Chapter 27
A full week had passed since they drove the phaeton through the iron gates of Langley Hall. Thelma stood beside the wooden crib. She rested her hands on the polished railing. She watched Liliana's chest rise and fall. The baby was sleeping soundly.
The terrible rattling cough had vanished completely, replaced by the soft, even breathing of a healthy child. Thelma had started sleeping through the night as well.
She still woke up twice before dawn, throwing off her heavy quilt to cross the cold floorboards and check the crib. She needed to see the rise and fall of the yellow blanket. She needed the physical proof that the stone house in Farnham was truly behind them.
Earlier in the week, Thelma had sat in the dowager’s private sitting room. She had answered every single question Thelma asked. She described the heavy rain beating against the glass on the night Yvette was born. She described the exact moment the physician stepped back from the bed.
His face had drained of all color, his professional demeanor crumbling into raw panic at the sight of the infant's white hair and translucent skin.
Roman’s mother confessed she held the baby for three full days. She held Yvette in a darkened room, listening to the child cry, fighting a war between a mother's natural instinct and a duchess's terror of absolute social ruin. Then she handed the child to a hired solicitor.
Thelma had listened to the entire confession.
She kept her hands tightly folded in her lap, her fingernails digging into her own palms. She did not offer absolution.
She did not say the words the dowager desperately wanted to hear.
Forgiving a woman who had condemned Yvette to a life of hidden shame felt like a betrayal to her sister's memory.
But Thelma did not stand up. She did not walk out of the room. She stayed in the chair until the fire burned down to white ash. That act of remaining in the room was the only grace she could offer, and for the moment, it was enough.
The heavy oak door of the nursery clicked open. Roman stepped inside. He wore a dark blue morning coat and a pristine white cravat, though his face still carried faint yellow bruising along his jawline.
He held a freshly ironed copy of The Morning Post in his right hand. He walked across the room with a deliberate, quiet tread, mindful of the sleeping baby.
He stopped beside Thelma. He did not look at the crib right away. He looked at her. His gray eyes focused entirely on her face, searching for the shadows of exhaustion that had haunted her for a month.
"She is dreaming," Thelma whispered softly.
Roman looked down at his niece. He reached out, resting his large hand next to Thelma's on the wooden railing. The knuckles of his hand brushed against hers. The contact sent a sudden, sharp heat traveling up her arm. She did not pull away. She leaned into the solid warmth of his shoulder.
"Mr. Sterling's response ran in the London editions yesterday," Roman said, keeping his voice to a low murmur. He placed the folded newspaper onto the small table beside the rocking chair. "The courier brought the first copies an hour ago."
Thelma looked at the heavy black type. She saw her own name printed in bold ink.
Thelma Preston, sister of the late daughter of the late Duke and Dowager Duchess of Langley, Yvette (Berengar) Preston Gainsborough, aunt, and legal guardian to Liliana Gainsborough.
The solicitor had attached the official seal of the Langley estate, alongside a certified transcription of the original birth record.
Daphne Vane's dramatic, venomous tale of a scheming nursemaid had collided with an impenetrable wall of legal facts.
The tone in the London drawing rooms had immediately turned.
The gossip columns were no longer tearing apart the mysterious Eliza Hartley.
The society matrons were entirely focused on the shocking revelation that the Duke and Duchess of Langley had successfully hidden a legitimate daughter in the countryside for thirty years.
"They are asking the right questions now," Roman said.
He turned his body slightly, his gaze locking onto hers.
"They are demanding to know what my father did.
They are demanding to know why my mother remained silent.
Lady Daphne has made herself look like a fool who tried to blackmail a family holding a certified birth record. "
Thelma reached out and touched the rough paper. "It feels surreal. The entire world knows my name. They know Yvette's name."
"They know the truth," Roman corrected gently. He lifted his hand, his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw before resting warmly against the side of her neck. His thumb stroked her pulse point. "You do not have to hide in the shadows of this house ever again. You belong here."
Thelma closed her eyes, letting the absolute certainty in his voice anchor her. The budding intimacy between them felt natural. It did not feel rushed or forced. It felt like walking into a warm room after standing outside in a bitter storm. She opened her eyes and looked up into his face.
"There is something else," Roman continued, his tone turning serious.
He dropped his hand from her neck, though he remained standing very close.
"Your father arrived at Langley thirty minutes ago.
He has been staying at the village inn since the night Orson and I brought you back from Farnham.
He waited until he was certain you and Liliana were well. "
Thelma felt her stomach drop. She stepped back from the crib, her hands twisting the fabric of her apron. Albert Preston was sitting downstairs. The man who had taken her niece from her in the middle of the night. The man who had sparked this entire terrible journey.
"He asked to speak with you," Roman said quietly. "It is entirely your decision, Thelma. If you do not wish to see him, I will have Earnest escort him back to his carriage. You do not owe him an audience."
Thelma looked at the door. She thought about her father sitting alone at the village inn for seven days, pacing the floorboards, waiting for permission to cross the threshold of the estate he had visited in secret thirty years ago.
"I will go down," Thelma said, her voice steadying. "I need to ask him the things I could not ask before."
Roman nodded. He offered his arm. "I will walk you to the study."
Thelma walked into the eastern study. The heavy curtains were pulled back, allowing the pale gray daylight to fill the room.
Albert Preston stood near the fireplace. He looked ten years older than the man who had visited her bedroom in Somerset just over a month ago. His silver hair lacked its usual neatness. His shoulders were bowed, carrying a physical exhaustion that made his tailored coat hang loosely on his frame.
He turned when the door opened. His brown eyes instantly filled with a desperate, watering relief when he saw her standing there.
He took a hesitant step forward, but he stopped when he saw Roman standing right behind her in the corridor. Roman gave Thelma a reassuring nod before stepping back and pulling the heavy oak doors completely shut, leaving them alone.
"Thelma," Mr. Preston breathed. He did not try to cross the room to hug her. He stood near the hearth, his hands gripping the edge of his hat.
Thelma walked forward. She stopped a few feet away, placing the heavy leather armchair between them like a barricade. She looked at the man who had raised her. She did not feel the burning, explosive anger she had expected. She simply felt a deep, hollow sadness.
"Why did you leave her on the stone steps?
" Thelma asked. Her voice was calm and precise.
"You took her from her crib in the middle of the night.
You traveled all the way to Yorkshire. You placed an infant on a freezing stone portico and drove away without knocking on the door.
Why did you not speak to the duke directly? "
Mr. Preston looked down at the Persian rug.
His hands trembled against the brim of his hat.
"I had no leverage. I knew the late duke was dead.
I knew the duchess despised the very existence of the child we had raised.
If I had knocked on the door and demanded they take the baby in, Her Grace would have simply paid me off again or ordered the servants to throw me off the estate. "
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. "But I knew the wool shawl.
I knew the Langley crest was woven into the fabric.
I wrapped Liliana in that specific blanket because I knew Earnest would recognize it.
I knew the duchess would see it. I thought the physical proof of the crest would force their hand.
I thought they would have no choice but to take her inside before the village saw the emblem. "
"You gambled her life on a piece of wool," Thelma stated, refusing to soften the reality of his actions.
"I gambled her life because I thought I was saving yours," Mr. Preston replied, his voice breaking.
He took a slow, agonizing breath. "I was terrified, Thelma.
Yvette was gone. The quarterly payments from the duke's estate had ceased.
We were facing financial ruin. I looked at you holding that baby, and I saw your entire future disappearing.
I saw you sacrificing any chance of marriage or stability to raise a child that legally belonged to the wealthiest family in the north. I thought I was protecting you."
Thelma gripped the leather back of the armchair.
"You never mentioned knowing a duke. You never told Yvette where she came from.
You watched her cry because the village women stared at her pale hair, and you never told her she was the legitimate daughter of a noble house.
Why did you keep it a secret for thirty years? "