten to say goodbye. She’d never realized what an extraordinary thing her happy family was until it was taken from her.
And her father, her lovely father, had wanted to offer Declan Chandler a part of that family.
She’d have begged him not to, of course. Because she’d planned to do it herself by way of marriage.
Francesca found herself swathed in shame for even doubting her parents. Of course they’d never been involved in the Crimson Council. Charles Timothy Hargrave the Second would never have allowed such “moral turpitude.”
