Her mother had been so ill these last two years, spending most of her days lying unseeing and uncaring on her day bed. Her nights she spent in a laudanum induced sleep. How would the man, hard enough to have rejected his only daughter for marrying against his wishes, react to her changed condition?
They couldn't go to Westerham until her mother was more herself. She determined to persuade her mother to try and return to the real world; Emily continued her journey upstairs, the light of battle in her amazing hazel eyes.
Edwards, Lady Althea's dresser, had succeeded in rousing her. “Come along now, my lady, up you get. There's a letter here for you. It's a long time since we had a letter isn't it?” Edward's mention of the letter had been the key.
“What is that, Edwards? A letter did you say? Hand it to me, please.” Lady Althea Gibson pushed her stringy hair back from her pale forehead, quite unconcerned about her appearance. In her youth she had been in the forefront of fashion but nowadays she scarcely noticed what she wore or how she looked. She just did not have the energy to cope with life without her beloved Peter. But a letter? Now that was worth waking up for. That her daughters were lost without her had long ago ceased to be a concern.
She was ineffectually struggling to pick of the impressive blob of sealing wax when something about its shape and imprint caused her to pause. “It is from Papa! Edwards, this is from my Papa.”