Chapter 24 #3
"Thirty years ago," Roman said, his eyes scanning her face as if searching for the ghost of someone else, "my parents had a daughter."
Thelma stopped breathing. The swaying of the carriage seemed to fade away entirely.
"She was born with white hair and eyes that lacked pigment," Roman said, the words heavy and bitter on his tongue.
"Albinism. My mother was terrified of a scandal.
She was terrified the ton would claim the Langley blood was cursed.
So she paid a young solicitor from Somerset to take the child away, to raise her in secret, and to ensure she never knew who she truly was. "
Thelma stared at the parchment. Her mind was struggling to comprehend the shapes of the words he was speaking. White hair. Pale eyes.
"Yvette," Thelma whispered, the name slipping from her lips like a prayer.
"My sister," Roman confirmed, his voice cracking on the final syllable.
Thelma looked at him, truly looked at him. She looked at the strong, aristocratic lines of his jaw, the gray eyes that commanded rooms and silenced arguments. And then she thought of Yvette.
Sweet, brilliant, fragile Yvette, who had spent her entire life hiding her face beneath wide-brimmed hats, who had endured the whispers of the village women, who had believed herself a burden to a family that wasn't even hers.
She was the daughter of a duke.
The sheer, monumental injustice of it struck Thelma with the force of a physical blow. Yvette had been cast out, discarded like broken glass, simply to protect the pride of a woman who sat in a warm drawing room wearing silk.
"Your mother," Thelma breathed, a sudden, fierce anger flaring in her chest. " She knew. She looked at Liliana, she looked at the shawl my father wrapped her in, and she knew."
"She knew," Roman said, his face hardening. "She recognized the shawl immediately. And rather than claim her own granddaughter, she tried to send her to an orphanage. And when that failed, she allowed Lady Daphne to step in."
Thelma looked down at Liliana, sleeping peacefully beneath the woolen blanket. The child’s gray eyes, the dark hair. She didn't look like Yvette. She looked exactly like the man sitting across from them. She was a Langley.
"Liliana is your niece," Thelma said, the reality finally settling over her.
"She is my blood," Roman said fiercely. He reached out, his hand gently cupping the back of Liliana’s small head, his thumb brushing against Thelma’s collarbone.
"And you are the woman who walked into hell to protect her.
You gave up your home, your name, and your freedom to ensure she was safe.
My mother threw my sister away. You gave up everything to keep her child. "
Thelma’s eyes filled with fresh tears. She looked at Roman’s bruised, exhausted face, at the way his hand lingered against the baby, claiming her entirely.
"Yvette was so brave," Thelma whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "She was the kindest person I ever knew. She never held onto anger. She just wanted to be loved." She looked up, meeting Roman's silver gaze in the dim lamplight. "She would have liked you, Roman."
Roman swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He closed his eyes for a brief second, the grief of a lifetime he had missed washing over his features.
"I would have liked to know her," he said softly.
He leaned forward, closing the space between them, and pressed his forehead against hers.
Thelma closed her eyes, leaning into his solid, unwavering strength.
They sat like that for the remainder of the journey, breathing the same air, the carriage rocking them gently as they moved through the dark.
The gates of Langley Hall appeared out of the gloom hours later, the iron slick with rain.
The carriage did not stop at the grand portico. Roman ordered the driver to take them directly to the rear courtyard, near the servants' entrance.
When the heavy wooden door of the coach swung open, the biting wind rushed in, but Thelma hardly felt it.
Standing beneath the stone archway of the kitchen entrance, holding a flickering oil lantern that cast a warm, defiant circle of light against the dark, was Patricia.
The cook wore her thick wool shawl thrown hastily over her apron, her dark hair escaping its cap. She watched as Roman stepped down from the carriage, turning to lift Thelma and the sleeping baby out into the night.
Patricia did not bow. She did not curtsy to the duke. She lifted the lantern higher, her hazel eyes scanning Thelma’s pale, tear-stained face, and then dropping to the small bundle wrapped in Roman’s blanket.
Liliana stirred, letting out a soft, sleepy sigh.
Patricia’s shoulders dropped, a massive, shuddering breath escaping her chest. Her mouth pressed into a tight line as she blinked rapidly against the glare of the lantern.
She turned on her heel, pushing the heavy oak door open with her hip.
"Come inside out of the wet," Patricia called back over her shoulder, her voice rough and thick with emotion. "I'll put the kettle on."