She stared at him.
"I did not think you would remember."
"I remembered everything. I read it every night." His voice shook. "It said, Mama will write. I waited and waited. I thought you had lied."
"Oh, my darling." The tears ran quite freely down the thin cheeks. "I did write. I wrote and wrote. I never once failed."
"I know. I have them. All of them." He drew from his breast pocket the little bundle, tied now with a bit of Clara's ribbon, and laid it on her knee. "They were in a drawer. I have read them. I read them all last night."
Eleanor looked at the letters. Then she looked up at her son's face.
"All of them?"
"All of them. Every one. I know about the boy who used to bring the fish. I know about the cat who had kittens in the coal-hole. I know you were afraid when I joined the army, and proud, and lit a candle. I know you have not been angry." He drew a long breath. "I know that I was loved. All of the time. I was only not told."
And it was then, quite unexpectedly, that Eleanor Ravensdale began to laugh.
It was a wet, broken, helpless laugh, such as comes when a person has held a thing very tightly for so long that, when it is finally taken from her, she does not know what to do with her hands. She laughed and wept at once, with her face in her son's shoulder, and he held her, and Clara, at the little table with the teapot, turned away again to the window and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.
When the light began to go, the cat came and sat on Adrian's knee.
"He likes you," said his mother, drying her eyes. "He does not like anyone. He has bitten the vicar."
"I shall try not to take it personally."
"You must come and stay." She paused, with a sudden shy uncertainty that went to Clara's heart. "That is—if you can. If it is not too far. If Dunmere—"
"Mama," said Adrian. "I have come to take you home."