Young and arrogant, Hart had thought that if he offered Eleanor riches on a silver platter, she would fall at his feet and be his forever. He’d read her very wrong.
The next letter, written after Hart had taken Eleanor to meet Ian when Ian had been living at the asylum, was evidence that Eleanor was nothing less than extraordinary.
I bless you a thousand times over, Eleanor Ramsay. I do not know what you did, but Ian responded to you. Sometimes he doesn’t speak at all, not for days or weeks. On some of my visits to him, he’s only stared out the window or worked on blasted mathematics equations without looking at me, no matter how much I try to get him to acknowledge that I’m there. He’s locked in that world of his, in a place where I can’t go. I long to open the door and let him out, and I do not know how.
But Ian looked at you, El, he talked to you, and he asked me, when I went back to see him today, when you and I would marry. Ian said that he wanted us to marry, because once I am safe with you, he can stop worrying about me.
He broke my heart. I pretend to be a strong man, my love, but when I’m with Ian, I know how very weak I am.
Subdued, Hart leafed through the remaining letters. There were not many, because once his engagement with Eleanor had been made official, she and he had been together quite a lot. The few letters written when he’d been detained in London or Paris or Edinburgh without her were filled with praises to her beauty and to her body, her laughter and her warmth. He found the letter he’d written her telling her with eagerness that he’d come to Glenarden when he was finished with business in Edinburgh, the fateful visit when Eleanor had waited for him in the garden and given him back the ring.
The last two letters had been written several years after the engagement ended. Hart opened them, numbly surprised that Eleanor had kept them at all. He read them out of order, the first telling Eleanor of Ian’s return to the family after their father’s death:
He is still Ian, and he isn’t. He sits in silence, not answering when we speak to him, not even looking around when we address him. He is somewhere inside, trapped by years of pain, frustration, and out-and-out torture. I do not know if he resents me for not helping him sooner, or if he is grateful to me for bringing him home—or if he even knows he’s home. Curry, Ian’s valet, says he behaves no differently here as he had there. Ian eats, dresses, and sleeps without prodding and without help, but it’s as though he’s an automaton taught the motions of living as a human being, with no real knowledge of it.
I try to reach him, I truly try. And I can’t. I’ve brought home a shell of my brother, and it’s killing me.
Hart folded that letter and opened the last with slow fingers. This one was dated 1874, a month or so before the letter about Ian. The pages were still crisp, the ink black, and he knew every word of it by heart.
My father is dead. You will have heard of his death already, but the rest of it I must confess or go mad. You are the only one I can think to tell, the only one I can trust to keep my secrets.
I will deliver this by my most trusted messenger into your hands alone. I urge you to burn it after reading—that is if your unshakable curiosity makes you open a letter from the hated Hart at all, instead of putting it straight into the fire.
I shot him, El.
I had to. He was going to kill Ian.
You once asked me why I let Ian live in that asylum, where doctors paraded him like a trained dog or used him for their strange experiments. I let him stay because, in spite of it all, he was safer there than he could be anywhere. Safe from my father. Whatever they did to him at the asylum is nothing compared to what my father could have done. I’ve long known that if I managed to talk Father into taking Ian out of it, Ian would only end up in a worse place, perhaps entirely out of my reach and at my father’s mercy.
Thank God the Kilmorgan servants are more loyal to me than they were to Father. Our majordomo approached me one day with what a housemaid had told him—that she’d overheard my father whispering to a man that he would pay him to slip into the asylum and kill Ian, by whatever quiet method the man chose.
As I listened to the majordomo report this horror, I realized that I could no longer wait to act.
I believed the truth of what the housemaid had overheard, because I knew that my father was capable of such a thing. It was nothing to do with Ian’s madness. You see, Ian witnessed my father commit a crime.
Ian told me about it in bits and pieces over the years, until I finally put together the entire truth. What Ian saw was my father killing my mother.
The way Ian described the incident, I don’t believe Father intended to kill her, but his violence certainly caused her death. He grabbed my mother and shook her by her neck, until that neck snapped.
Father found Ian crouched behind the desk and knew he’d seen it all. The next day Ian was hauled to London to sit before a commission for lunacy. Ian had always been half mad, but facing the commission was beyond him, and of course, they declared him insane. The action saved my father—if Ian were declared mad by a commission, then whatever story Ian told about my mother’s death would likely not be believed.
At the time, I had no idea of any of this, but I fought my father’s decision. In vain—Ian was taken straight to the asylum, where my father had prepared a place for him in advance by paying them an obscene amount of money. I wasn’t yet old enough or experienced enough to know how to defeat him. I simply did all I could to make Ian comfortable where he was, as did Mac and Cam.