The Lavender Heir Chapter 3

Chapter Three the letter

Sasha sat on the Tube, watching the people around her with quiet interest.

An elderly couple sat across the aisle, likely in their eighties. They didn’t speak. The man was nodding off, head dipping toward his wife’s shoulder before he caught himself each time. In front of them, a little girl peeked through the seat gap, locking eyes with Sasha, then giggling. Her mother, exhausted and flustered, bounced a baby on her knee with one hand and tried to open a juice box with the other.

The train pulled into King’s Cross. The carriage stirred. Passengers surged toward the doors.

Sasha adjusted her coat and followed them out. Her father’s will was being read today. She already knew what it said, more or less—the house, the estate, the usual affairs. There would be no surprises. But the idea of sitting in a solicitor’s office made her stomach turn. Cold leather chairs, dry paperwork, the finality of it all.

Still, it had to be done.

At the reception desk, she gave her name. The woman behind the counter smiled politely and pointed her to the lift. “Top floor.”

The office was spotless—wood-panelled walls, antique lamps, the smell of wax polish clinging to the air. The plaque on the door read:

C. J. Chapman, LLM – Master of Laws

She knocked once.

“Come in,” came a deep voice from inside.

Mr. Chapman rose to greet her. He was large in both height and width, with a ruddy face, thick white hair, and eyes that looked tired but kind. A box of cigars sat unopened in the corner of his desk, beside a fountain pen that looked old enough to write history.

“Miss Lambourne,” he said, nodding solemnly. “I was your father’s financial adviser for over twenty years. Please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice low.

He began reading the will. Most of it was expected.

The house. The remaining savings. The car, passed to his brother. Her mother’s jewellery—never to be sold, to be passed down to Sasha’s future children. Her throat caught slightly at that line.

Then Chapman paused.

He opened a drawer, pulled out a sealed envelope, and slid it gently across the desk.

Her name was written on it in looping, elegant script. Familiar.

Her mother’s handwriting.

Sasha stared at it. “She wrote this?”

“She did,” Chapman said. “Your father left instructions. You’re to open it at home, and alone.”

Her fingers trembled slightly as she picked it up. The paper felt old, but not fragile. The seal was wax, pale lavender, pressed with a symbol she didn’t recognize.

“If you have any questions after reading it,” Chapman added, “you may contact me directly.”

Sasha nodded, unsure what to say. She tucked the envelope into her bag, thanked him quietly, and left.


—

The Tube ride home felt longer than usual.

She kept her hand on the envelope the whole time, fingers brushing against the seal. Her mother had been gone for over 15 years. What could she possibly have left unsaid?

By the time she stepped off at her stop, her heart was pounding.

She didn’t open the letter on the train. Somehow, that felt wrong.

But by the time she reached her front door, she was no longer sure she could wait.

.

She kept it tucked carefully in her bag, fingers brushing the edge every few minutes. Her mother had been gone for so long. What secrets could still be left? What could possibly matter now?

She dropped her keys twice before getting the door open. Moschops greeted her with a half-hearted meow, circling her legs. She didn’t stop to feed him.

She moved to the kitchen table, sat down, and broke the lavender wax seal.

The letter was dated seventeen years ago.

> My darling Sasha,

My dearest darling girl,

This letter must now be in your hands, as your beloved Papa has joined me. The loneliness you feel will pass—I promise.

I only wish I could be there to console you.

There’s something I’ve carried for a long time, and now I must share it with you. I’m sorry you had to find out this way. Before I met your father, I was involved with another man. He was a man of great influence and standing in my hometown—Lismore, County Waterford. His father was Lord Conner de Burgh of Blackwater and hated me.  His son,   Cian de Burgh, was unlike anyone I had ever known. He was tall and dark, with tanned skin and a presence that made heads turn. You are so like him, Sasha.  Sasha’s breath caught in her throat. She recoiled slightly in her chair, the words blurring before her eyes. How could her mother have kept something so huge from her for so long? Our affair led to a pregnancy—something frowned upon at the time. Cian was sent away to Dublin, and I was sent to stay with my aunt in Essex. The plan was for me to give you up for adoption and return to Ireland alone. But the moment I saw you, I knew I could never let you go.Your father worked at the laundry where I took a job. He was a delivery driver for the hotels—always kind, always smiling. He adored you from the moment he saw you. He called you “little Sash.” As time went on, we grew close, and eventually, we married.

> My mother never forgave me for not returning to Ireland. She was bitter to the end. But she had Eamon—my brother. He stayed. He did what I could not.



> Cian… well, he went on to inherit the estate. He is now Lord of Blackwater, and as far as I know, he has no other children.



> You must go there, Sasha. You deserve to know where you came from. This is your legacy, and it’s time you claimed it—not for the money, but for the truth.



> Eamon O’Brien and his wife, Heather, know everything. They live at 4 Chapel Street, Lismore—next to the old bakery. That was our family home. That’s where you were conceived.



> Eamon will welcome you. And Heather—Heather is the warmest, most homely woman you’ll ever meet. They’ve waited for you, love. They always hoped you’d come.



> I know this is a lot to take in. But you have a right to your roots.



> All my love, now and forever,



> Mum xx



> P.S. I love you more than all the stars in the sky, Sashy. Please don’t hate me.



Sasha stared at the letter. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She reread the paragraph again. Then a third time.

> “Cian… he went on to inherit the estate. He is now Lord of Blackwater.”



The words sat like stone in her throat—heavy, old, and oddly unreal.

Her eyes drifted back to the address:
4 Chapel Street, Lismore—next to the old bakery.

It felt like a story that had waited her whole life to be told.
And now it was calling her home.

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