Chapter 15
For several moments after Rosalind reached him, William found himself unable to speak.
He had spent the better part of the last hour deciding precisely what he would say when she arrived. He had arranged the facts in his mind, considered where to begin, even rehearsed how he might explain what he had learned without allowing his own feelings to interfere.
Now, standing before her in the middle of the square, every carefully chosen word deserted him.
Rosalind's concern deepened. “William?”
He drew a breath and glanced around them. Morning had brought the square fully to life. Carriages rattled over the street beyond the iron railings, while ladies wandered between shops accompanied by maids and footmen. Somewhere nearby, a vendor called out to passing customers.
Far too many ears.
“Walk with me.”
Whatever she saw in his face prevented her from arguing. She merely nodded and slipped her hand through his offered arm.
They moved slowly toward the quieter edge of the square. William was conscious of Nelly following at a respectable distance behind them, close enough to satisfy propriety but not close enough to overhear.
Only when he was certain of their relative privacy did Rosalind speak.
“You are frightening me.”
William looked down at her. “I do not mean to.”
“Then tell me what happened.”
He hesitated, searching once more for the beginning. There seemed no sensible way to explain the end of the night without beginning with the absurdity that had preceded it.
“When I returned home last night, I found Gabriel lying in the garden.”
Rosalind blinked. “Lying in the garden?”
Despite everything, the memory drew the faintest smile from him. “Apparently Miss Hartwell had given him reason to reconsider his entire existence.”
“Oh dear.”
“Quite. It took some time to persuade him that death upon the lawn was perhaps an excessive response, but eventually I managed to get him inside and settled in one of the guest chambers.”
The brief amusement faded almost as quickly as it had come.
“Afterward, I did not go to my own chambers. I kept thinking about the evening, about what you had told me before you left the ball, and I knew sleep would not come easily. I thought I might find something to read.”
Rosalind's expression grew serious again.
“So I went to the library.”
William paused, remembering the thin line of light beneath the door and the first impossible sound of Augusta's voice.
“Someone was already inside.”
“At that hour?”
“Two people.” His jaw tightened. “My brother and his wife.”
Her surprise mirrored his own from only hours earlier.
“They had returned?”
“Apparently, they had never truly gone.”
“But the carriage—”
“Left exactly as I saw it leave. They returned later by another route.”
Rosalind's expression tightened. “Why?”
William looked ahead. “That was precisely what I wanted to know.”
Even now, he could remember the shock of hearing Augusta's voice through the library door. The exhaustion in it. The desperation. His brother answering her with a weariness William had never before associated with him.
“I overheard enough of their conversation to know something was wrong. Augusta was telling him that he could not continue as he had been. That he needed help.”
Rosalind said nothing, and William was grateful she did not press him before he was ready to continue.
“When I entered the library, I demanded an explanation.
I accused Algernon of lying to me about leaving London, and somewhere in the middle of the argument, my mother appeared in the doorway.
Apparently Gabriel's lamentations in the garden had already disturbed her sleep, and our raised voices finished the task.”
Ordinarily, the absurdity of it might have amused him. This morning, William could find very little humor in anything that had followed.
Rosalind seemed to understand. Her expression remained solemn as she asked, “What did your brother tell you?”
William's throat tightened.
He had known this question was coming. He had summoned her here because he needed to tell her what he had learned, yet now that the moment had arrived, he found himself struggling to put into words something he had scarcely begun to understand himself.
His gaze drifted across the square, following the passage of a carriage without truly seeing it.
“He told me that I did not know our father. At first, I thought he meant there were things Father had done before I was born. Some financial matter, perhaps. Something concerning the estate.” William swallowed. “I was wrong.”
His grip tightened unconsciously around the gloves in his free hand.
“Algernon said they had never intended for me to know. By the time I was old enough to remember Father properly, everything had changed. My childhood was happy. I loved him, and he loved me. Algernon saw no reason to destroy that simply because his own memories were different.”
Rosalind's voice softened. “Different how?”
William stared ahead for another moment before forcing himself to answer. “Algernon stuttered badly as a child.”
“Your mother told me a bit about it.”
“He struggled to speak at all when he became frightened or upset. Sometimes he could barely force a sentence out.” William drew a slow breath. “Father despised it.”
Rosalind's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his arm.
“He treated Algernon as though the difficulty were some defect of character rather than something he could not control. He mocked him for it. Punished him when he could not speak properly. Told him repeatedly that a boy who could not command his own tongue had no business believing he could one day command an estate.”
Rosalind's face had gone pale.
William understood why.
He had listened to the same words only hours ago and still could not make them belong to the father he remembered.
“He told his own son that he would never be fit to become the duke.”
“Oh, William.”
“Eventually, he sent Algernon away to school.”
William's voice roughened despite his efforts to keep it steady.
“I always knew Algernon had been educated away from home. I simply never knew why. By the time I was old enough to remember much of anything, he was already gone for long stretches. It was simply how our family was.”
Except it had not been.
That realization had followed him from the library and refused to loosen its grip.
Every comfortable childhood memory now seemed to have something hidden behind it. Every recollection of his father's patience, his laughter, the hand that had rested affectionately upon William's shoulder seemed to belong to a man his brother had never been permitted to know.
Rosalind studied him quietly. “Your father was different with you.”
William nodded. “Entirely.”
The word hurt more than he expected.
“I remember a kind man. He taught me to ride. He read to me when I was ill. He once spent an entire afternoon helping me build a ridiculous little boat because I was convinced it would sail across the pond.” William looked down, a faint ache tightening his chest. “While Algernon remembers being terrified of him.”
Rosalind's expression softened.
“And they let me keep my version.”
There was no accusation in his voice, though he could still feel the sting of having been deceived.
“They thought they were protecting you.”
“I know.”
Knowing did not make it easier.
“For years, everyone around me knew there was another version of my childhood. My mother knew. Algernon knew. Augusta knew. I was apparently the only person permitted to believe our family had always been what I remembered.”
Rosalind was quiet for a moment. “I think I would feel lied to as well.”
William looked at her then.
He had not said the words himself. Had not wanted to, perhaps because admitting them felt disloyal after everything he had learned about what Algernon had endured. His family had protected him. He understood that. He even understood why.
Yet Rosalind had somehow seen the hurt beneath all that understanding anyway.
Something in his chest eased.
There was an unexpected comfort in being understood without having to explain himself further, particularly by her. She did not tell him he ought to be grateful for the childhood they had preserved for him, nor remind him that their intentions had been kind.
She simply allowed both things to be true. They had loved him enough to protect him, and discovering how thoroughly they had deceived him still hurt.
“I do,” he admitted quietly.
Rosalind gave his arm the smallest squeeze.
The gesture was so slight he might ordinarily have thought nothing of it. This morning, he felt it more keenly than he should have.
They continued several steps in companionable silence before Rosalind asked, “And the conversation you overheard? Augusta said he needed help.”
William nodded. “The effects never entirely disappeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“He rarely stutters now. I cannot remember the last time I heard it happen while he was awake.” William hesitated. “But he has nightmares.”
Rosalind's brow furrowed.
“Severe ones. He wakes without knowing where he is. Sometimes he doesn't wake at all, not properly. He thrashes. Shouts. Strikes out at anyone who comes too close.”
Understanding slowly entered her expression.
“Augusta has been trying to manage it with him for years. Apparently it has worsened recently, and she can scarcely sleep for fear of what might happen when he has another episode.”
“That was why they were leaving London.”
“They intended to consult a physician who has treated similar disturbances. Augusta became unwell before they had gone far, so they abandoned the journey and returned.”
Rosalind was silent for several moments.
Then she asked, “And your mother confirmed what Algernon told you?”
“All of it.”
William felt his chest tighten again. “And then she told me something else.”
Rosalind turned more fully toward him.
“About your father.”
The change in her was immediate.
William could feel the sudden tension in the hand resting upon his arm.
“My mother said there was one person who managed to reach Algernon when no one else could.”
“Papa.”