“No, I won’t be tricked again.”

“This isn’t a trick. Let me show you some things I found. Some things I’m not sure I understand. But very .. . worrying. And the reasons why I’m still here. You may be able to explain them away. It would be better for all of us, if you could.”

She shook her head, then raised it and looked hard at him. “If I do, will you go away? Back to London and let it be?” “That depends,” he said, “on the truth.”

They drove to the Hall, taking the long way around and leaving the car in front of the steps while he led her out to the headland to see the burned stretch of land. The rain had made the grass grow again, and the patch was nearly covered now. But she could still make it out. Barely.

Frowning, she said, “Are you telling me that Stephen burned Olivia’s papers here? But why?”

He took an envelope from his pocket and shook the small objects it contained into the palm of his hand. A bit of ribbon, the silver edge of something, the length of leather.

She touched them gently. “My first thought would be love letters, seeing that ribbon. Was it blue, do you think? A woman would choose blue. Olivia liked green, but not that pale shade. It isn’t the sort of ribbon you see on a woman’s clothing, is it? Or the hair. But a nightgown? Or a very young child’s gown? Love letters would be more likely. Olivia’s, I’d say.” She smiled wryly at him to hide the hurt. “I can’t imagine Nicholas being sentimental enough to keep all my letters bound in ribbon!”

The corner of silver puzzled her for a time, then suddenly she laughed. “Of course! One Christmas, Rosamund gave us all matching frames for photographs. Leather and silver, for traveling. She said we might choose our own photographs, and I had one of Rosamund and Nicholas I put in mine.”

“What did Nicholas and Olivia keep in theirs?”

“Nicholas wanted one of his parents. It was in his bedroom, for a time. I don’t know what Olivia chose, but she said she wouldn’t be traveling much, and might like one of George in India, because he’d done her traveling for her. I remember Rosamund hugging her, pain in her face.”

“And the leather?”

“Well, Olivia kept a leather notebook by her bed. There was a strap that closed it, and a small lock. I thought it was a journal. But she said no, it was for thoughts in the night. I didn’t understand what she meant, until I discovered she was a poet.” She picked it up, turning it in her fingers. “How sad that she burned it. If that’s what it was.”

“She? Do you think Olivia did this?”