Page 30 of A Gentleman’s Offer

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‘Your sister…?’

Dominic took her hand and drew her to the sofa. ‘Annie is my half-sister,’ he said. ‘My father’s natural child. Angela is her mother. You must have noticed the great resemblance between them, now that you have seen them both. I would have told you all, once I’d had a chance to ask Angela for her permission to share her secret with you, but I’ve had no chance to speak to her. I hope she’ll forgive me now – I hope they both will – but I can’t let you labour under such a misapprehension any longer. It’s too important to me.’

Meg sat, suddenly weak-kneed, and he joined her, saying urgently, ‘I must tell you the whole story, so that you may understand. Angela was no kept woman, and he no careless seducer. They loved each other till he died.’

He hesitated, as if revealing his family secrets cost him something, and then went on, ‘My parents’ marriage was arranged, as you know, and it was no happier than your parents’ union, though there was no such open breach between them, just a growing coldness. As they grew further apart, my father devoted more of his attention to his charitable foundation. The energy he expended on his beloved project was a greater and greater source of friction between them, since my mother disapproved of it and saw it as an unbecoming way of spending his time, and so their estrangement increased even more – it’s hard to tell at this distance which came first, and perhaps it scarcely matters now. In any case, it was there that he met Angela – she was a nurse, a very good one, employed to look after the children, and very quickly she became vital to the success of the whole endeavour, and the real head of it. Annie is three years younger than me, and by the time she was born my parents were all but separated, though they lived under the same roof still. It’s not my place to justify my father’s infidelity – it’s none of my business and I have no right to judge him – and I must always feel sorry for my mother, but Annie is my sister, and her boys, Toby and Nick, are my nephews. I am very fond of them, rascals though they are. I’m sure you could see that, though you misinterpreted the cause of it.’

‘Her husband was not with you, though, or I suppose I could not have jumped to such a foolish conclusion…’

‘He’s a lieutenant in the militia. Tom Gilbert, a very good fellow. He grew up in the children’s home, playing with Annie and falling in love with her, but was later adopted by a prosperous Anglo-Portuguese merchant family who paid for his education and helped him commence his military career. His regiment has been posted in the north until now, but they have just been transferred to Hertfordshire, and so Annie has brought the boys to town for a while to spend time with their grandmother, and with me. We haven’t seen them for several months – as you can imagine, it’s hard for Angela to get away for long, so this move so much closer will be a boon to her, and to Annie.’

It was a great deal to take in. ‘Does your mother know of their existence, then?’

Dominic said sombrely, ‘Until yesterday I would have sworn that she did not. But I know now that she does – she tells me she has always known, and that she was aware of Annie’s birth too, and felt, still feels, great bitterness and anger. My father only told me all when he was dying, nine years ago, to make sure that I would have a care for them when he was dead. I have kept his secret from her ever since. But I knew them well already, since my own childhood. He took me with him often, when he went to visit the foundation, and that was another source of conflict between him and my mother. Now, of course, I know that it was not just a concern for my safety or even a desire to keep me far away from children she considered low, unsuitable playmates; no, she knew that I was spending time with Angela and Annie, and growing close to them. She was jealous, and I suppose I cannot blame her. As with your parents, mine did not bring out the best in each other, but always the worst. It is a sadness to me to see this continuing even now that my father is long dead. I would hope my own life and marriage could be very different.’

Meg was astonished, but it did not occur to her to disbelieve him. She could see how it all fitted together, and Angela’s words and her friendly attitude to Dominic, which had previously puzzled her so much, now made perfect sense. She felt almost faint with relief. ‘I gravely misjudged you. I owe you an apology, it seems.’

‘And I you. You would have been spared this anxiety if I had told you sooner, and I should have done, Meg, because I learned something yesterday from my mother that is of great importance to both of us. I knew I should tell you, and we must tell your sister too, but I hesitated to do so, and that was wrong.’

‘Tell me…’ she said instantly. ‘Do not fear to hurt me. I was foolish not to come forward when I saw you this morning, but instead leapt to conclusions that were unjustified. I had almost decided – no, I had decided to marry you, despite all the troubles that still beset us. I was going to write to you and tell you so, and then I saw you…’

He took her in his arms, and she sighed and snuggled closer. ‘You were jealous,’ he said, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice.

‘I suppose I was, but more than that – I felt I could not trust you. Not that you had betrayed me precisely, for you had made me no promises of fidelity, but that you were not the person I thought you were. I was happy, Dominic, and excited, thinking of a future with you, and then… it all melted away from me, and I felt so sick and foolish.’

‘I will make such promises,’ he said, his hands warm on her body, smiling down at her tenderly. ‘I do make them, very gladly, and will keep them. There are women in my past – a few, not many – but in my future there is only you. You’re all I want and need.’

‘Oh, Dominic…’ she sighed. She pulled down his face and kissed him, a sort of fierce claiming, and he matched her in passion and in certainty. Despite the many difficulties they still faced, they had chosen each other, and this long kiss sealed it.

After a while she pulled away a little and said, ‘I am beginning to know you, and I can tell that you are still troubled, and cannot quite forget it even as you kiss me. Tell me, my dear, whatever it is, and we will face it. All these secrets are so dangerous, it seems to me. They eat away at one’s judgement and cloud one’s vision. Let us be completely done with them.’

‘Yes, I think that’s right, though perhaps sometimes easier to say than to do.’ He grimaced, but went on, still holding her, taking comfort and giving it, ‘Very well, my dear. You are right, of course. My mother told me yesterday that the marriage was no plan of my father’s – that was a lie she concocted to persuade me. And the scheme was not hers either; instead, she felt she had no choice in the matter, and was desperate to bring about the match for the most disturbing reason. I am sorry to say that your father is blackmailing her.’

Meg remained silent for a moment, aware of Sir Dominic’s eyes on her face. Her brain was whirling, struggling to fit all these pieces together to form a coherent picture. ‘He had learned your father’s secret,’ she said at last, once she had digested this most unexpected and unwelcome news and made some sense of it.

‘Yes, exactly that, though I still have no idea how. I have realised since yesterday that perhaps he did not actually know the full truth, but was guessing based on some rumour he happened to recall, and my mother’s horrified reaction only confirmed his suspicions. It scarcely matters, after all. My mother is extremely anxious that it should not be spread abroad, and so complied with his insistence that she press the match on me. He certainly cannot complain that she has not done exactly as he asked. But I doubt that will be enough to satisfy him if the marriage with your sister does not go ahead.’

He sighed, letting her go at last and running his hands through his immaculate honey-brown locks and disarranging them in a way that showed how disturbed he was. Her fingers itched to smooth them back into their habitual order, as an excuse to touch him again, to be close to him, but this was scarcely the time.

‘My poor mama does not emerge with a great deal of credit from the crisis. I expect you can imagine her ignoble reasons for wanting to keep matters secret. They go beyond the understandable wish not to be humiliated before all the world by the knowledge that her husband had a mistress and a child. Such illicit affairs and their result are common enough, in all conscience; that is not what she minds. And however little sympathy I have with her motives, it would be useless to deny that Angela and Annie would be the ones who suffered most if the truth were revealed. Not that she cares for that, of course, but I do. I must. For one thing, I imagine it would be nigh on impossible for Angela to continue in her present situation, which is so much more than a job to her, if the fact of Annie’s illegitimacy were revealed. It has been hard enough for her in the past, when she was pretending to be a widow. She could lose her position, her home of many years and her purpose in life. Of course I will always support her, but she is a proud woman and places a high value on her independence, as why should she not? And Tom Gilbert’s adoptive family would hardly welcome the public scandal and notoriety, even though they do already know the truth of Annie’s parentage. A great many people would be hurt, most of them entirely innocent. The poor lost street children most of all, if Angela is taken from them. It’s like a stone thrown in a pond – the ripples spreading outwards. Ripples of malice.’

‘I am so sorry.’ The words seemed sadly inadequate; Meg felt helpless in the face of this new catastrophe.

He shook his head emphatically. ‘There is no need at all for you to apologise for your father’s conduct. You have been as much a victim of his freakish behaviour as anyone else, as has your sister. But now you see why I hesitated to tell you, and why I knew I must at last. It is most unhappy tidings, and makes matters even more complicated.’

‘I suppose I cannot be surprised at anything he does. His motives are always a mystery to me, and I am quite ready to believe him capable of anything hurtful. But Dominic, this explains a great deal, but it does not explain everything. Why is my father so anxious to marry Maria to you, and willing to go to such extraordinary lengths to gain his desire? The news of his horrible blackmail scheme makes it all the more inexplicable, really, not less. What possible reason can there be for such desperate urgency? Whatever can he hope to gain from it?’