He heard his own voice say it, and did not recognise it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miss Penhallow, who had come in behind him and stood just inside the door, turn her head sharply to look at him.
"My father," he said, "would have paid you five hundred, and thanked you for your discretion, and put her on the ship himself. I know that because he very nearly did it once before." He looked at Imogen. "In 1811. When you wrote from Carlisle. He'd have sent you to Jamaica, to Mama's cousins. He had the passage booked."
Imogen's face did not change. But her hands, folded at her waist, tightened on each other.
"Is that so?" she said.
"Yes."
"And you sent my letter back."
"Yes," he said. "I did."
The cat on the pianoforte lifted its head, looked at them all, and put it down again.
Saltash laughed softly.
"Well," he said. "There you are. Your own brother. I think, Imogen, you'll find you've very few friends in this room." He picked up the pen again, dipped it, and held it out to her across the table, feather first, as a gentleman offers a lady a flower. "Sign. And let us all go home."
Imogen looked at the pen.
Then she reached out — not for the pen, but for the paper. She picked it up and held it to the light from the window and read it through, slowly, from beginning to end, her lips moving very slightly as she did. It was a full page, closely written, in a strong, flowing, slanted hand, with all its long *s*'s carefully looped and the capitals flourished.