Chapter 26: Warrick
“The morning post has arrived, Mr Warrick,” Andrews, the butler, said. He was the older brother of Andrews, Father’s chauffeur.
“I believe my father is in his study. You can take it to him.”
“This letter is addressed to you.”
For a moment I wondered if it might be from Thomas, but then I dismissed that notion. We had stopped corresponding years ago.
I took the letter from Andrews and stared down at it, recognising the handwriting immediately. It was from Fox Sullivan, the doctor who’d been my lover when I’d lived in Canada. I’d left him behind when I’d been obliged to return home.
When I’d first arrived in England, he’d corresponded religiously. I must have been more my father’s son than I’d realised, for my letters to him were desultory at best. Still, that hadn’
