She hugged each of her brothers before they left. But within moments, there was a knock at the chamber door.
“Rosalind?” It was Brock.
“Come in.” She was dragging a white sheet off a settee that backed up to a large feather bed with dark-blue drapes and faded gold tassels.
Her brother entered, his hands fisting around a packet of old letters.
When he did not immediately speak, she settled onto the couch, coughing slightly as dust wafted around her. Brock came over and slowly held out the packet. Thick twine bound the letters tightly, forming grooves in the old parchment.
“What are these?” she asked, taking the letters from him.
“I swore I would not give these to you, but it was father’s dying wish. It is your choice whether you wish to have them or not.” He backed up and nodded at th
