lose the chance to speak to you than silence you again." Lydia studied his face for evidence that he was merely saying what she wanted to hear. She saw a man who looked exhausted, who had the same dark eyes she remembered and none of the effortless assurance with which he had once discussed the future. At last she took the paper. Its contents were written in the deliberate hand of the late Judge Ashford. The first lines made her blood turn cold.
I knew Bellamy had not signed the transfer. I knew it before the meeting was called. Silas showed me the account and said the society would collapse if the truth were revealed. He claimed to be protecting the widows. I was protecting my own investment, and I let an innocent man bear the disgrace.
Lydia read the confession twice. Her hands trembled so badly that the paper crackled between her fingers. Beneath the signed statement were the dates of three bank transfers, each made from the society's funds into an account belonging to Wetherell's shipping company. The numbers were exact. The handwriting was unmistakable. "Your father knew," she whispered. Nathaniel nodded. "He knew, and so did I, before the end. I saw him destroy a letter your father sent to our house. I was young enough to call obedience a duty and old enough to know it was cowardice. I cannot make that right by standing beside you tonight. I know that." Lydia folded the paper slowly. Her anger had not diminished, but it now had a shape and a history.
"Why did you leave?" she asked. "My father sent me to Boston," Nathaniel said. "I wrote to you. When you did not answer, I thought you wanted no more of me. After his death I learned his secretary had intercepted the letters." Lydia remembered months spent listening for footsteps on the front path. "You could have come back," she said. "Yes. I was ashamed of what I had permitted, and I made shame into another excuse." She believed his regret was real. That did not mean it could give back what his silence had stolen.
"There is one more thing," Nathaniel said. "Mr. Alder wishes to see you." Lydia looked back toward the musicians. Benjamin Alder had once taught her father to play, long before he conducted the small orchestra hired for society assemblies. Lydia remembered