Chapter 4 - The Boy Who Called Her Mama
Cordelia packed everything she owned into one trunk.
The trunk was not full.
That fact embarrassed her more than it should have.
Two serviceable dresses.
One good dress.
Stockings repaired so often that original fabric had become a minority.
Her mother’s silver brush.
Three books.
Letters from Marian.
A small wooden horse Edmund had refused to leave behind.
That was all.
Beatrice did not come downstairs when they departed.
Cordelia told herself she did not care.
Edmund climbed into the Duke’s carriage with solemn concentration.
Then he discovered the velvet seat.
“This is softer than my bed.”
Cordelia wanted to disappear.
Julian merely looked out the window.
“Mine too, when I was eight.”
Edmund narrowed his eyes.
“You lived in a carriage?”
Cordelia covered her mouth.
Julian considered.
“No.”
“Then that makes no sense.”
“You are correct.”
“I usually am.”
“So is she,” Julian said, glancing at Cordelia.
“Who?”
“Your—”
He hesitated.
Cordelia felt it.
“Mama Cordy,” Edmund supplied.
Julian looked at her.
Cordelia stared at the passing fields.
“He is my cousin’s son.”
“I see.”
“Marian died when he was five.”
“I am sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Edmund was watching them.
“My real mama said Cordy was supposed to be my family forever.”
Julian’s expression softened.
“That sounds like a good arrangement.”
“It is.”
Cordelia’s throat tightened.
Edmund continued.
“Except she cannot cook.”
“Edmund.”
“She burns eggs.”
“One time.”
“Three times.”
Julian looked dangerously amused.
Cordelia pointed toward him.
“Do not encourage this.”
“I have said nothing.”
“Your face is encouraging him.”
“I did not realize my face possessed such influence.”
Cordelia looked away before he could see her smile.
Ravensworth House appeared after an hour.
Calling it a house felt absurd.
The estate stretched across rolling green hills, approached by a mile-long avenue of ancient trees. The central building rose from pale stone, symmetrical and imposing, with dozens of windows reflecting the afternoon sky.
Edmund pressed his nose to the glass.
“Does one person live there?”
Julian cleared his throat.
“Mostly.”
“Why?”
Cordelia whispered, “Edmund.”
“It is a reasonable question.”
Julian looked at the enormous building.
“I have been asking it myself for years.”
The household had been warned.
Servants waited.
A housekeeper named Mrs. Finch greeted Cordelia without visible judgment, which immediately made Cordelia like her.
Edmund was shown a bright room overlooking gardens.
Cordelia received the room beside his.
Her bedroom had a fireplace.
A real fire.
She stood before it after the servants left.
Heat touched her fingers.
She almost cried.
That angered her.
Warmth should not feel like luxury.
There were people in London who complained when their carriage cushions did not match their coats.
Cordelia had spent last winter sleeping in stockings because Beatrice would not allow fires upstairs.
A knock sounded.
Julian stood outside.
“The library?”
“Now?”
“You wanted employment, not charity.”
That was exactly the right thing to say.
Cordelia followed him.
The Ravensworth library occupied two floors.
Shelves disappeared into shadows.
A gallery circled the upper walls.
Stacks of papers filled three tables.
Cordelia stopped.
“You were serious.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Six weeks?”
“I was optimistic.”
She picked up the nearest bundle.
Letters dated twenty-seven years earlier.
“What am I looking for?”
“Initially, correspondence related to southern boundary holdings.”
“Initially?”
“And anything mentioning Thornwood.”
Cordelia looked at him.
“So this was not merely employment.”
“No.”
“At least you admit it.”
“I said I needed the papers catalogued. I neglected to mention I hoped you might recognize something.”
“That is called withholding information.”
“I have been informed you dislike lying.”
“I dislike manipulation nearly as much.”
He accepted the rebuke.
“What did your aunt mean yesterday?”
“I do not know.”
“Did your father have business with my family?”
“Not that I knew.”
“Your father was Charles Ashworth?”
“Yes.”
Julian looked toward the upper shelves.
“My father mentioned an Ashworth once.”
Cordelia’s heart jumped.
“When?”
“I was young.”
“What did he say?”
Julian frowned.
“That Ashworth had made a mistake by trusting the wrong man.”
“Which man?”
“I cannot remember.”
Cordelia stared at him.
“You remembered that remarkably inconveniently.”
“I was twelve.”
“Try harder.”
He laughed.
She did not.
“All right.”
His expression became serious.
“My father died fourteen years ago. Most of his private correspondence is stored upstairs.”
“Then that is where I begin.”
Cordelia worked until supper.
Edmund visited twice.
The second time he carried biscuits stolen with assistance from a footman who already adored him.
Near seven, Cordelia opened a narrow drawer inside an old writing desk.
It stuck.
She pulled harder.
The drawer came free.
Behind it was a hidden compartment.
Cordelia stared.
Inside lay a packet tied with blue ribbon.
Dust coated everything except one corner.
Someone had touched it recently.
Cordelia lifted the packet.
Across the top envelope was written one name.
Charles Ashworth.
Her father.
She stopped breathing.
Julian had been reading at another table.
“What is it?”
Cordelia held up the letter.
He crossed the room.
The seal bore the Ravensworth crest.
“This is my father’s handwriting,” he said.
Cordelia untied the ribbon.
The first letter had never been sent.
Charles,
If you are reading this, then Vale has learned more than we expected. Do not sign anything Beatrice puts before you until—
The sentence ended where the page had been torn.
Cordelia stared.
“Beatrice?”
Julian read over her shoulder.
“My father knew your aunt.”
Cordelia turned to the remaining letters.
One envelope was empty.
Another contained only half a page.
A third had been cut through with a knife.
Someone had deliberately destroyed the correspondence.
Then Edmund screamed.
Cordelia dropped everything.
She ran.
The sound had come from the corridor.
She found Edmund beside a suit of armor, shaking.
A man stood several feet away.
Not a servant.
Dark coat.
Hat pulled low.
He turned when Cordelia appeared.
Julian shouted from behind her.
“Stop!”
The stranger ran.
He crashed through a side door.
Julian followed.
Cordelia dropped to Edmund.
“What happened?”
“He asked me where you found the letters.”
Her blood turned cold.
“What did you say?”
“I said I did not know.”
“Did he hurt you?”
Edmund shook his head.
“He said if I wanted you safe, I should tell you to stop looking.”
Cordelia pulled him against her.
Julian returned minutes later.
Alone.
“He had a horse waiting.”
“Who was he?”
“I do not know.”
Edmund tugged Cordelia’s sleeve.
“There was something on his hand.”
“What?”
“A ring.”
“What kind?”
“A red stone.”
Julian became very still.
Cordelia saw recognition.
“You know it.”
He did not answer quickly enough.
“Julian.”
It was the first time she had used his name.
Neither noticed.
Finally he said, “Sir Percival Vale wears a ruby signet ring.”
The room seemed suddenly colder.
Cordelia looked toward the library.
Someone had entered Ravensworth House.
Someone knew about the letters.
Someone was frightened by what they contained.
And whoever that person was had now threatened a child.
Cordelia stood.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “we stop cataloguing.”
Julian watched her.
May you like
“What do we do instead?”
“We find out what my father died knowing.”
