Page 20 of The Gentlewoman Companion (The Gentlewoman #4)

“Mr. Hunsaker is exceptional. You will have time to learn, and until you do, the estate will be in safe hands.”

“I can only accept your help, but I sense knowing about the lives of my tenants—about working people—would help me vote more honestly.”

She leaned forward and rested a hand on his fingers, stilling them. “You cannot expect to know everything, even if you had all the time in the world.”

Halverton rested his elbows to his knees and gripped his hair. “At Oxford, I was consumed with my studies. Then I could not tear myself from the wonders of travel. I would trade all that for five more minutes with my father.”

They fell silent, Halverton slipping into dark regret. “I should have spent more time at home, prepared myself for this.”

“There is no alternative to choices already made. Here we are, and everything is as it should be. Let us speak of what you can do today. Tell me, how is your speech?”

“I know very little about the Foundling Hospital. I’ve never been, but I will visit upon my return to London.”

“There is no requirement for you to speak.”

“Father would require it. I require it of myself. Besides, Tilney suggested it.”

Over the fireplace hung the late Lord Halverton’s portrait. Halverton marked the contrast between his father’s stern mouth and his kind eyes. The familiar, cavernous ache opened in his chest. His father was gone. No matter how much he wished it otherwise.

Halverton kissed his mother’s cheek and made his way into his father’s dressing room, where he sat on the floor, inhaling the musk that preserved his father’s memory.

Some of his father’s clothing hung from pegs, probably the last things he had worn before he’d fallen ill.

His shaving kit and snuff box were arranged on the dressing table as if the great Lord Halverton might enter the room at any moment.

He rose, removed his father’s coat from a peg, and slid his arms through cool satin lining.

It was as heavy and unfamiliar as Halverton’s new responsibilities.

And a poor fit. His father had been shorter and broader in the chest. He ran his palms against navy superfine and slid his hand into the pocket.

The sharp edge of paper scraped his palm.

He withdrew a letter folded many times until it was a thick square.

Since returning home, Halverton had spent hours reading his father’s correspondence, seeking wisdom that would never come from his father’s lips.

This forgotten missive felt intimate, a gift meant just for him.

His heart quickened as he cracked open the page. Inside, sepia ink spun words in large, swirling script, the date only weeks before his father’s passing. It was addressed to his father.

William,

One of your women, she called herself Jane, brought her son to me.

She claims it is yours and begs me to keep it until I hear from you.

How she knew about me I’ll never discover, for she is dead.

I now have two of your children to care for and the beauty of our time together diminishes amidst the ruckus of your boy.

Come, take care of this or send money. I knew I was not unique to you, but I find it distasteful of you to direct your offspring to my door.

Sarah Cooper

He sank to the floor and read the letter again, looking for any reason to doubt its meaning.

It could not be true. His father had criticized high society for their dalliances.

This must be blackmail, a fabricated letter meant to damage the Halverton name.

There were those who wished to besmirch the moral and dignified.

Who was this Sarah to accuse his father of such a thing?

A thousand bits of information converged.

His mother stayed in the country while others of their acquaintance went to town.

His father left for months at a time, even when parliament was not in session.

He’d always believed his mother did not like the city, but this was the woman who loved society and was anxious to accompany him to London now she was out of mourning.

He stood, letter in hand, ready with questions for his mother.

But what if she didn’t know? Should he tell her? She ever-praised her husband, his position, his influence among the lords. She taught her son to follow his father’s example.

“If a man sows his seed like a farmer in a field, let him keep it private and care for his offspring.” Halverton remembered his father’s comment because the sentiment had upset a dinner guest—who had probably been the object of the remark.

At the time, he had understood it as a statement of fidelity.

If the letter in his hand revealed the truth, he had misunderstood his father’s meaning. The implications sickened him.

Like mold inching over rot, a shadow darkened everything Halverton endeavored to become.

If this were true, his hero, his idol was not the man he had believed him to be.

He threw his father’s coat to the floor and kicked it into a corner, a groan growing in his chest until it could not be retained.

Bent in half, he cried out. He clapped his hand over his mouth, not wanting to draw the attention of his mother.

A few deep breaths calmed him. He stuffed the letter into his pocket and returned to his study.

Papers covered his desk in neat stacks, the same sorts of documents his father had forever been reading.

Halverton sat in the same leather chair his father had occupied, stood, and began pacing the room.

Blue light screamed through the windows.

The study was taciturn, the colors cold, no longer a refuge where he could hear the ghost of his father’s booming laughter, recall a clever turn of phrase, or catch a whisper of advice.

It was a place where he had felt his father’s approval. He didn’t want it anymore.

He left the room and found the housekeeper. “I would like to relocate the contents of the study.”

“If you’re certain, my lord?”

“Leave the furniture. I want only the books and papers. See to it they are arranged in the library.” He was almost growling. “Please,” he added in a softer tone.

The library was rarely used. His mother preferred the parlor and the drawing room. He would create his own haven, free of the burden his father had left behind.

He stomped toward the door that led outside. One letter did not convict a man, did it? In three weeks, he was due in London. Upon his arrival, he must find this Sarah and discover the truth.

T he colors of dusk filtered through crimson velvet curtains, lending a macabre haze to the room already darkened by mahogany bookshelves.

Halverton pushed his knight two squares forward and one square to the left, setting it in position to check a pawn.

He turned the board around. Moving the king would save the pawn, but was it worth the risk?

He swiped the board with his forearm, sending the pieces pattering onto thick, red carpet.

Resting his forehead on the table, he closed his eyes.

He could not stop thinking about the letter he had discovered in his father’s coat pocket.

If the letter represented truth, the stakes that had anchored his life were gone, sending him adrift.

Three days after the discovery of the damning letter and Halverton was still unable to read his correspondence, think about the House, or remember what his speech was about.

He ate, he slept, he stared at the library wall where a dark rectangle above the fireplace marked the place his father’s portrait had hung.

How could he wait three weeks to confirm his father’s character in London?

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder.

“Mother. I did not hear you come in.”

“What is bothering you?” She removed a rook from her chair, returned it to the chess board, and sat across the table from him.

How could he answer that question?

She waited.

“Do you miss him?” he asked.

“Your father? I am sorry he is gone.”

Not the same thing.

She sighed and leaned toward him. “After we lost Alice, your father began to stay in London for longer and longer periods. Then, you left for school, and he almost never came home. He blamed himself. I blamed him. We were never the same. I missed him long before we put him in the ground. Little changed for me when he died.”

Alice.

Halverton had been oblivious. Alice had been only a few months old when taken by a fever. He knew both his parents had been devastated by her loss, but at eight years old, he had not perceived the depth of their pain.

An oily nausea swirled in his stomach. His father had disappointed his mother, left her when she’d most needed him. The pristine ideal that was his father slowly crumbled. Was this evidence that his father had taken his pleasure in London?

She took his hand. “He was a fine man. Intelligent, charismatic. Some say he would have become Prime Minister. He would be so proud of you, of your efforts and integrity.”

But his father had had no integrity.

“How was Alice’s death his fault?”

“He wouldn’t send for the doctor.” She looked past him. “I begged him, and he insisted I was overly fraught. I was. I’d already lost a daughter. But he was also correct. No doctor could have saved her.”

Before Halverton was born, his parents’ first baby had been declared dead at birth. His mother rarely spoke of it. Though they had kept regular correspondence during the years he had been away, he did not know her any better than he had known his father.

“I didn’t know—I should not have stayed so long.”

“I never wanted to hold you back.”

The sentiment cut. She thought of his education and travels as gifts, but if he had remained at home, would his father have stayed also? Would the letter in his pocket exist?

“I have matters I must see to before I return to London,” he said.

“Of course. I hope you haven’t changed your mind about Louisa and me joining you.”

The concern in his mother’s warm brown eyes sent the ache inside to throbbing.

He wanted to be alone but could not leave her as his father had. As he had. “I look forward to fulfilling my promise to show you the town.” He turned as if to search through his correspondence.

She stepped from the room, glancing at him before closing him in.

The concern on her face lay deep in the line between her brows.

He must try to appear more cheerful. If he could do that, Miss Thorpe would do the rest. Her pleasant nature was good for both his mother and for him.

Not for the first time, a wave of gratitude surged for his mother’s unexpected companion, but it was soon replaced by dread at the thought of what revelations might await him in London.