‘Come along in, Mums.’ Drawing her forward he closed the door behind her. ‘Read that!’
He thrust a faintly scented sheet of note-paper into her hand, and she obeyed.
Bel’s communication was brief, moving, and very much to the point.
‘Are you generous enough to forgive me—and come to me?’ she wrote without preamble. ‘If you can keep it up—I can’t. I saw and heard you at Ardmuir. You are brave. As for me, I’m bitterly sorry and ashamed. I hate it all still. But if you wish it, I am yours—unconditionally, Bel. I shall be alone here after 10.30. I can’t face Inveraig.’
Lady Forsyth had to read that note more than once before she could feel sure of her voice. To her it seemed studied, consciously written for effect: and the writing itself was equally studied, with the same touch of hardness in it that showed in the level line of eyelids and brows.
‘Well?’ Mark was growing impatient.
‘You can forgive her?’ she asked, looking steadily up at him.
‘Of course I can. And you must too. She’s sorry. She—cares. Isn’t that enough for anyone?’
‘But she’s not convinced.’
‘I’ll convince her, in time. I hope she’ll come south with us to-morrow.’