Chapter 7: Everything That Was Owed
They sat at the table nearest the window — the one the guests had abandoned in the first rush of shock, glasses still half-full, napkins still folded.
Edmund had sent the remaining staff out.
The chandeliers were still lit.
Nobody had thought to dim them.
Cecily set the satchel on the table between them.
Edmund looked at it.
"How long did it take you to gather all of this?"
"Three years here.
Two years before that." She sat back.
"I wasn't certain I would ever use it.
I thought — for a long time — that perhaps it was enough just to know.
To understand what had happened and why." She paused.
"But then I found the letters."
"When?"
"Eight months ago.
Behind a false panel in the linen room cabinet.
I don't think Isolde knew they were there.
I think the Countess had them moved when she still had access to the house, and then lost track of them when her role changed." She folded her hands on the table.
"When I read them — when I understood what he had written, what he had been asking — I knew I couldn't leave it."
Edmund opened the bundle.
He read the first letter slowly.
His face did not change much, but his breathing did.
"He talks about the garden," he said.
"He always talked about the garden in his letters to me.
When I was at school.
When I traveled." She looked at the window.
"He said he'd planted a new rose along the east wall and he wanted to show me when I came home."
Edmund set the letter down.
He did not pick up the next one.
"The rose is still there," he said.
"I never knew why he planted it."
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
"I need to tell you something," Edmund said.
"About the estate." He looked up.
"When Father died, I was told the inheritance had been distributed according to his final wishes.
The Countess presented the documents.
The solicitor confirmed them.
I was twenty-three and I trusted both of them completely." He stopped.
"If what you have — the physician's statement, the clerk's testimony — if it establishes that the final revision wasn't valid, then the original will stands."
"I know."
"The original will split the estate equally between us."
"I know that too."
He looked at her.
"Is that why you came back?"
The question was direct.
She answered it the same way.
"No," she said.
"I came back because he died thinking I didn't love him.
I came back because you deserved to know the truth.
I came back because nine years is long enough." She met his eyes.
"The estate is yours.
I don't want to take anything from you.
I want what was taken from me — my name, my family, my father's last year.
Those can't be given back.
But they can be acknowledged."
Edmund was quiet for a long moment.
"The solicitor who handled the revision," he said finally.
"His name is Grantham.
He retired two years ago.
I still send him a card at Christmas."
"His former clerk is prepared to testify that the revision session was conducted while Father was sedated.
Grantham was present.
He signed the documents."
"That's fraud."
"Yes."
Edmund stood up.
He walked to the window and stood looking out at the dark garden — the east wall invisible in the night, the rose somewhere out there in the black.
"What do you need from me?" he asked.
"A letter.
Acknowledging that you accept the physician's account.
That you support the legal review." She paused.
"And I need you to tell me — honestly — whether Isolde knew about Grantham."
He turned from the window.
"I don't know," he said.
"I genuinely don't know.
And I think that's the worst part of all of this — I don't know how much she knew and I don't know how much I missed." He came back to the table and sat down.
"I'll write the letter tonight.
Whatever you need from me, you have it."
Cecily nodded.
"There's one more thing," she said.
She reached into the satchel and withdrew the final item — a small envelope, plain, unsealed.
She slid it across the table.
Edmund opened it.
Inside was a single photograph: their father, older than in the ballroom photo, sitting in the garden.
Beside him, an empty chair.
On the arm of the chair, a folded letter.
On the back of the photograph, in their father's handwriting: *Waiting for Cecily.
Summer.*
Edmund put the photograph face-down on the table.
He pressed both hands flat against it.
He didn't speak for a long time.
When he did, his voice was steady, but only just.
"I'm going to fix this," he said.
"All of it.
Whatever it takes."
May you like
"I know," Cecily said.
She reached across the table and covered his hands with hers — just for a moment, just briefly — and that was enough.
