Page 22 of The Rules of Courtship (Hearts of Harewood #3)
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rule #22: If one must face the firing squad, it is better to do so with a friend at one’s side
Oliver was an utter fool.
By the time he returned to Boone Park, Harrison told him his father was deep in a laudanum-induced sleep, and he took the opportunity to escape from his gathered family and attempt an early night.
Sleep would not come, however. He had used Ruth poorly that evening. As the sun had begun descending, he had stood on her father’s land and kissed her until he could not think straight. She certainly deserved better than him, and if she did not want to be married to him—what had she said, permanently ?—then he would grant her wish.
It was better this way, anyway. Now that he knew the truth about his parentage, he could not knowingly shackle himself to a woman he cared about. She deserved better than to ignorantly marry the natural son of an unmarried debutante. Oliver had no father, not anymore. If it had been a ruse, then the woman he had believed to be his mother—Joanna Rose, a poor woman from France—could very well not exist. It certainly explained why Grandmother had never liked to speak of her.
The truth of his past was sordid and unfit for Ruth’s ears, but Wycliffe would need to be apprised of it.
Not yet, though. Once Oliver told Wycliffe the state of things, the man would certainly desire the engagement be broken immediately, and Oliver had meant what he had said to Ruth earlier. A state of mourning was imminent, and they could use that to their advantage. It would give them time to turn the blame of the broken engagement on Oliver somehow.
The following morning, his body was sluggish and weary. He dressed and took his horse out for a ride, breathing in the clean, crisp air in preparation for a day spent in Captain Rose’s stuffy bedchamber. He might not have a father anymore, but the man was family—had stepped in and played the role for nearly thirty years. It was a strange position to find himself in, but Oliver could not very well abandon the man now.
When Oliver returned to Boone Park, exhausted from pushing his horse and riding hard through the fields, he came upon a visiting carriage he recognized and cursed under his breath. Samuel stood in the entryway of his home, an apologetic look on his face.
“Your mother is here,” Oliver said.
“Indeed. She is up with Captain Rose now.”
“Will you join us, then?”
“I intended to.” Samuel pulled out a snuffbox and took a pinch. “It was why I sacrificed raiding your cabinets to lay in wait for you here.”
“Rather early for a drink. It is not even ten in the morning, Sam.”
“That is another reason,” he said, flashing a grin.
Oliver could not help but laugh. They began making their way down the corridor and up the stairs. The ride, paired with his cousin’s support, went a long way toward making him feel better.
“How have you been?” Samuel asked.
“I am not the one who is ill.”
Samuel gave him a wry look. “Well, perhaps not. But there is a good deal going on in your life. Surely you do not expect to be unaffected.”
“I am anything but that,” he admitted. The sound of Aunt Harding’s voice filtered through the door, her shrill tone already driving his shoulders up around his neck. “Is your father here, too?”
“Yes. He and Uncle Charles have gathered.”
“And Aunt Rose?” Oliver asked.
“She chose to remain home.”
“Is there a particular reason they are ignoring the doctor’s advice and overwhelming the captain with too many visitors at one time?”
“You’ve met my parents,” Samuel said easily.
It was true. The Hardings were the most difficult of his relations. Aunt Harding was Uncle Charles’s sister and utterly ridiculous, but her husband was no better. They had struggled most of all when Grandmother had left her estate to Oliver, but thankfully had not gone so far as to cut him directly. Yet. If they knew the truth of things, they would find a way to lay blame at Oliver’s feet, and he did not need to be the reason for further division within his family.
“Shall I remain out here?” Samuel asked.
“I would prefer not to face them alone.”
Samuel nodded, following Oliver into the room. It was too warm, the drapes still pulled shut to contain the warmth and keep out the sunlight. A branch of candles was lit and resting on a small table beside the bed, throwing an orange glow over Captain Rose’s gaunt face. His eyes were half open, looking at his relatives. Another few candles were lit on the mantel, the mirror behind them throwing more light into the room.
“Is it a foreign disease?” Aunt Harding asked, seated on a chair far removed from her brothers and holding a handkerchief to her nose.
“We are not certain of the origin,” Uncle Charles said patiently. “But it is possible. Though Dr. Burnside believes that if it was contagious, the family who cared for William in Thistledale would have contracted it as well.”
“Oliver, come in,” Uncle Harding said, noticing them near the door.
Aunt Harding looked at him swiftly. Had she been informed that Oliver was apprised of the truth last night? He had run away, too fearful to ask additional questions, but now he was ready for the whole of it.
“Perhaps Samuel ought to leave. There are too many people in here,” Aunt Harding said.
“We are all family,” Uncle Charles said evenly. “Come in and sit down.”
Oliver remained standing. “I’m glad you are all here. I have quite a few questions, and I assume, between the three of you, that you’ll be able to answer every one of them.”
Silence fell over the room, each pair of eyes resting directly on him.
“Are we certain?—”
“Sister,” Uncle Charles snapped. “It is time.”
“Tell the boy everything,” Captain Rose rasped from the bed. “He deserves the truth.”
“What do they mean, Oliver?” Samuel asked.
Oliver glanced at his golden-haired, confused cousin, and gestured to the chairs resting against the wall. “You might want to sit down. I recently learned that Captain Rose is not actually my father. ”
Samuel dropped into the chair, his eyebrows reaching for his hairline. “Then who is?”
“That is what I would like to find out.”
“Perhaps we ought to start at the beginning,” Uncle Charles said.
Oliver lowered himself in the chair beside Samuel where he could see everyone, including Captain Rose, who lay on his bed, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed. “That would probably be best.”
“Your mother was in love,” Uncle Charles said. “Diana. My sister. She was in love with a man who worked on our estate, and our parents didn’t approve of the union. When she discovered she was with child, she and the man intended to elope, but my father discovered the plan and put a stop to it. The man was dismissed, and Diana was sent to the Continent on a Grand Tour so she could have the child in secrecy and return without anyone the wiser.”
“But she died in childbirth,” Oliver said, guessing at the truth.
“Yes, which presented a problem. William was already a captain in the navy, so he picked up the child—you, Oliver—and brought you to Boone Park under the guise of asking our mother to care for you. They falsified his marriage and claimed the woman he had married abroad had died in childbirth so you could be brought up legitimate.”
“And my father?”
“He was unaware of your existence,” Uncle Charles said.
Oliver had never wondered if his parents had loved one another. Indeed, he had spent his life believing his mother had been married to his father, that she had died bringing him into the world. But the question had crossed his mind on occasion why his father had been so distanced from him—why he did not choose to come home more often, to write more letters, to be generally more interested in Oliver’s life. The answer was plain. Because Captain William Rose was not his father. He had been shoved into the role without much choice—or so Oliver imagined—and in so doing, had saved Oliver from a lifetime of judgment for the way he had come into the world: to an unwed mother.
But now, nearly thirty years later, the truth was both a balm and a fresh source of pain. It explained why Captain Rose had not seemed to care as much about Oliver as one would expect a father to, but it also meant he could have a real father out there, and the man might not know.
“This is mad,” Samuel said, looking from his parents to Oliver. “How long have you known?”
Aunt Harding’s eyes were steel. “It was best for everyone involved to keep the secret.”
“Within the family, perhaps,” Samuel agreed. “But Oliver had a right to know.”
Weak, raspy coughing sounded from the bed, garnering everyone’s attention.
“We’re upsetting William,” Uncle Harding said, rising to his feet. “That is enough for now.”
Oliver agreed with his cousin. If they allowed the matter to drop for the time being, would his questions ever be answered? It felt like there was a ticking clock on this information, and if he did not learn everything while Captain Rose was still lucid, would he remain forever ignorant? “I deserve to know if my father lives nearby,” Oliver said. “Is he still alive?”
Silence sat in the room, only broken by Captain Rose’s wheezy breathing.
“Last I heard, yes,” Uncle Charles said, standing. “But he does not live here anymore. He took most of his family to America years ago.”
“Who is he?” Oliver pressed. He was warm, his cravat too tight. He needed another ride, but he had only just returned from one and it had not helped as much as he had hoped. He was veritably suffocating with anxiety, with the overwhelming smell of decay and incoming death, with the heat in the room and the waxy candles. It was overbearing.
Uncle Charles shared a look with Aunt Harding. “Come, Oliver. Let us leave William to rest and carry this conversation on in another room.”
A fit of coughing rent the room, killing the sound and causing everyone to watch the bed. “We should send for Dr. Burnside again,” Uncle Harding said.
If they left the room, they could say anything, knowing Captain Rose was not listening. The man who had spent thirty years pretending to be Oliver’s father seemed to be the only one who wanted him to have the full truth. But Oliver could not very well carry on a conversation that was causing the man distress, either. “I want to know where I come from.”
Uncle Charles nodded, passing a hand over his face. “Very well. You will. Come with me, Oliver. I will tell you everything.”