“I never tampered with any letters from you, Summerton,” Bella added, though like Mama, her declaration carried an undertone of bravado. “You never wrote to Penelope, as far as I knew. Too busy, I told her. Taking over a title and dealing with a house of mourning aren’t the work of a moment. She eventually understood.”
The truth snapped into Gill’s awareness as Mama and Bella exchanged another one of those caught-red-handed looks.
“I never saw a single letter from Penelope arrive at the Hall,” Mama said. “Why should you be writing daily to a wife who could not bother to write to you and at such a time? A better son would appreciate my efforts to look after his wellbeing.”
Gill wanted to upend the tea tray, smash the mirror over the sideboard, and toss both Mama and Bella into the garden.
“Bella withheld Penelope’s letters from the post here in Town,” he said, “while you, Mama, made sure my letters to my wife never left the Hall. You saw an opportunity to tear me and Penelope apart, to weaken a marriage that was off to a roaring fine start. Both of you committed enormous harm to a young couple who needed your support and compassion.” Who had needed each other, desperately.
In that moment, Gill hated his mother and hated his sister-in-law. He loathed their stupid, venal, selfish schemes. Their small-minded fixation on bonnets and cabriolets and spending money they had not earned. Penelope spent her pin money on orphanages and soup kitchens. Bella and Mama were parasites.
“I was protecting Penelope,” Bella said, her voice for once lacking confidence. “Nary a word from you, and her still recovering from childbed. I had no idea Mama-in-Law was drawing a similar conclusion at the Hall. We meant well, Summerton. You must believe that.”
“And I could not possibly realize that Bella had taken it upon herself to meddle,” Mama said, a touch of her usual asperity returning. “Very forward of you, Bella, to presume to that extent. Had you not been so—”
“Mama-in-Law, you are not thinking clearly. Surely had you allowed even one letter to leave the Hall… but no. As always, you fail to consult me, when my judgment—”
“Hush.” Gill spoke sharply and softly. “Where are the letters? If you have destroyed them, be assured I will destroy you both. I will look after the children, but the two of you will be consigned to a cottage on some sheep farm in the Outer Hebrides.”
A fraught silence took hold, though Gill was no longer being ruthless. He was simply being honest.
Perhaps Mama grasped the depths of his ire, because some of the righteous conviction left her posture. “The letters are at the Hall,” she said. “When Bella and I realized what had happened, we meant to attribute the situation to a problem with the post, to have the correspondence found without explanation, something. But the opportunity did not arise.”
“It has been years, Summerton,” Bella said, shoving to her feet. “What can a lot of old drivel mean now? You and Penelope lead separate lives, there have been no children, and Tommie and I are resigned to stepping into the title when the time comes. Do you think it’s easy, being brought to bed with a child every eighteen months? Watching yourself lose any semblance of a figure and any will to maintain one? My days are full of feuding nurserymaids, and my nights are an inescapable exercise in duty. I almost wish… but no matter. I am a loyal wife. I know my duty.”
She smiled at Gill, as if trying to will him to accede to her version of events. “You have nothing to worry about, Summerton, and nothing to be upset about.”
Bella, Gill realized, was profoundly, wretchedly bitter, and in her mind, that bitterness was justified.
Penelope had doubtless grasped the depth of Bella’s unhappiness, but Penelope had also been more egregiously wronged by Gill’s family than she knew.
“You are both leaving for Lychmont in the next hour,” he said, “and you will tell me exactly where the letters are. I will send word through the solicitors regarding new budgetary arrangements to be enforced going forward. What you two have cost me and my wife is incalculable, and you will not be received in this house in future should you presume to call. MacMillan will have the cabriolet brought around.”
“Not the traveling coach?” Mama asked. “You insult your mother, Summerton.”
“Madam, if you do not want to walk to Lychmont in your slippers, you will cease harping like the fishwife you so readily impersonate. Pack your things and be grateful I do not sell the cabriolet to pay your millinery bills. Mrs. Summers,” Gill said, turning to Bella. “I will write to your husband and explain this situation to him. Do not call at the Hall. Do not show your face on any Summerton property other than the one where you bide. You and Tommie should have sorted yourselves out years ago—tell him if you are done with childbearing—but don’t take your frustrations out on others. I will see you off in an hour.”
To their credit, both ladies were in the porte cochere forty-five minutes later, the silence between them as cold as the Thames in winter.
“My lady, where exactly are the letters?” Gill asked as the cabriolet clattered around from the mews.
He saw his mother weigh the possibility of bargaining with him, saw her discard the notion. Penelope had been right. Ruthlessness worked.
“In the escritoire in my sitting room,” Mama said, “bundled beneath some old letters you wrote to your father from university. Bottom right-hand drawer. Penelope’s are there as well. We were going to get them to you, one way or another, but the moment was never right, and then the whole business lost any significance.”
“No, it did not. Safe journey to you both.” He stepped back so the first footman could hand the ladies up. Gill wasn’t about to touch either woman even while wearing his gloves. A groom took the perch at the back of the vehicle.
“They are to arrive in one piece at Lychmont tonight,” Gill said to the groom. “No detouring to call on friends, no circling back to retrieve a forgotten reticule. Get them out of my sight and treat this trip to Lychmont as if you were delivering felons to the hulks. No delays, no frolics, no excuses.”
“Of course, my lord.” The groom was smiling. “One change of horses, and we’ll have them back where they… We’ll have them safely at Lychmont.”
The cabriolet trotted off, and Gill considered whooping with relief. He also considered getting drunk, but no. He had too many notes to write to the shop owners and tradesmen, informing them that further expenses incurred by the dowager or Mr. or Mrs. Thomas Summers would be the sole debt of the relevant party and no responsibility of the Lord Summerton’s.
Over the next two days, he wrote dozens of those notes, in his own hand because his secretary was among the employees given holiday. He went around to Tommie’s clubs and had a quiet word with the relevant staff and did the same at several gaming hells and Bond Street shops.
By midweek, Gill was ready to take himself to the family seat, read what Penelope had written all those years ago, and send the traveling coach to take her to her next abode. But when he finally sat down with a glass of brandy and letters nearly a decade old, he decided on a slight modification to that plan.
The packet arrived at the Siren’s Retreat just as Penelope had run out of excuses to dither and dawdle. The time had come to take up life as a former wife who’d demanded to be set aside. Vergilius had considerately sent the traveling coach, as he’d promised he would.