Chapter 4 #2
Now, as the chaise exited a lane of mature poplars and came into view of a finely kept stone Tudor manor surrounded by snowy lawn, he wished he’d stood by his decision to dismiss Eloisa’s request. Not only did he question the accuracy of her memories but her intentions too.
The secrecy of how she’d learned of April Barlow’s disappearance, the impetus of her mission to find her, and how in the world it could possibly ruin Barty and Thomas, made Hugh wonder if Eloisa was once again leaving him to take the fall for something.
And yet he could not walk away from such an accusation. He would prove that his mother was Catherine Marsden, and he would put any doubt about it to rest. For good.
Sir stayed with the chaise as Hugh presented himself at the front door.
Coming to a large country manor like this put his mind back to the summer, when he had been summoned to Fournier Downs by the duchess to investigate a death.
He wondered where Audrey was now. With the Season underway, she would likely be in London, chaperoning the duke’s sister, Cassandra—if the young lady had returned from Sweden.
Knowing the darkest, deepest secrets of the duke and duchess, and yet with no connection at all to their world, left him grasping.
Several times, he had nearly sent a letter to Audrey, simply asking her if she was well.
Several more times, he’d contemplated directing a hack to Curzon Street, just to catch a glimpse of Violet House.
He’d never stooped to either temptation, thank God.
He supposed it didn’t matter where she was. It would be best to put her out of his mind altogether.
Once Sir Robert had agreed to meet his unexpected caller, Hugh followed a footman into a drawing room.
The room was cavern-like; dark and somber.
Drapes shut out the bleak sunlight from several windows, except for one near a mahogany table.
A man stood near that window, his arms crossed, his mouth turned down with a frown of impatience.
“You look remarkably like your father,” the man said before Hugh could introduce himself. The footman would have given Hugh’s name to the knight, and clearly Sir Robert knew him. He felt the floor tilt.
“You were acquainted with Viscount Neatham?” Hugh asked.
Sir Robert dropped his arms to his sides and strode toward a side table. He pulled the stopper from a decanter and poured two glasses.
“Many years ago. Though not under the best circumstances,” he replied, his voice clipped. He came to Hugh and handed him a glass. “Why have you come?”
He gripped the cut crystal glass, his breathing off kilter. “I am looking for Miss April Barlow. I am told she is your daughter.”
“She is,” the knight answered. “Though I was assured that you would never learn of her.”
A heaviness settled over Hugh’s shoulders, like molten lead pouring down each arm and cooling rapidly. He placed the untouched drink on the nearest surface—a low table—and stared at the carpet below his feet.
“It is true then? She is my mother?”
Sir Robert quizzed him, the lines around his eyes deepening. “It is an unsavory story, one that I’d hoped would stay buried. But yes.”
Heat swarmed, along with a stirring of nausea. Everything he’d believed, everything he’d known about his origins were now twisting into something unrecognizable.
“Why was I led to believe Catherine Marsden was my mother?”
She’d lied to him. All his life, until her dying breath, she’d lied.
Sir Robert sipped his drink with a detached air. “The spinster nanny, yes. I had heard that was the route Fitzgerald had taken. Apparently, he trusted her completely, and she longed for a child.”
Fitzgerald. It was Hugh’s middle name, and his father’s Christian name. Sir Robert swept out his arm, indicating the couch and chairs near the hearth. Though he was restless, Hugh’s legs felt numb and quivery. He gratefully lowered himself to the edge of a chair.
“Who has sent you here?” the knight—his grandfather—inquired.
Hugh looked into the older man’s face again, seeing him anew. He tried to find some similarity about him. Some likeness or resemblance, but there was nothing. He’d been correct earlier; Hugh had always looked like his father. The same dark hair and somber brown eyes, the same chin and mouth.
“It doesn’t matter who sent me.” Eloisa was already uneasy to be in London; Hugh didn’t know if he could trust Sir Robert with the details of her visit and inquiry. “I’ve come because it appears Miss Barlow is missing, and a concerned party would like to find her.”
If the knight experienced any alarm or surprise at hearing his daughter was missing, he did not display it on his face. Nothing about him changed, other than a quick flare of his nostrils.
“Do you know where she is?” Hugh asked after a wasted moment spent waiting for the man to speak.
“Field Street Finishing School for Young Ladies, in Cheapside. She is headmistress there, and I highly doubt she is missing. She never leaves the place.” He spread his hands. “I receive a letter once or twice a year. I suppose I should be grateful she thinks of me at all.”
Hugh was accustomed to hearing the things people did not explicitly say. A bevy of disappointment and guilt bled through the knight’s self-deprecating comment.
“The two of you are at odds?”
“Some would say we are too alike to get on well,” Sir Robert replied. He was a straightforward man, not taking a moment to think or consider his replies. He didn’t prevaricate or ponder. He was somber, serious, and he struck Hugh as cold and emotionless. Not mean, exactly, but aloof.
“She gave me to the viscount,” Hugh presumed. At the man’s nod, he asked, “Why?”
Again, the answer released rapidly from the tip of Sir Robert’s tongue.
“My daughter was selfish and impudent, and her mistakes cost this family greatly,” he said.
“She and the viscount conducted themselves poorly, rashly. I have never been one for London; I don’t have the patience or tolerance for frippery or society, and I’d believed April to be the same. I was mistaken.”
Hugh ran his hand through his hair, his temples beginning to ache. So, his father had conducted an affair, but not with the nanny. With a lady of high birth. A young, unmarried lady. Hugh wanted that drink now, that was for damn sure.
He got up and went to the table where he’d left it, giving himself a moment to clear his mind and think of his next question.
While standing there, sipping slowly, his eyes coasted across a painting positioned on the wall before him.
It depicted two young women: one fair, the other slightly darker in complexion.
The darker haired woman sat primly, hands folded in her lap.
The other stood next to her chair, resting her hands on the dark-haired woman’s shoulders.
They both looked an awful lot like their father. That same dry expression. The same strong jaw and somber, flat lips.
“April is seated,” Sir Robert said, having noticed Hugh’s interest. “The other is her younger sister.”
Hugh’s eyes perused the dark-haired woman.
As he’d done with his grandfather, he waited to feel some pang of recognition, but all he could do was compare her to his memories of the woman who had raised him—his mother in truth, Catherine Marsden.
Catherine had worn her graying curls up, but a few had always escaped her pins and she would end up tucking them behind her ear.
Blue eyes, soft wrinkles, a kind smile. The fact that he had not resembled her in the least had never weighed on his mind; he’d simply taken after his father.
His eyes shifted to the other woman. His aunt.
She was the prettier of the two, but not by much.
A finer turned nose, doe-like lashes framing her eyes.
Had the scandal of April bearing a child out of wedlock been made known, her younger sister would have also been ruined.
Was that why April turned him over to the viscount?
But that had been so long ago. With time, all things fade.
His father had been dead for years. So had his mother—Catherine.
What had been stopping April Barlow, or her father for that matter, from contacting him and telling him the truth?
“All this time, you’ve known about me and stayed away,” Hugh said, a hollow sensation forming a pit in his stomach.
“It was what she wanted,” the old man said. “It was the agreement.”
“Agreement between whom?”
Sir Robert sealed his lips, a ready reply swallowed. “That is something you must ask her yourself.”
Determined to find her and do just that, Hugh tossed back the rest of his drink and took his leave.