She recognized the handwriting immediately. It belonged to Lady Margaret, whose careful notes appeared in the little geography lessons Thomas kept beside his bed. On the leaf, in faded brown ink, Margaret had written: If Mr. Fenwick asks for the bridge papers, tell Adrian to examine the cabinet himself. The accounts copied for him are not the accounts I saw. Beneath the words was the beginning of another sentence, torn away before its meaning could be completed.
Eleanor read the fragment twice, her fingers going cold despite the fire. She had not been looking for confidential letters, yet the warning named the same steward, the same bridge, and the same discrepancy her father had died unable to explain. She carefully placed the leaf inside the volume and went to return it to its place. That was when Adrian entered the library and saw her standing with the book open.
Now, standing face to face with him in that same room, Eleanor could think of no way to protect the boy without making herself appear more guilty. She held out the book and the loose sheet, but Adrian stared first at Thomas, who remained in the doorway with his wooden horse. The boy's small hand was still raised toward the cabinet. There was fear in his eyes, certainly, but beneath it Eleanor saw the stubborn resolve of someone who had carried a burden longer than he should have been asked to bear.
“What did you say, Thomas?” Adrian asked, his voice suddenly different.
Thomas lowered his hand. For a moment it seemed he would retreat into silence, and Eleanor wondered whether her presence had made the matter worse. Then he crossed the room, stood beside the lowest drawer, and tapped the brass handle three times. Adrian looked from the child to the handwritten page Eleanor offered him. He read it without speaking, then read it again with his jaw clenched.
“My sister wrote this,” he said at last.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Why would she warn me about Fenwick?”
“I do not know. But I believe Thomas has been trying to tell us something for weeks.”
Adrian knelt until his eyes were level with his nephew's. “Do you know what is inside, Thomas?”
The boy nodded. He reached toward his uncle's waistcoat pocket, where the household keys hung on a small chain, and held up one finger. Adrian tried the only little key he carried, but it did not fit. Thomas shook his head and pointed toward the globe. When Adrian lifted its lid, they discovered a narrow compartment meant for storing the maker's papers. A small iron key lay inside, wrapped in a strip of blue silk that Eleanor recognized from one of Lady Margaret's dresses.
The key turned stiffly in the bottom drawer. Inside lay old receipts, a packet of household inventories, and a shallow wooden tray covered with dust. Nothing looked remarkable until Thomas pulled the tray forward and touched a notch beneath its rear edge. Adrian lifted it, revealing a false bottom and an oilcloth packet bound in faded green ribbon. Beside it was a letter addressed in Margaret's handwriting: To Adrian, if I am unable to explain.