Chapter 6 - Edward Was Not a Saint
Evelyn did not sleep that night.
Not because she believed Simon entirely.
Because she believed enough.
Marriage was long.
Thirty-nine years contained tenderness, resentment, boredom, loyalty, betrayal of smaller kinds, forgiveness, and moments neither person would want preserved as evidence.
Edward had not been a saint.
Neither had she.
During their twenty-third year, they had nearly separated.
Their son Thomas had died in infancy decades earlier, a grief they handled differently. Years later, business pressure reopened old wounds. Edward worked constantly. Evelyn became emotionally distant. There had been six brutal months when every conversation became accusation.
They recovered.
But perhaps Edward had written something then.
The next morning Evelyn returned to the attic.
She opened the trunk again.
This time she looked beyond Simon’s blue folder.
There were letters tied with ribbon.
Some between Edward and Nora.
Some to Evelyn never sent.
She found one dated twenty-six years earlier.
I do not know how to reach you anymore.
Her chest tightened.
Edward had written:
Everything I say sounds like criticism to you, and everything you say sounds like disappointment to me. Sometimes I imagine leaving Ashcombe simply to discover whether we could miss each other honestly.
Evelyn sat.
There it was.
Not the same letter perhaps.
But proof Simon could weaponize something real.
She continued reading.
Edward blamed her for withdrawing.
She blamed him, in memories, for treating work as refuge.
Neither had been fully wrong.
Then she found another letter dated two months later.
I am sorry I used the word leave as a threat. I wanted you frightened enough to come toward me. That was cruel.
Evelyn’s eyes filled.
A later page:
Marriage should not require one person to be afraid the other will disappear.
She pressed the paper to her chest.
Edward had learned.
Eventually.
That mattered.
And it did not make the earlier cruelty unreal.
At noon Simon finally produced his letter.
He placed a photocopy on the breakfast-room table.
The date matched that terrible year.
Edward had written to Simon’s late father, Martin.
Sometimes I think Evelyn loves Ashcombe more than she loves me. If I left, perhaps she would finally understand a house cannot hold a marriage together.
Simon watched her.
Evelyn read it once.
Then set it down.
“You were right.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“He wrote something painful.”
Simon seemed almost disappointed.
“You’re not going to defend him?”
“No.”
“He wanted to leave.”
“For a time.”
“And yet you built your entire identity around being the great widow of Ashcombe.”
Evelyn looked at him.
“Simon, do you think discovering my husband was angry with me twenty-six years ago changes who owns the east meadow?”
His face tightened.
“No.”
“Then why are we doing this?”
He had no answer.
Evelyn continued.
“You believed hurting my memory of Edward would make me easier to control.”
“That’s not what I—”
“It is exactly what you did.”
She stood.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For reminding me not to turn dead people into saints.”
Simon stared.
Evelyn took the photocopy.
“I’ll keep this.”
“It’s mine.”
“It is a copy of my husband’s letter. Make another.”
She left.
That afternoon, Nora approached her near the greenhouse.
“Simon showed you the letter.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you know?”
“Yes.”
Evelyn stopped.
“For how long?”
“A year.”
Another silence.
Nora’s face crumpled.
“He found a box of Martin’s papers after his mother died. He showed it to me when we were arguing about Dad.”
“And you kept it.”
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“You could have done nothing. Instead you let Simon threaten me with it.”
“I didn’t know he would.”
Evelyn believed that part.
Nora sat on a bench.
“Were you and Dad unhappy?”
“Sometimes.”
Nora looked almost childlike.
“I thought you were perfect together.”
“We were real together.”
“Did he almost leave?”
“Yes.”
Nora stared.
Evelyn sat beside her.
“We hurt each other. We repaired it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because children do not need every adult detail of their parents’ marriage.”
“I’m forty-one.”
“You were fifteen then.”
Nora smiled faintly through tears.
Then Evelyn said, “Your father made another mistake.”
“What?”
“He hid too much from me because he thought protecting me meant managing what I knew.”
Nora looked toward the manor.
“That sounds familiar.”
“Yes.”
They both understood.
Nora had done something similar with Simon.
Not asking.
Not knowing.
Accepting filtered truth because it kept peace.
Evelyn touched her daughter’s hand.
Not forgiveness.
Connection.
For now.
Then Nora whispered:
“Simon told Olivia you were going to throw us out.”
Evelyn stiffened.
“When?”
“Before the dinner.”
The air changed.
Nora continued.
“He kept saying you wanted us gone. That you hated having us here.”
Evelyn remembered Olivia’s words.
Nobody wants you here anyway.
A child repeating the emotional language around her.
“Did you correct him?”
Nora closed her eyes.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I was angry with you too.”
Evelyn removed her hand.
Nora began crying again.
“I didn’t tell Olivia to spit.”
“I know.”
“But I laughed.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know why.”
Evelyn did.
For one second, humiliating her mother had made Nora feel powerful.
Nora finally whispered:
“There’s something worse.”
Evelyn waited.
“Simon scheduled the Whitmore appraiser to come here the morning after that dinner.”
Evelyn went cold.
May you like
“He thought you’d leave for a few days if we upset you enough.”
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