"Which will look lovely with your fair coloring," she'd assured Amelia. "Hugh will be absolutely enchanted with you; I'm so glad you chose white flowers."

All was ready for the morning. Now the great house slept, with numerous guests tucked into their rooms, of which Lindsey House had plenty. Almost a hundred and twenty.

Everyone seemed to be sleeping quite peacefully. Except Amelia, who was panicking.

"It's not a bad card, Amelia, honestly. Now, if it had been the Tower-"

Amelia shot her friend a look, and Penny, sensitive to a fault, instantly stopped talking.

"Is everything all right, Annie?" Thank God she'd remembered the girl's name. An American, Amelia had trouble adjusting to the concept of her own maid. It just wasn't the way things were done across the Atlantic.

"No." The girl took a deep breath, and Amelia could see the effort it cost her to speak out. "No. It-it makes me nervous, miss, the talk of these cards and speaking of the tower."

"Why?" Penny asked, clearly fascinated.

"There's a-history to mis house," Amelia began.

"Centered around the tower?"

Annie hesitated. "Yes, miss."

"You know about this, Amelia?"

"Hugh told me about it."

"Tell me." Penny settled back in her chair, cup of tea in hand. Her expression was interested, but she certainly wasn't the sort of person who took delight in misfortune.

"An earlier descendant of Hugh's… forced to marry a man she didn't love, she-" Amelia hesitated.

"She took her own life, she did," Annie finished for her as she cut another piece of the chocolate sponge for Penny. "Hung herself in the tower room. Couldn't go on."

"Lovely," Penny muttered. "And this is appropriate conversation on the eve of your wedding?"

"I don't look on it that way," Amelia said. When she'd first come to Lindsey House, it had been to authenticate a series of letters. John Lindsey, Hugh's grandfather, had called the museum in London where she'd been working. They'd farmed the assignment out to her; she'd taken the train up and fallen in love with John, the great house, his dogs and horses, the garden, Mrs. Edwards's teas, everything.

Then John had called his grandson home, and Hugh had fallen in love with her. So much so that he'd asked her to marry him. And here she was.

She loved him. That wasn't the problem. It was simply that Amelia didn't have a whole lot of faith in the institution of marriage. "Forever," when your mother had gone through six different husbands, didn't have a whole lot of meaning.

But marriage to Hugh Lindsey would be forever. He was a strong man, and his grandfather had told her the story of how his beloved grandson had brought the family out of destitution through his financial wizardry. Hugh worked in London, and had almost killed himself in order to make the money to keep Lindsey House in the family. Not for him, the practice of taking in boarders, making a bed-and-breakfast out of the estate. He also refused the idea of giving tours or opening a gift shop.

What he'd done was far more difficult. He'd exhausted himself, working at a frantic pace, using his skills to the fullest, taking the last of the Lindsey money and turning it into a small fortune. Enough to bankroll the bigger fortune he still planned to make.

The only thing missing from Lindsey House was a bride for Hugh. A mother for the children whose shouts and laughter would soon fill the halls. The continuation and rebirth of a dynasty.

"Something happened," Amelia said quietly. "No one is entirely sure what. She couldn't go on; he couldn't go on without her. He took his own life two years later."

"It's sort of romantic, in a macabre sort of way," Penny mused. She shuddered. "But it gives me the creeps. Where is this tower room?"

"In the south wing," Annie answered. She'd started to gather up their tea things, and Amelia took a last hasty swallow of the strong tea before setting the fine bone china cup on the tea tray. The maid was clearly uneasy at the turn this particular conversation was taking.

"I'd like to see it before I leave," Penny said.

"That can be arranged."

"You'd better get some sleep, or you'll look like death in the morning-no reference to the card intended."

"I know. Can you find your way back to your room?"

"Easily. I'll see you in the morning."

Amelia retired, but couldn't sleep. Close to midnight, she left her bedroom and headed toward the south wing, and the tower room.

She'd never been afraid of the room, even given its rather grisly history. John had converted it into a small library, where he indulged his passion for tracing the Lindsey family history. He was the archivist, he'd told her when she first arrived. It mattered to him, to know where he came from-and what had happened to all the Lindseys throughout time.

Now, knowing exactly what she wanted to find in the tower room, Amelia sped swiftly along the hallway, her slippered feet making no sound.

Inside the small, circular room, she went to its center, to a massive teak table with a wooden box on the right side. Opening it, she stared at the packet of letters. Letters that had belonged to Jane Stanton, and the man who had loved her, Jonathan Lindsey.

That last letter. She'd read them all, feeling there was one letter missing, the one in which Jane should have explained why she hung herself. Impossible, that she should take her own life, cause so much pain, and not even offer a reason why.

She'd never given Jonathan any explanation, but from the letters he continued to write to her after her death, it was clear he knew. Yet he never alluded to it directly.

The last letter Jonathan wrote, in which he laid bare his soul to the woman he loved, a woman dead two years, was the one that had finally broken her. She'd been moved to tears.

The elderly John Lindsey had watched her reaction as she'd sat with the letters for the first time, and had smiled as she'd looked across the room at him through her tears.

"Quite a man, wasn't he?" he'd said. "Like my Hugh."

She'd nodded, overcome with emotion. Even now, before taking that final letter out of the wooden box, she knew its contents, had read it so many, many times that it was committed to memory. The words had been burned into her soul.

My dearest Poppet,

I find that I cannot go on without you. Though I've never considered myself a weak man, life no longer has any meaning without you to share it with me. I'm tired, and I want to go home. To you. I'd thought I would come home to you each evening, but instead the nights at Lindsey House are not to be borne. You are everywhere, my darling, yet nowhere.

God will forgive me for what I am about to do. It is said He never sends us more than we can bear, but I find I have reached my limit. I want nothing more than to be with you, and the thought of you waiting for me beyond death is the only thing than enables me to even contemplate such an act.

Soon, my darling. Soon.

Your devoted servant, in this life and the next,

Jonathan


What could it be like, to love like that?

Amelia traced her fingers over the fine writing, wondering at the state Jonathan Lindsey had to have been in to even contemplate such an act. According to the family legend, he'd recreated Jane's suicide, hanging himself in the tower room. His manservant had found him and cut him down. The family had mourned for weeks, and that particular Lindsey line had died out.

Hugh had told her more about it, as she'd continued to work with the letters. She'd helped his grandfather preserve some of the older letters, which were crumbling with age. Jonathan and Jane's letters had been remarkably well-preserved in their small wooden box. She'd read them all in one sitting, had recognized Jonathan's passion, Jane's reluctance. Somewhere along the line, she felt the girl had either seen a marriage go bad, or been ill-used. She was not a woman who had planned on going to the marriage bed quietly.

Jane had led Jonathan on a merry chase, but he'd loved her, had tried to show her how deeply countless times. Then there had been an oblique reference to another man; then after Jane's suicide, countless letters Jonathan had written, trying to understand how he might have prevented the tragedy.

She'd read them all, many times. She'd called the museum, telling her superior that there was a lot more material here than they'd first suspected. Three months later, she'd had almost all of it cataloged.

Three months later, she'd been engaged to Hugh.

She'd never gone back to London.

Amelia ran her fingers over the packet of letters, then gently plucked the last one from the box. She closed it, then sat down in John's large leather chair. It smelled like him, leather and sandalwood, dogs and horses. He was a generous old man, and she felt he'd recognized a kindred spirit when she'd gotten off the train in the village.

He'd come to pick her up himself in an ancient, battered old Range Rover. She'd recognized his determination immediately, and been comfortable with it. Here was a man who really did want to get to the bottom of various family documents.

There had been other passengers that day, as well. An ancient Alsatian, a spaniel with only three legs, and a tiny Jack Russell terrier who sat in the front seat with the two of them the entire drive home.

"Arthritis?" she'd guessed, looking at the little dog. Though his dark canine eyes danced with mischief, his movements were stiff and painful.

John had nodded, never taking his eyes off the road. He drove fairly fast for a man his age. "Charlie's having a bad day. The vet says I'll have to be making my mind up about him soon."