Surely that wasn’t the answer, that thought that had slipped into his mind, something so unthinkable that he dismissed it at once. But as he sat reading and rereading the letter from Annette, it returned to weigh in upon him. If his letters, the ones he’d put into the postbag in the hall, had never been sent, that would account for what Annette was saying. But surely, no one at Pilgrim’s Oak would have had any reason to tamper with the postbag. But if they had, who had it been? Once the unwelcome thought had been planted in his mind, it began to take root, and he then took the next logical step. What had happened to the letters that Annette said Hélène had written to him? The servants would have had no knowledge of letters that might come from France. His mother knew nothing about Hélène – Rupert had never mentioned her existence to Amabel – which left his father and Fran. It seemed to him incredible that either of them should have taken such a reprehensible step, but who else was there? They had both been determined that he should marry Kitty, but determined enough to steal his letters? Because that was what it came down to: theft of both incoming and outgoing post. How could they have done such a thing? And how could he accuse them of it? He had no proof and if he were wrong, it was the sort of accusation that could never be repealed or forgiven.

At that moment there was a knock on the study door and he heard Parker’s voice calling through to him, ‘Are you in there, sir? Message from Miss Frances.’

‘I’m coming, Parker,’ he said, and putting Annette’s letter in his desk drawer, he unlocked the door and went out.

‘Message from Miss Frances, sir,’ Parker repeated. ‘Please can you come over to the house at once.’

Rupert didn’t ask him why, simply nodded and hurried over to the main house.

Mitchell was in the hall waiting for him. ‘Miss Frances is in with Sir Philip, Sir Rupert,’ he said; and those words told him all he needed to know. His father had closed his eyes for the last time. He was now Sir Rupert. He went upstairs to his father’s room and found Fran sitting quietly beside the bed. There was a stillness in the room; the hacking cough was silent and the face of the man lying in the bed, eyes closed, was peacefully smooth. Fran turned round as Rupert came in.

‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘One minute he was here, you could hear his breathing across the room, and the next minute, nothing.’ She looked up at Rupert, dry-eyed, and said, ‘It was a merciful end, you know. He never complained, but he was in great pain.’

Rupert nodded. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘I know.’ He crossed to the bedside, and for a moment he rested his hand against his father’s cheek and wished he could have said goodbye properly. Fran was right, of course, Papa had been in pain and now he was free and at peace, but even so, who he had been to each of them would leave an empty space in their lives.