Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Icannot stop thinking about Sophie,” Victoria confessed, as she and Richard sat near the nursery hearth.
She had bought a nursing chair a mere week ago, in the hopes that she would need it. It looked like she would for much longer than she’d thought possible. While she was relieved that she could keep Melody, she could not help but feel terrible for her deceased mother.
The baby slumbered in her bassinet only a few feet away from them. Mrs. Hughes was in the servants’ quarters and would only be called if needed. For now, the couple chose to have a conversation about their latest discovery in the dimly lit, cozy nursery.
Richard sat on a higher chair, looking thoughtful.
He had already removed his coat and waistcoat for the night and had the sleeves of his linen shirt rolled up.
She liked seeing how powerful his arms were.
However, what truly made her feel safe was the knowledge that he was a good man, and one who would stop at nothing to protect Melody and her.
“Sophie Bramer,” Richard muttered, the name sounding like a disgruntled prayer. “She believed in me even though the last time she saw me was a year ago. I remember now.”
“She died at least knowing her daughter would go to someone who could take care of her,” Victoria said, even as her heart felt a jolt of sympathy for Melody’s poor mother.
Then, as if just fully digesting what Richard revealed, she asked, “Wait. You said you had met her before. What do you remember? When did your paths cross? Where?”
Richard moved to the window and rested his forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the night was almost moonless. He stared into the darkness, as if searching for something beyond London.
“What is it, Richard?” Victoria asked, a little afraid.
No, she was not afraid of her husband. Not at all. She was afraid that what he was going to tell her would tear her apart.
’Why had he forgotten? Of course, he feared that Melody might be Penwike’s, but to know it for certain? And to know that he had forced a hapless maid triggered Richard’s memory.
The memory slammed into him hard. A year ago. It was like he was there, smelling the spilled brandy and hearing a young woman’s pleas.
“Stop it, please, my lord!”
The young lady could not be more than twenty, someone’s young girl not too long ago.
Yet, Lord Penwike had her cornered against his desk.
His hand was on her skirts, bunching them upwards.
It was clear what his intention was. At that moment, Richard did not know if it was the first attempt or one of many, but he remembered the white-hot fury it evoked from him.
The sight had the duke crossing the room in just three steps, with his hand quickly grabbing Penwike by the shoulder. He didn’t know where he got the strength to hurl the other man across the room.
“Get out!” he growled at the girl.
He was not angry at her, far from it, but he just wanted her out of harm’s way.
Now. She clutched her apron, her eyes wide and shimmering with tears.
Desperation lived there. Those were haunted eyes.
Looking back, he realized that Sophie had already been living this nightmare, and it might also not be the end of it.
“Hawksford! This is my house!” Penwike bellowed as he scrambled to his feet.
His hair was mussed and his cravat askew, but he was also powered by a different kind of fury.
He didn’t like it when he could not get what he wanted.
He was that sort of man. “How dare you lay hands on me here in my home? I thought you were trying to avoid a duel to end the feud once and for all! You’ve been staying away.
Now, you’re here to fight me over what? Over a mere servant? ”
The way he spat out his words revealed how little he thought of the maid, and it drove Richard even madder. He flung himself on Penwike once more, pressing him against the desk. Let him see what it was like being cornered. He used his forearm to pin his lifelong sworn enemy by the throat.
“I came to you to speak about the future, Penwike. We have suffered enough under this senseless feud. I did not come here to indulge your basest instincts. I came to announce that my brother is dead, and I have been officially given the title of Hawksford. I do not wish to inherit my family’s ghosts. I don’t know about you.”
“Ha. So, you’ve become a duke, and you think you can negotiate with me just like that. It was near impossible before you laid your hand on me, and even more impossible afterward.” Penwike sneered at him as he straightened himself a second time since Richard entered the room.
“I am here for a truce. Do you see these?” he asked, slamming a pile of contracts on top of Penwike’s desk.
They should be peace offerings, but they weren’t.
Richard was simply sick and tired of the war that had been passed from one generation to another.
“These are deeds to some profitable lands. I am giving them to you in exchange for peace. We need to stop this inane war.”
Penwike’s face looked startled at first. Then, disgusted. Then, angry. Finally, he was able to spit out his response: “My honor cannot be bought, Hawksford!”
He didn’t wait for his response. He stepped out into the night.
There, a figure waited. It was Sophie.
Richard’s forehead still tingled from the cold glass he had leaned against. He blinked, tasting the chill of the evening air, and tried to steady himself.
“It was her,” he confirmed, looking at Victoria, with a voice he could no longer recognize as his own. “It was Sophie.”
He narrated the rest of what occurred, of how the young maid thanked him for saving her from Penwike’s assault.
“Oh. So, she remembered you from then. She was truly grateful,” Victoria breathed.
“Unfortunately, I suspect she was already with child, then.”
“How do you know that?” the duchess asked, brows furrowed.
“She was touching her belly, just like this,” Richard replied, showing his wife how Sophie’s hand had covered her belly, almost protectively. At that time, he merely thought it odd.
“You could not have known what was going on with her at that time, Richard,” Victoria said, sounding resolute. “I wish we could have done something for her then, but the next best thing is to take care of Melody.”
“You are probably right,” Richard said, shoulders slumping.
Richard’s eyes drifted to the sleeping child.
He felt a strong protectiveness toward little Melody.
He had to admit he thought of her as an inconvenience at first—someone who could destroy his reputation or Victoria’s, and someone who took his wife’s time.
As of late, the baby was also one of the reasons he could not even claim his duchess. Not wholly. Not yet.
These days, though, he started looking at Melody as not only his ward, but also his daughter. She might not be of his blood, but he had this strong need to ensure she had everything she would ever need in this life.
“We are all Melody has. We cannot be mere guardians to her,” Victoria murmured, as if reading his mind.
“If I may say so myself, I believe we are doing a wonderful job even though we still have so many things to learn about taking care of children. Still, I believe we should visit Sophie’s burial ground. ”
“Not only that, Victoria,” Richard added. “She is the mother of our child. We cannot have her forever buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave, with only little scratchings for her name.”
“I know. We can do better for her, although it does not take away the goodness Miss Ewing showed her.”
“No. Never. She gave more than she had for a stranger not of her blood.”
“As we will do so, for the daughter not borne of us,” Victoria said softly, blinking fast and breathing hard. “It is a mystery how a terrible man like Penwike had been allowed to continue his bloodline through a beautiful little girl like Melody.”
“She is no longer of Penwike’s blood. She is now ours. We are her father and mother.”
Richard meant every word. He would like Melody to see him and her as her true father and mother. Perhaps one day they would tell her about Sophie, but that would only happen when their daughter was ready.
He walked back to where Victoria was leaning over Melody. He watched the child sleep peacefully. If the feud was to be believed and followed, he should hate this child. She was of Penwike, conceived through violence, not love.
And yet love did not know how to discriminate. The more he got to know Melody’s background, the more he wanted to crush anyone who would do or say anything terrible to her.
“Of course,” the duchess said.
“Melody is nothing like Penwike,” Richard almost growled the words out. “He might have contributed with blood, but nothing else. Our little girl has been nurtured with love.”
“She is not ours by law, but—”
“Didn’t I already declare she is a Weston? She is ours, Victoria. We merely have to finalize some things. Penwike will never know who she is, much less come into contact with her.”
“B-but he may already know about her,” Victoria whispered, looking scared.
“No. He does not know for certain.”
The conversation soon turned to more pleasant things before they finally retreated to her room to sleep. They vowed not to let the discovery of Melody’s parentage ruin the peace at Hawksford House.
“No, Melody. Here’s how you hold the rattle,” Victoria instructed, trying to shift the position of the rattle in the baby’s hand. She was trying to do it as gently as possible because Melody had a firm grip.
“I don’t think she likes being told what to do,” Richard commented, grinning.
The three of them were in his study. He was working on some estate business ledgers that he had set aside while he was investigating Melody’s parentage. He liked having them with him. It soothed him, knowing they were close and safe.