Page 17 of The Wayward Lady (The Wayward Widows of Willoughby Hall #1)

T he next morning, Kendrick woke up with Lavender sprawled across his chest. He stroked his hand down her smooth back, knowing that if things went his way at the orphanage today, he wouldn’t be able to be with her like this for the rest of the trip. He sighed softly, trying to keep his panic at bay and enjoy the last calm moment.

The memories of last night played themselves over and over in his mind, making him shift uncomfortably. He couldn’t believe the things she’d said, the things she’d done to him. He had never been with anyone who was so adventurous and willing. She was a true partner in every sense of the word.

At last, she began to stir beside him, blinking up at him with those blue eyes that had somehow become the center of his world.

Which made what he had to say all the more difficult. “I think I should go to the orphanage alone today.”

A spark of hurt flickered in those expressive eyes, but she quickly masked it. “Oh, of course. I understand.”

“Do you?” he asked softly. “I just... It’s going to be so difficult to see her after all these years. I think those first moments should be just for her and me. It might be confusing for her if you were there as well.”

“Yes,” she whispered, and this time, she didn’t do as good at hiding her hurt feelings. “I shouldn’t be part of that.”

She pushed away from him and sat up, pulling the sheet around her, looking as though she felt exposed and vulnerable. “I just... I’ll wait for you here,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “I hope...”

She trailed off, then stood up, hurriedly gathered her clothes, and went back across the sitting room to her own room, quietly shutting the door behind her.

He suddenly wished he had just let her come with him. He knew she would make everything better and didn’t know why he’d thought otherwise. He was just so nervous about this first interaction with his daughter. If things didn’t go well, if she wasn’t even there... He would need a few moments alone to process that, and he didn’t want her to see him in such a state.

In any event, now it was too late. Anything he said to try and rectify the situation would just make things worse.

He sighed and got ready for the day, then knocked softly on her bedroom door. “I’m leaving now,” he called softly.

For a minute, he thought she wouldn’t answer, but then the door opened, and she smiled at him, putting on a brave face. He loved her for that.

“Good luck,” she told him. “I hope everything goes well. I will be thinking of the two of you all day.”

He pulled her in his arms and held her for a few minutes, drawing strength. “Thank you,” he murmured. “For everything.” He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head and then swiftly turned away while he still could.

Finally, he set out on the last leg of a journey that had taken him seven years. The innkeeper had given him rough instructions to the orphanage, though he was certain he would have to ask for further instructions along the way. He was glad that it was within walking distance. He could use a few moments to stretch his legs and prepare himself for whatever was going to happen.

The city spread before him like a vibrant tapestry with splashes of color that danced under the azure sky. Orange blossoms perfumed the air, mingling with the sizzle of meats from street vendors’ carts. Throngs of people bustled about their business, their voices rising and falling in an unfamiliar cadence. Fruit stalls erupted in riots of reds and yellows, and the aroma of freshly baked bread flirted with his senses, a stark contrast to the staid propriety of his English home.

“ Discul pe,” he ventured as he approached an old woman selling oranges and squash, his voice rough with disuse of the language, and asked her the way to the orphanage, “ ?Dónde está el orfanato? ”

The vendor, a woman with lines etched by the sun and years, squinted up at him, her hands never ceasing their work of arranging the day’s produce. Her response tumbled forth in rapid Spanish, the words colliding in a cascade that left Kendrick fumbling for comprehension. He caught fragments, enough to give him the general direction, then gestured thank you and pressed a coin into her palm before moving on.

With each attempt to bridge the gulf of language, Kendrick’s isolation grew more pronounced. A child ran past, laughter trailing like a kite in the breeze, and Kendrick’s heart clenched with memories of the little girl he had once loved so much. So much time lost. Would they ever be able to get that connection back?

As the marketplace gave way to quieter streets, Kendrick reviewed the scant information he had gathered. Left at the florist whose fragrant wares spilled onto the sidewalk, straight past the fountain where pigeons cooed and pecked at scattered crumbs, then a right at the church with its doors open wide, as if inviting all of life’s wanderers to enter.

His journey had taken him from the solitude of his study, surrounded by the trappings of success, to this lively canvas of humanity. He couldn’t believe he was finally almost there.

At last, Kendrick came upon the orphanage’s gravel path. The building loomed before him, its facade pockmarked with the passage of time—crumbling stucco and shutters hanging askew. He imagined thousands of children had been banished to this place over the years, and he hated that Miranda had been one of them.

He paused at the threshold, trying to catch his breath and blink away the sting in his eyes. Finally, he raised a hand to knock but found the door creaking open under his touch, revealing a dimly lit foyer that smelled faintly of wax and wool.

“ Senor ?” A voice cut through his reverie, hesitant but not unkind.

Kendrick turned to the source, his gaze falling upon a woman clad in the drab colors of service, her face etched with lines like a map of cares and woes. She regarded him with the weary skepticism of one who had seen too many strangers pass through these doors bearing hollow promises.

“ Disculpe ,” Kendrick began nervously. “ Estoy buscando a mi hija. Me dijeron que reside aquí.”

I am searching for my daughter. I was told she resides here.

His Spanish, though carefully practiced, fumbled on his tongue, thick with the cadence of his English roots. The woman’s gaze did not waver as she took his measure. He wondered what she saw.

“Many children reside here,” she said slowly in English, having obviously pegged him as British immediately. “What is her name?”

“Miranda Wycliffe,” he whispered, glad that she knew English. Though Isabella had tried to teach him Spanish, that had been years ago, and he had never been that good at it. “Her mother’s name was Isabella.”

The mention of names kindled recognition in the woman’s eyes. Yet she crossed her arms, a barrier as formidable as any wrought iron gate.

“Many come claiming kinship,” she said. “What proof do you offer that you are indeed her father?”

Kendrick reached into his coat, handing over his marriage license and Miranda’s baptismal certificate. Hopefully, that would be sufficient. “Isabella left me seven years ago and took Miranda with her,” he told the woman. “I only recently found out that she had died and that Miranda had ended up here.”

The woman’s expression softened, if only slightly. She glanced up at Kendrick, her scrutiny now tinged with a reluctant compassion.

“Wait here,” she instructed, her voice no longer brusque but not yet welcoming. “I will speak with the Mother Superior.”

As she disappeared into the bowels of the orphanage, Kendrick was left alone in the foyer, the weight of years pressing down upon him.

Miranda must be here. The woman hadn’t told him that she wasn’t.

At last, the nun returned and gestured for him to follow her. Their footsteps echoed hauntingly through the narrow orphanage corridors, and her robes whispered against the stone floors. The air was thick with the scent of boiled cabbage and worn linen, a stark reminder of the meager existence within these walls. They passed doorways that stood like silent sentinels, each one giving him a glimpse of the children who had been abandoned here.

Their eyes, which had probably once been bright with curiosity, were now dimmed by years of uncertainty. He saw rows of small beds, their possessions scant and treasured—a wooden horse... a threadbare doll...

Kendrick’s heart constricted as he realized that his precious daughter had been living in such reduced circumstances. For the thousandth time, he wondered why Isabella had allowed this. Had she truly hated him so much? As they moved through the sea of little faces, he searched for the familiar dark eyes that haunted him.

At last, they reached a door at the far end of the corridor, its paint chipped and handle worn from the grasp of countless hands. The nun paused before pushing it open. Inside, the sunlight fought bravely through the dust-laden windows, casting golden beams upon a solitary figure seated on the edge of a bed, her gaze focused on the pages of a tattered book.

“Miranda.” The nun’s voice broke the hushed atmosphere, and the girl looked up. Her eyes, a reflection of Kendrick’s, widened with a flicker of fear, then suspicion.

“Your father has come,” the nun announced, stepping aside to reveal Kendrick’s towering frame in the doorway.

Kendrick stepped forward, his gaze drinking her in. “Miranda,” he said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper, rich with emotions long suppressed.

The girl—no longer the child he remembered but not yet the woman she was destined to become—rose slowly. A tangled halo of dark curls framed her delicate face, her mother’s beauty unmistakable even in the austere setting. He tried to see the child he’d known, but there was so little left of her. Just those bottomless dark eyes.

Kendrick cleared his throat and attempted the few Spanish phrases he had rehearsed on the journey. “ Mi hija ,” he murmured, the words clumsy on his tongue. “ Soy tu padre .”

Miranda reached out, her fingers brushing against the rough stubble of his cheek, then jerked her hand back as though she hadn’t expected him to be real. Her lips parted, but language failed her. The English words from her early childhood were probably muddled and distant.

“ Padre ,” she whispered, a tentative acknowledgment wrapped in uncertainty.

Kendrick pointed to himself, saying “Papa” with a hopeful inflection.

A smile flickered across her face. “ Si, Papa ,” Miranda said, the title foreign yet fitting, as if she was trying on a dress tailored for another lifetime.

“Miranda,” Kendrick began again, his voice stronger now. “I’ve come to take you home.”

A single tear breached Miranda’s long dark lashes, and she took a halting step forward. Kendrick closed the distance, his arms opening in a silent offer of sanctuary. Their embrace was awkward, with the angles and edges of a bond fractured by time, but it held the promise of healing, and for a moment, he thought everything was going to be all right.

But then she pulled away, shaking her head. “No,” she said, a mix of sadness and determination on her lovely face. “I will stay. I will stay with Rafael and Teresa.”

“Rafael and Teresa?” He glanced at the nun. “I don’t understand.”

“Rafael and Teresa are her younger brother and sister,” the nun supplied in halting English.

“Brother and sister?” He knew he was parroting her words, but he couldn’t help himself. Isabella had more children after she left him? While she was still married to him? He forced down his anger, his mind racing as he tried to understand what this meant for him. He turned back to Miranda. “You have a brother and sister. You don’t want to leave them. Of course, you don’t.”

She nodded, relief flooding her features. “They go, too?”

Those three words shook him to the core. Was this the cost of having his daughter back in his life? Must he welcome Isabella’s by-blows as well? It seemed a cruel joke, as though Isabella was having one last laugh at his expense from the grave.

He looked back toward the nun. “Is that even possible?” he asked, hoping she might take the decision away from him.

She bit her lip. “If you’d like to adopt them, it could be arranged.”

Kendrick’s mind whirled with this sudden turn of events. He couldn’t imagine taking not only his daughter but her half-siblings as well. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d raise one child, let alone three. The logistics of it all were mind-boggling. Every part of him wanted to say no, but Miranda had lost enough already. He couldn’t ask her to leave them behind. These children were a part of Miranda, her own flesh and blood if not his, and he couldn’t turn away from them.

“Yes,” Kendrick said, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside him. “I’ll take Rafael and Teresa home with us.”

Relief flooded Miranda’s face, but also suspicion. She obviously hadn’t expected him to agree to her demand and didn’t trust that he had.

The nun nodded in approval, her expression softening. “I will go and speak to Mother Superior. I think she will agree, and then we will make the necessary arrangements for their adoption.”

“Can I meet them?” he asked, realizing that everything was moving far too quickly. He wished again that he had brought Lavender with him today. She would know what to do. He’d been such a fool to believe he could do this without her.

The nun gave a gentle smile and nodded. “Of course. They are in the common area with the other children. I will bring them here.”

As she left to retrieve Rafael and Teresa, Kendrick turned his attention back to Miranda. She stood there, a mix of emotions playing across her face—relief, apprehension, hope... but also anger. He felt a surge of protectiveness toward her, a fierce determination to make up for the lost years, to be the father he should have been all along.

“I didn’t know your mother had passed away,” he told her in an attempt to explain his long absence, hoping she still understood enough English to know what he was saying. “No one ever informed me. She hid you away from me, Miranda. I have been looking for you all these years.”

She dropped her gaze, her shoulders stiffening, and he realized that he should not have started by criticizing her mother, who was not only dead but the only parent she probably remembered.

“I want to give you a good life,” he continued. “I have a lovely house by the sea.”

Her gaze flicked up to him, but again, she was silent. He didn’t know if it was because she couldn’t find the English words or because she had nothing to say.

When the nun returned with Rafael and Teresa, Kendrick’s heart clenched at the sight of the two young children. Rafael had dark, unruly hair like Miranda and shared her piercing gaze. He looked as though he was about the same age Miranda had been the last time he saw her. Isabella must have gotten pregnant with him mere months after she left Kendrick. Teresa was adorable, perhaps four, with light brown hair and freckles sprinkled across her nose. Her green eyes were wide with curiosity and a hint of wariness. The difference in their appearances led him to believe that they had two different fathers, and his fury toward Isabella, already immense, grew even more.

All those years, he had been faithful...

“Rafael, Teresa,” Miranda called out softly. The two children looked up and hesitated before making their way over to where Miranda stood. She bent down and whispered to them in rapid-fire Spanish. The smaller children looked at him with wide eyes, fear and fascination flickering over their faces.

“Ask them if they want to come live with me,” he said, feeling as though the entire situation was spiraling out of control. But he felt they should have some say in their future as well. He couldn’t very well take them out of here kicking and screaming.

The conversation continued so fast that his limited grasp of Spanish couldn’t keep up. Finally, Miranda gave him a weak smile. “Yes, Papa. We will go with you to England.”

Her English was only slightly accented, and he was relieved that she must have understood him. She must have retained quite a bit.

Teresa ran over to him and wrapped her arms around his legs. She was absolutely adorable, and his heart melted. “ Gracias .”

The boy came toward him as well, more cautious, a world of broken promises reflected in his dark eyes as he took Kendrick’s measure. “Thank you, sir.” His English was surprisingly good as well, making Kendrick wonder if Isabella had spoken it with her children. She had been born in England, though her parents were Spanish, so it had been her native tongue.

He patted Teresa’s shiny hair gently, meeting the little boy’s hopeful eyes. “You’re very welcome. Shall we get this adoption started?”