Clara considered. It was an odd question, but it was the first one in six years that anyone had asked her about the one thing she was good at, and she found, to her surprise, that she wanted to answer it well.
"The weight, my lady, and the fold. A letter folded by a person who is in a hurry is folded crooked. The paper, whether it is good or poor, whether it has been wetted and dried. The seal, whether it is pressed firmly or pressed in fear. And the postmark, if it has one. A postmark is a very honest thing. It cannot say where a person meant to be, only where they actually were."
The old woman was silent for a moment. A clock struck the quarter, and a second one, slightly late, struck it again.
"Yes," said Lady Dunmere softly. "I thought so."
"My lady?"
"Nothing. An old woman's fancy." She released the hand. "My son died in January. The late Viscount. He left twenty years of papers in the old study, and I wish them sorted. Every letter, every bill, every scrap. I do not wish anything thrown away. I wish it all read, and catalogued, and put in order, and I wish it done by someone who will look at things properly. Do you understand me?"
"I think so, my lady."
"You are not to leave any drawer unopened. Not any. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly."
"And my grandson." The thin voice slowed. "You will meet him, I daresay, though he does not much care for company. He came home from Belgium in the winter, and he has not been easy to know. If he is short with you, you are to remember that he has been through a great deal, and that he is a better man than he lets anyone see."
"I shall remember, my lady."
"Good." The Dowager turned her blind face toward the window. "Mrs. Grice will show you the study. You may go."
It was not until she was halfway down the corridor, following the housekeeper's grey back, that it occurred to Clara that the Dowager had said twenty years, and that no one had told her how long the late Viscount had been writing letters.
The study was at the back of the house, on the ground floor, in a corner where the sun came in the afternoon and went away again as if offended. It was a long room lined with books and cabinets and pigeonholes, and over every flat surface there lay a drift of paper, like snow that had never been allowed to melt. There were bundles tied with tape and bundles tied with string, ledgers and receipts, invitations dating back to the Peace of Amiens, and a great black desk with a hundred drawers, each with its own small brass handle, each with a small brass lock.
"The keys are on the ring in the top drawer," said Mrs. Grice. "Mr. Pell has the other set. He is the steward. He will want to see what you do."
"I shall be happy to show him."