Jessica was eager for a respite after breakfast. She decided it was a good time to start sorting through her mother’s things. A paltry few boxes had finally been delivered from Lansdowne House, battered and crushed as if something heavy had been resting on them. 

Well, considering that her Uncle Martin Meade, Earl of Lansdowne, and Aunt Virginia had been responsible for the transportation of the boxes, that was quite possible if not deliberate. 

Neither Jessica nor her grandmother had felt equal to having what was left of Jessica’s mother’s things displayed in their home. Not yet at least. So, it was decided that Jessica would sort through the things as and when she felt up to it, and the boxes had been stored in the attic in the meantime. Jessica had decided that now was the time to get started on what promised to be an upsetting task, as they would soon be leaving Templeton to stay at Lady Wycke’s London townhouse for the Season. 

That was, if Jessica decided to go, of course. She might claim her grief was still too raw to face any socialising that year and demur. 

But would that be wise? If she was eventually able to apply for guardianship of her little brother and sister, Uncle Martin—if he chose to contest her application—might point to her missing the Season as evidence she was too distraught to care for her siblings properly, or even that she was not in her right mind. 

Besides, she would need to marry if she ever intended to see Jon and Maria again. Her dearest aunt and uncle were certainly not willing to let her see them otherwise. 

She climbed the stairs into the attic and paused. There were far too many boxes to belong just to her mother. She bent to look at the name scrawled on the side of one box and drew in a breath. 

1804, Property of Robert Bourne

These were her father’s boxes. 1804 was the year before he’d gone away to sea and disappeared from their lives forever. No doubt, his body lay at the bottom of the sea somewhere, lost forever. Jessica hesitated for only a moment. She opened up the box, coughing at the cloud of dust that rose up from the lid. She imagined her grandmother had ordered the boxes brought up to the attic sometime after her son had not returned. Likely, they had not been touched since. 

Jessica wasn’t quite sure what she expected to find in the box. Some old clothes, perhaps a few souvenirs and keepsakes. To her surprise, however, she opened the box to a collection of dusty, old-fashioned toys. 

There were cunningly carved little wooden soldiers, wooden farm animals, and a large, dusty bear. 

Jessica remembered the bear. A three-year-old child couldn’t really carry many memories, but she certainly remembered the coarse black fur and the bear’s blue glass eyes. The memory was so intense that Jessica closed the box with a shudder. She would return to it later. 

For now, Jessica turned back to the miserable collection of her mother’s possessions. 

The fact that there were only a few boxes was bad enough. Her mother had been a lady with a large home of her own and three children. Yet her life had been reduced to a few possessions that the wretched Lady Virginia did not want and were apparently not worth anything. 

Jessica opened the first box, and began to sort through the contents, which had clearly been tossed in with complete disregard. One box held clothing, old gowns, nightdresses, linens, even a few pairs of shoes, all crumpled together and pushed down, to make sure the box would close over the material. She imagined Lady Virginia had helped herself to her mother’s nicer clothes. Jessica didn’t even recognise these garments. 

They were no good to Jessica, in any case. She was taller than her mother, with a small bust that would be swamped by gowns designed for the late countess. The shoes were too small too. She could always cut up the material to make something else, but Jessica had no need for more clothes. 

At least, her uncle and aunt had not stooped so low as to rifle through Jessica’s things before throwing her out of her old home. Jessica packed the old clothes back into the box as neatly as possible and carefully closed the lid. She moved onto the next box. 

It rattled a little, and she opened it to find it contained a few items of jewellery—the paste jewellery Jessica and her siblings had bought as presents for their mother as children. Lady Virginia had naturally kept all the valuable items, including the real jewels Jessica had bought for her mother over the past few years. There were a few well-thumbed books, the late countess’s favourite novels, and her journals. There was a dressing set, a mirror, hairbrush, and a few other silver-backed items. They weren’t particularly valuable, and Jessica remembered that Lady Virginia had her own expensive, gold-plated dressing set. 

She took the dressing set out of the box. She would keep it for herself. 

At the very bottom of the box was a pile of letters. They had clearly once been tied with a green ribbon, but the ribbon had been untied and tossed carelessly into the box. 

The letters were all open, and Jessica just knew that her awful uncle and aunt had read them. Some of them, at least. 

She gathered them together, ribbon and all, and set them aside to read later. That was the last of the boxes. 

That was the last of her mother’s things. Or, at least, the things Lady Virginia and Lord Martin had chosen to relinquish. Jessica had to choke back a sob as she pushed the last box away. Another of her father’s old boxes caught her eye, and Jessica opened it, more out of curiosity than from expectation of finding anything to console her. 

It was mostly full of books, decayed and faded with time. But shoved down one side was a pile of letters, tied in a white ribbon which had long since faded to a dirty yellow colour. 

Frowning, Jessica took out the letters. She untied the ribbon, taking out one letter. It was written in her mother’s hand, and with a jolt, Jessica realised they were old letters from Lady Caroline to Lord Robert Meade. From her mother to her father.

She scrambled for the other letters she’d found before, the ones from her mother’s box. She already knew what to expect. 

The handwriting on those letters was not familiar, but every letter began with the words, My dearest Caroline and ended with Your devoted Robert. 

They were love letters between her parents! Caroline had kept them for over fifteen years, and Jessica wondered whether she had kept them hidden from her second husband, Jon and Maria’s father. 

He had been a good man, of course, and Jessica was sure her mother had loved him dearly. But there hadn’t exactly been the spark of true passion one might expect to see in a happily married couple. Jessica had only noticed that as she grew older, and she felt only sadness as she came to understand that her adored, jovial stepfather wasn’t the love of her mother’s life. 

Jessica wrestled with her conscience only for a few minutes before deciding to read the letters. Neither of her parents were alive, so what was the harm? 

She opened one of the letters her mother had written first. It seemed well-thumbed, the pages dog-eared and tattered, the ink faded, as if Robert Meade had read the letter over and over again. 

My dear Robert, 

I cannot find interest or energy in anything now that you are gone. I cannot help but feel jealous of Templeton House—I’m sure it is a beautiful place, but to know that you are there and not here is too much for me. 

Mama complains that I spend too much time reading and rereading the letters you have written to me. She claims that a lady should never write to a gentleman and, if she must, the letter ought to be short, polite, and without emotion. 

You’ll forgive me if I don’t take my cues from my dear Mama, who doubtless has not experienced love in her life. She says that love grows after marriage, and a respectable lady ought to want for nothing more. 

I cannot agree. 

I love you, Robert. I have said it before, and I will write it here. I can imagine you saying it to me, too—or rather, I don’t need to imagine it. I can draw on my own memories. 

Mama insists that I wait until summer is over before I give you my answer and our engagement is announced. She was surprised at how easily I agreed, but the truth of it is, my feelings will not change. Not now, not ever. 

All my love, 

Your Caroline 

P.S Thank you for sending me the exquisite watercolour painting. I cannot wait to visit you at Templeton and see all these beautiful scenes you have drawn and painted for me. This one, however, is my favourite. I shall frame it and keep it with me always. When we live together as husband and wife, I shall hang it on the wall in our parlour and we can admire it together.

Jessica bit her lip after reading the short letter. There was no sign of the watercolour painting, but she remembered a small framed picture that had always hung in Lady Caroline’s favourite little parlour. She had never paid much attention to the picture, which was of wildflowers in a field, very pretty, but with no initials on the bottom to identify the artist. Was that the painting referred to here? It was clearly one that her wretched uncle and aunt had decided to keep.

Most of the other letters were much longer and neatly dated at the top. This one had been written about a year before her parent’s marriage. The writing was a little cramped, and it seemed as if Lady Caroline had written it quickly and not as carefully or beautifully as the other letters. 

On impulse, she rifled through the letters written by her father. His handwriting was unfamiliar to her, as if the letters had been written by a stranger. 

Well, after all, they had. 

My darling Caroline, 

Templeton is so very dull without you. I miss you every day, but I have used the time to plan our future together. My mother sometimes joins in my plans, but I don’t think you would want to live in the same home as dear Mother! I have not, of course, broken this news to Mother. 

I am writing faithfully to your parents, although I rarely receive more than a terse, unfriendly note in reply. I know they do not like me, but I will convince them I am worthy of you. For your sake and my own. 

I finished the book you sent me with your last letter in less than a week, my responsibilities on the estate notwithstanding. I was enraptured! I sat up late into the night every night, telling myself I would read one chapter more, just one page more, then another, then another . . .

Needless to say, I enjoyed it very much. I am sending your copy back with this letter, along with a little postscript to you in the flyleaf. Oh, and there is a new little sketch for you to see inside the book, too. I have experimented in a new style—let me know what you think! 

I love you so dearly, Caroline, and the rest of summer will last forever without you by my side. I long for us to be married and to embark on our lives together. I feel that only then will my life truly begin.

With all my love, 

Your adoring Robert

Jessica read letter after letter, not caring that the only people who had ever set eyes on them before were the intended recipients. She read through months and months of love letters, each sentence burning with love and hope. The letters didn’t stop after Robert and Caroline were married either. There were letters exchanged when Robert and Caroline were separated. 

Very few of the paintings had survived, but Jessica did find one. 

It was a self-portrait of Robert Bourne, the late Earl of Templeton, and Jessica looked at it for a long time. 

She knew she didn’t resemble the late countess in the slightest. Their figures, faces, and colouring had all been very different. Jessica’s mother had rich, olive skin that deepened to a toasted nut colour after a hint of sunshine, with brassy gold hair, and large brown eyes. To see her and her daughter together—well, one would never have guessed they were related. 

Jessica had auburn hair that shone like fire when the sun caught it. Her skin was far too pale for her liking, and she’d endured many terrible sunburns in her life. She had almond-shaped green eyes, properly green, not hazel or bluish green. Looking at the painting, Jessica realised something she had always known deep down—she looked exactly like her father. 

A serious-looking, red-haired gentleman looked up at her out of the painting, his eyes the same true green as hers. He had the same long, straight nose as Jessica, the same pointed chin, the same shaped eyes, and well-shaped, firmly set mouth.

This was her father. Robert Bourne, her real father, whose name she carried around with her own. 

The last letter Jessica read was written by her father to her mother in December of 1803. 

I would have been a baby, Jessica realised. The letter quickly revealed that Robert Bourne was away on business, but his letter was just as full of love as the earlier ones were. There was a postscript too: 

P.S I have scarcely had time to draw breath since I arrived, but I have taken a few minutes to make a quick sketch of a bird which landed on my windowsill. It’s hardly one of my best works, but it is a robin—one of your favourite birds. I hope you like it. 

He was still drawing and painting for Caroline. Jessica felt a tear roll down her cheek and realised her face was wet, yet she didn’t recall when the tears had begun to fall. 

Years and years of outpourings of love and devotion had all resulted in a stack of paper and ink. Both writers were dead, their love story ended in tragedy and death. 

She was all that was left of their love. 

Jessica angrily dashed the tears away. She had cried enough for her mother and knew Lady Caroline would not want her to mourn forever. 

She couldn’t say what her father would want. She had never known the man. 

Yet there were parts of him everywhere, scattered around the attic, remnants of an abandoned life. 

Jessica would never know him, but . . . but perhaps she could retain a sliver of his life. She felt the same love he had felt for Caroline. It was almost as if their ghosts had thrown their old letters her way in a remarkable coincidence. Perhaps they were trying to tell her something. 

Well, if the letters were some sort of message from beyond the grave, Jessica would be a fool not to listen. 

The letters proved that true love wasn’t merely something made up by writers to sell romance novels. It was real and it could be found. It occurred to her that Caroline had met Robert Bourne at a Society ball; she said so in one of her earliest letters to him. 

If a love like theirs could truly be found, then Jessica wanted it too. She wanted it badly. Whether she would be successful or not in finding it was a different matter altogether. But one thing was certain—she would not find love sitting in this dusty attic. 

The best place to start was, Jessica sighed to herself, the London Season. 

Lady Wycke looked up in surprise as Jessica came sidling into the drawing room. 

“Goodness, there are you. How long does it take to . . . why, Jess, you are covered in dust!”

Jessica flushed. “I found some letters. Some letters between Mother and Father. My real father, that is.” She held out the stack of letters, the ribbons neatly retied. “I read them. I don’t know if I ought to have, but I did. Do you want to read them?”

Lady Wycke stared at the letters for a long time. A flash of pain crossed her face. “No,” she answered finally. “No, thank you.”

“I’ve come to a decision about London. If the offer still stands, Grandmother, I would like to go.”

The dowager blinked, clearly surprised, before she quickly smoothed the expression from her face. 

“Well. That’s . . . that’s good news, Jessica. I do think you are making the right decision.”

“Yes, so do I.”