“Father.”
Charles lowered his voice.
“Not here.”
Eleanor looked around.
He was right about one thing.
Not here.
But he had chosen here first.
She looked back at Samuel.
“Do you have the receipts?”
Charles snapped:
“Eleanor.”
“Yes.”
Samuel answered.
“I have six.”
“Letters?”
“Yes.”
Charles stepped between them.
“This ends now.”
Eleanor stared at him.
“No.”
The word surprised everyone.
Including her.
Charles turned.
“What?”
“You brought his father into this in front of everyone.”
“I will not have you silence him now because the answer is inconvenient.”
Charles’s face darkened.
“You know nothing about Elias Mercer.”
“Then explain.”
“Tomorrow.”
“No.”
Eleanor heard herself becoming firmer.
“Tonight.”
Henry touched her arm.
“Eleanor.”
She pulled away.
Not violently.
Enough.
Charles looked toward the crowd.
Every instinct he possessed wanted to regain control.
“Ladies and gentlemen.”
He forced a smile.
“A family misunderstanding.”
Samuel almost laughed.
Charles heard.
“Remove him.”
The house steward, Mr. Pike, approached reluctantly.
Samuel set the champagne tray carefully on a side table.
Not one glass spilled.
He reached inside his black coat and removed a folded piece of paper.
Charles’s expression changed.
Samuel handed it to Eleanor.
“For you.”
Charles moved.
Eleanor took it first.
The paper was old.
Cream-colored.
Creased repeatedly.
Her mother’s handwriting covered one side.
Eleanor knew it before reading a word.
Charlotte Harrow’s handwriting leaned slightly to the right, with unusually tall capital letters.
The letter was dated January 6, 1821.
Eleanor read the first line.
Dear Abigail,
I cannot persuade Charles to restore what Elias paid to redeem, but I can refuse to pretend the debt is imaginary.
Her hands began shaking.
Charles saw.
His face changed from anger to something closer to fear.
“Where did you get that?”
Samuel looked at him.
“My mother.”
“That letter was private.”
“So was her poverty.”
The sentence hit harder than any shouted accusation could have.
Charles stared.
Eleanor continued reading.
The payment I send is not charity. Please do not call it such. It is a poor substitute for an account that should have been settled honestly years ago.
Eleanor stopped.
The ballroom remained silent.
Henry looked toward Charles.
Charles no longer seemed to remember the guests.
Eleanor folded the letter.
“Father.”
His eyes met hers.
“Did Elias Mercer repay you?”
Charles’s jaw tightened.
“This is not a question answered in a ballroom.”
“Then we leave the ballroom.”
He stared.
Eleanor handed the letter back to Samuel.
“Come with us.”
Charles snapped:
“No.”
Eleanor looked at him.
“Why?”