Soon she stood in their room again, staring at the confounding thing. ’Twas not some complicated device, merely a wooden box. Why did it refuse to give up its secrets? Nothing but strips of wood, metal fastenings, and the brocade lining meant to protect her…
“Ah!” She fell to her knees and jabbed a thumbnail under one of the tacks holding the lining in place, then another and another until the bottom section was free. Lifting it out, a smile touched her lips at the circular hole it revealed, just large enough to fit a fingertip in. Which was all she needed to do to tug up on the plank of wood and remove it too.
Almost afraid to look inside lest she find nothing but empty space, Gwyneth paused, closed her eyes, and drew in a long breath. And then she prayed, yet again, that the Lord would help them find the truth they so desperately needed.
When she opened her eyes and looked down, her breath caught. Not empty. And not, as she had feared too, filled with nothing but more coin. To be sure, there was a bag that matched the ones Mrs. Wesley had thrust into her hands that terrible day at the end of June, but her attention was snagged by the unfolded paper resting on the top of other, bound stacks.
Her hand shook as she reached for it, tears blurring her vision at that elegant, quick hand she knew so well. She had to blink and blink again before the ink stopped waving through her tears.
My Dearest Gwyn,
I haven’t much time, but I had to leave you with something, some quick note. One just to say that I love you so very much. That your mother and I prayed so long and so hard for a child, and that you were our all, our everything, the perfect answer to that yearning of our hearts. That without her you are my whole world. All that matters. No doubt you are reading this and wondering why it sounds like such a final goodbye. Perhaps, my dear one, because I fear it is so. I fear the evil away from which I am sending you will catch up with me before I can join you. And if it happens that way, so much will be called into question. But please, I beg you, trust me. Trust my loyalty, my heart, and most of all my devotion to our family. Trust that all I have done is for you, and for the future you deserve to have.
Forever your
Papa
Gwyneth swiped at her eyes, but new tears took the place of that which she wiped away. Fumbling for her handkerchief, she shook her head. Dear Papa. He had known her uncle would kill him. And she had stood there that last morning with him wondering if he had gone mad, questioning his decisions and insisting that anything that took her away from him could not be right.
She drew in a shaky breath and looked down at the letter again, her gaze falling now on the postscript at the bottom.
P.S. Please see that the two packets marked T.L. are delivered directly into the hands of Thaddeus Lane or, if he is unreachable, his parents. The one marked G.F. is for you.
She set the single page down and picked up the packet with her initials. Fingering the twine, she stared at that sheet of paper with nothing but G.F. upon it. Gwyneth Fairchild. A name she had scarcely used since coming here, but for in this house. Not for shame of him, but to protect her and his memory from whatever evil pursued them. A name she no longer even carried. Could Papa have anticipated when he scratched out that F that it would someday be an L? That she would be, by the time she read it, Gwyneth Lane?
Sniffling, she pulled loose the bow and removed the twine, setting it and the cover sheet aside. And then she frowned. The first piece of paper was no letter, no document, just a drawing she had done two years ago while he was still in France, right after Mama had fallen ill. She had asked Gwyneth to draw her something whimsical, a scene viewed through a keyhole. But the scene had been cut out and lay there separately, leaving only the drawing of the wood grain and lock intact.
Her brows pulled together. Why would Mama cut it out so? Carefully, yes, but still. Had she been planning some clever way of displaying it? No—she had sent it to Papa, Gwyneth remembered now. That was why she had asked for it. For it to be a reminder to him that if he peeked ahead, he would see a view of something other than the war in Europe, one with children dancing in gardens and Mama sitting there watching.
She flipped it over and saw that Papa had written a date upon the back, along with a second one, two weeks after the first. Odd.
The rest of the stack was equally baffling. Letters to Mama he had written over the years, but none from her to him—wouldn’t those have been the ones he kept? More of Gwyneth’s drawings, most of them intact but a few others with sections cut out and dates upon the back. A copy of his will, which she hadn’t the heart or clarity of mind to read through right then.