Maggie was almost ready for bed when he came to her. He found her sitting by the fire in her own room, looking at the wedding picture of herself and Roderigo that she’d brought from England. It struck him suddenly how often she gazed at that picture when she thought he didn’t know.
She looked up quickly as he neared and showed him the picture. ‘I was thinking it was time I got rid of it.’
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Wait until you see this.’
‘What is it?’ she asked, disturbed by his grave face.
‘I’ve brought you something. Jose gave it to Catalina tonight, to give to you. It’s a letter from Roderigo.’
‘A letter-for me?’ It seemed to him that she paled.
‘He must have written it in prison just before he died and entrusted it to Jose. He’s kept it all this time, waiting for the right moment.’
He held it out to her. Maggie took it with shaking hands, and glanced briefly at the scorch-marks on the envelope before tearing it open. Slowly she slid the letter out, opened it, and lay it flat on her lap. But she didn’t read it. Then she said something strange.
‘I wasn’t a good wife. I was too young, and I knew nothing. If I’d been older I might have coped better with Roderigo, maybe helped him.’
He wanted to shout, ‘Don’t make excuses for him.’ But it was too late. His heart was heavy as he realised that she’d guessed the contents of the letter, even as he had, and was preparing herself. He had given her the thing that would destroy them.
‘Shall I leave you to read it alone?’ he asked.
She didn’t answer and he doubted she’d even heard. A stillness had come over her, like the stillness of death. She stared at the paper in her hands but he couldn’t tell if she saw it. At last she lifted it and read what was written. Then she read it again, and as she did so her head sank lower until she covered her eyes with her hand.
A cold fear gripped him. He felt he ought to leave her but he couldn’t have gone away if his life had depended on it.
‘Margarita,’ he whispered. He stepped closer and put his hands on her shoulders, dropping to his knees beside her. ‘Tell me, my dearest,’ he said.
She raised her head and stared into the distance. ‘I always knew,’ she said quietly. ‘In my heart, I always knew. I wish Jose had shown me this before. I know he thought he was acting for the best-but if I’d only read this sooner-’
‘Would it have made so much difference?’ Sebastian asked sadly.
‘Oh, yes-all the difference in the world. You can think you know what’s in a man’s heart, but when you see it set down in black and white, in his own words-’ She sighed, and his pain deepened.
‘And do you now know what was in his heart?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Margarita, don’t be sad,’ he begged. ‘I know it’s hard to read his words of love when it’s too late, but what you had can never be taken away. Cling to that. Love him if you must. One day, perhaps, you’ll turn to me completely, but until then I can be content with what we have. You are worth waiting for.’
At last she raised her head and looked at him. ‘What do you think this letter says?’ she asked.
‘I think it tells you of his love. That hurts you now, but one day it will bring you peace.’
Maggie pushed the letter towards him. ‘Read it,’ she said.
‘Are you sure-?’
‘Quite sure. I want you to read this, Sebastian, because if you don’t, you and I will never understand each other.’
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he took the letter and ran his eyes over it. The first shock came at once. ‘It’s dated eight years ago-before you were married.’
‘He didn’t write it to me,’ Maggie said. ‘He wrote it to Jose, from England, soon after we met. Read it.’
Sebastian began to read.
Hey there, little cousin,
I did it! I found myself a real heiress. Her name’s Maggie, she’s eighteen, pretty enough in an English sort of way, which means she’s a bit insipid for my taste. But she’s loaded so I’ll just have to put up with her looks. Her parents just died, leaving her a couple of hefty insurance policies, plus a house. You should see that house! It almost makes me want to stay here and live in it, but I guess my creditors would prefer it sold.
You never thought I could manage it, did you? Or maybe you just hoped I couldn’t. Get real, boy! When I was your age I put women on pedestals, too, but believe me, that’s not where they belong. A man needs money, especially a man like me.
She’s young and she adores me. I can mould her, and I’ll be a good husband as long as she behaves herself. Besides, everyone knows women can’t manage money. I’ll be doing her a favour.
I’ve written to the most awkward of my creditors telling them money’s on its way. That should stall them for a while, and with any luck I’ll be back in a few weeks with a new wife and enough to set me up in style.
Life’s going to be good. As for ‘tying myself down’-who’s going to? There are plenty of hot, spicy women who like having fun with a man as rich as I’m going to be. I’ll live my own life, and my wife will do as she’s told.
There was more, but Sebastian was too disgusted to read on. The whole man was there-selfish, faithless, treacherous, convinced of his own superiority, his divine right over the woman.
And there was something more, something he was ashamed to admit. There were words in that letter that could have been written by himself.
But that had been a long time ago, in another life, before he’d learned the value of a woman’s heart.
Half-afraid, he looked at Maggie. She was staring into space.
‘He never loved me at all,’ she said quietly. ‘I realised very soon that my money was a big attraction for him, but I made myself believe that there was some real love there too. But there was none. Some part of me must have suspected that, but I wouldn’t
‘After he died in that terrible way, I shut out the bad and magnified the good. And, when his name was cleared, I felt so guilty that I made myself forget the truth about him.’
‘The truth,’ Sebastian said, ‘was that he was a very nasty piece of work, who brought his troubles on himself.’
‘Yes,’ Maggie said. ‘That really was the truth. Before we even married he was planning to make me pay for his girlfriends.’
‘I wonder,’ he said slowly, ‘how you ever found the courage to trust yourself to another man.’
‘Not all men are the same. I took too long to understand that. But what I still don’t understand-’ she rose and looked into his face ‘-is why you gave this letter to me, if you thought it was a love-letter.’
‘I thought it might help you find peace. There is nothing I wouldn’t give, or do, to bring you that peace.’
She touched his cheek. There was a strange, shining light in her eyes. ‘You love me as much as that?’
‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘I love you as much as that.’
‘And thanks to your love, I’m free. It’s as though a terrible weight has gone from me. It might have crushed me all my life, but you freed me.’
He was dazed by the memory of how close he’d come to burning the letter, and destroying them both. Or perhaps he merely thought he had. He only knew that when he held it out to the flames some power had drawn him back before it was too late. Looking at her eyes, fixed on him, candid and unshadowed for the first time, he thought perhaps he knew the name of that power.
He couldn’t tell her about his temptation. At least, not yet. One day, long in the future, he might say, ‘You too set
Or perhaps, by then, they would no longer need words.
‘Sebastian,’ she said softly, ‘have I ever told you that I love you?’
He shook his head. ‘But then, I have never before told you.’
‘Not in words, but in many other ways.’
‘You are my whole being and existence,’ he said slowly. ‘You are my love and my life. You are everything to me. You are more, even, than our child.’
‘I lost faith in love. Thank you for giving me back my faith.’
