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The letter expounded, explaining rather candidly the terms of her father’s preposterous will. She expressed with some vehemence, her distaste for the proviso, and her reluctance to comply. And yet, her tone was, in fact, resigned.
Gabriel peered up once more, uncertain how it was he was supposed to react to the letter’s disclosure—or to his father’s apparently well-kept secret. “You’ve corresponded with her before?”
His father nodded, nodding at the carton at his side. Half-heartedly, Gabriel peered into the box, finding the answer to his question. It was filled to the brim with crusty old letters. Andthough his brain went suddenly numb, his hand automatically reached into the carton, withdrawing a letter... addressed to his father... from Lady Margaret Willingham—and then another. And another.
He cast an unsettled glance at his father as he removed a fistful of papers from the storage container.
Through all these years, he’d never once dared seek Maggie out—not even for a fleeting glimpse—not since the day he’d left Blackwood at her father’s command. He’d been handsomely compensated for his departure—his father, too. In fact, it had afforded Gabriel an education the likes of which no lad of his station might ever have acquired. And for his part, they had given his father a substantial enough pension so that he, too, might enjoy the last of his days without working his fingers to nubs. And for all this, Gabriel might have been grateful, but he’d chosen anger as his balm and he’d wallowed in it day by day, year after year.
All this while… his father had been corresponding with her.
In Gabriel’s youthful pride, he’d vowed to eradicate Maggie from his memory, and to vindicate himself to the world. And so, he’d committed his years to furthering his assets and his influence, resolved to show Blackwood he could make money enough to provide for any man’s daughter. But somewhere along the way, he’d forgotten hisraison d’ê·tre. Growing his business and his money had become objectives unto themselves, and he’d stepped on backs aplenty to gain what he’d desired. And even so, he’d never truly forgotten her—nor his anger. That much was achingly clear to him as he stared at the elegant scribble of her pen.
“She spent a great deal of time after you left reading in the rose arbor,” his father explained. “I got to know her well.”
Gabriel couldn’t be certain what he was feeling. But there was no denying the churning in his gut, or the anger he suddenly felttoward his father for keeping Margaret’s letters from him. “You never said.” His tone was clipped, cool, restrained.
It was a long, long moment before his father seemed able to find his own voice. “I thought it best, son. He gave usso muchmoney to leave her be. He didna even want me near her, and, as you know, he asked me to leave, as well. Your ma and I decided it was best to hide the letters.”
Gabriel pursed his lips. What good would it do him to be angry now? What was done was done. The time to make things right with Margaret had long since passed. Even so, he felt a sense of emptiness as he reached into the box, his eyes scanning the addresses.So many letters.
“You did nothing wrong, Da. These letters are all addressed to you, not to me. What concern are they to me?”
Once again, his father shrugged. “Before you come to any conclusions, I think you should read them, son,” he said. “All of them.”
Gabriel longed to pick the carton up and push it across the desk, but he needed to read them. Some part of him regretted all this time, never knowing how she’d fared, never having asked, never daring to insinuate himself upon her life. He’d gone through his years shoving Margaret’s image from his memory, trying not to think of her—mostly because every time he did so, he saw her face as it was the day he’d left her at the foot of their favorite hill—and felt anger anew that he’d been judged and found unfit for theprincess of Blackwood.They were only children... but Gabriel had fancied himself in love with the lass, and none of the proper lovers he’d known since—even in their maturity—had ever come close to filling the void Margaret left. And yet… so much time had passed…
She likely couldn’t pick him out of a crowd, and he wasn’t too certain he would recognize her either… except he could… he’d kept track of her comings and goings… from a distance.
Oblivious to his father’s presence, he began to read, commencing with the letter he held in his hand, and found that, in the most recent, written within the past two years, there was no mention of Gabriel at all.
But he pulled out a few more and found one that was written soon after his departure. The entire letter was an inquiry of him: How did he fare at school? Did he ever ask about her? Did he like his new friends? Had anyone thought to send him a blanket?Because in winter one could never have enough blankets.
He glanced up, his gaze drawn toward the rocker, to the blanket his mother had sent him that first winter after he’d gone to school and his eyes stung.
His father seemed to understand what he was thinking. “Your mother wept for weeks after you left. When Margaret suggested sending a blanket, she commenced to stitching it at once, and she and your sisters worked night and day to complete it. It was a good idea.”
Gabriel turned to look into his father’s eyes. They were red-rimmed over the memory he’d shared, but full of affection. “I’ve never said this to you, Gabe. Perhaps I’ll never have the chance to say it again... I love you, son. Anything we did, we did because we thought it was the right thing to do.”
“I know, Da,” Gabriel said, as he reached into the box again, eager to learn more. He searched for and found a few more written about the same time: more of the same page-long inquiries, only vaguely aware that his father rose from the chair. “I realize it’s been a long time, but read them all, and I think you’ll know what to do. In the end, a man must do what he must, son. Ken?”
Gabriel nodded, and his father left him to peruse the letters in privacy. The majority had been written during the first three years after his departure for Eton. And then, very slowly, they’d dwindled. By the final few years, her letters had grown sparse,nor had she asked after him any longer. A tinge of melancholy passed over him.
If he closed his eyes... he could almost remember the way she’d looked that day when she’d told him she could no longer see him... the anguished expression on her lovely face... her beautiful hair shining beneath the noonday sun, her green eyes sparkling with diamond-like tears.
He could not forget the way it made him feel.
Somehow, through all their childhood together, he’d managed to overlook the disparaging differences in the sizes of their homes. He’d forgotten... every time she’d smiled at him... that he’d had holes in his breeches, and sleeves that were much too short. She, on the other hand, had worn silks with fragile white lace. He’d failed to comprehend what it had meant that whilst she’d had servants to tend her, his family did the serving. And then, for the first time in Gabriel’s life, he’d been made painfully aware of the differences between them… that day, in his innocence, he’d promised never to forget her. God knows he’d tried, despite his vow. She’d promised never to forget him, too…
He stared at the letters scattered over his desk now—somanyletters. She’d kept her promise for so long, and Gabriel realized that he’d failed her. But he could still make amends. It wasn’t too late.
His father was right, he did know what to do. Margaret Willingham needed someone who would set her free once wed; he could be that man.
First thing tomorrow morning, he’d speak to Philip Goodman. She didn’t seem to understand that whatever contract her agent might draw up for her, no matter how solidly worded, it would be much too easily breached. Any man with suitable connections could render her prenuptial bootless with so little industry it would make her head spin. As an attorney, Gabrielunderstood how effortless that undertaking could be. Even after the Hardwicke Marriage Act, which effectively tightened some of the conditions for marriage, once a husband and wife exchanged vows, the wife lost, for all intents and purposes, all rights over any property she possessed. All she owned came into the control and disposal of her husband—everything, even so far as herself—prenuptial be damned.
Gabriel was suddenly determined to ensure that Margaret was well and duly protected. He refused to allow her to lose everything when she’d labored so long and hard to earn what little her father had bequeathed her.
Neither did he need her money. Thanks to her father’sgenerosityand the success of his firm, he was more than comfortable.