It was a thin, cheap envelope bearing a London postmark, and Caroline drew out a flimsy sheet of paper.
“I must get my glasses,” she said. Her voice was agitated. “No, no, I can manage without them. The writing is immense, but faint. It’s from that woman.” She looked up, showing a face drawn and blotched with ugly colour. “It’s to say that Reginald is dead.”
Mrs. Reginald Mallett had written the letter on the day of her husband’s funeral, and Caroline’s tears for her brother were stemmed by her indignation with his wife. She had purposely made it impossible for his relatives to attend the ceremony.
“No,” Sophia said, “the poor thing was distressed. We mustn’t blame her.”
“And such a letter!” Caroline flicked it with a disdainful finger.
Rose picked up the sheet. “I don’t see what else she could have said. I think it’s dignified—a plain statement. Why should you expect more? You have never taken any notice of her.”
“Certainly not! And Reginald never suggested it. Of course he was ashamed, poor boy. However, I am now going to write to her, asking if she is in need, and enclosing a cheque. I feel some responsibility for the child. She is half a Mallett, and the Malletts have always been loyal to the family.”
“Yes, dear, we’ll send a cheque, and—shouldn’t we?—a few kind words. She will value them.”
“She’ll value the money more,” Caroline said grimly.
Here she was wrong, for the cheque was immediately returned. Mrs. Mallett and her daughter were able to support themselves without help.