Page 25 of Cruel Hearts

“There are hundreds of rooms in the castle. It’s too expensive.” She raised a shoulder. “Anyway, Mrs. Campbell asked me to bring your school bag and laptop. Was there anything else you wanted from your room?”

I shook my head, thanked her, and spent the rest of the morning setting up my new bedroom into a study-sewing space. Bringing Elizabeth down was going to be difficult, especially with wankers like Kendrick who acted like he was irresistible. I sent Gideon an email, asking him to visit after classes. He might be able to give me some insights into the knights—my next target after I’d dealt with Elizabeth.

My room was next to Mr. Burgh’s, which was even larger than mine and decked out in mahogany, brown leather, and varying shades of gray. And on its other side was a lemonade-pink room with a hand-made quilt and identical teddy bears with tartan bowties on the bed.

“Mother,” I whispered.

I turned around in a circle, taking in the framed photos on the walls. There were school portraits, holiday snaps, and posed photos of Mother with her friends—all of which depicted a full and happy life.

My brows furrowed. How could someone who seemed to have had everything end up in prison and married to Billy Hancock?

In the corner of the room stood the type of antique writing bureau I’d seen ladies use to write correspondence in period dramas. I pulled down the worktop, revealing an interior of shelves laden with heavy stock writing paper, fountain pens, and cartridges.

“Posh.” I pushed it back into place and opened a drawer to find letters stacked in piles and wrapped in ribbons.

A quick glance through each pile told me they were from girlfriends and a few from international pen-pals, but it still struck me as odd. Mother was my age at the turn of the millennium, which was hardly the stone age. She could have used Hotmail, Yahoo mail, or even AOL mail. Why in the holy highlands did she need to write letters?

The irregular, jagged writing of one stack caught my eye. Its first letter said,

2 January 2001

Dearest Abigail,

Happy new year! I have not stopped thinking about you since the Christmas ball.

Your father has given his permission for us to marry next year—subject to your consent. What do you think of a white wedding at the chapel? Bishop Liddell will conduct the service, I’m sure.

We must control our passions on the Easter trip to Andorra. The next time we make love, it will be in our marital bed and not on the ski slopes!

Your ever-loving admirer,

Thomas

My throat dried, and I glanced at the date of the letter. Six months before I was conceived. This could be my father, but who the hell was this Thomas person?

11 January 2001

Abigail,

If you persist in slandering me, I will have no other recourse but to call a solicitor. Believe me, I have allies that will ruin both you and your family for spreading lies.

You clearly consented to intimacy at the Christmas ball. If the experience was a disappointment, then I apologize. However, I would advise you to refrain from making unfounded accusations as they have long-reaching repercussions.

Sincerely,

Thomas Neapolitan

My mouth dropped open, and tears stung the back of my eyes. Poor Mother. It looked like Father Neapolitan was both deranged and a rapist. I turned over the letter to see if he had written anything else, but it was blank.

I moved that letter to the bottom of the pile and scanned the next few. They contained mostly drivel about him having friends in high places, being of noble birth, and aspersions on Mother’s sanity. The usual dross unfeeling bastards spouted to hide their guilt.

One missive made me furrow my brow.

17 May 2001

Miss Burgh,

Pursuant to your deplorable conduct with that thug from London, I have no choice but to withdraw my proposal of marriage.