She let out a little laugh. “This is… oh, my goodness.” She settled her gaze on him. “I have a brother. A full brother, not a half-brother. And we must, in fact, be twins.”
“I shall send a carriage for you, first thing, very early, at the hour of eight. You will breakfast with my grandmother and me at Neith Abbey. We shall discuss what happens from here.”
She scanned the license again, looking at her mother’s name and at the late Duke’s. He had been called Bartholomew, it seemed. It was all true.
She was the daughter of a duke.
The legitimate daughter of a duke.
She could hardly breathe.
“Yes?” said Neithern. “Breakfast is acceptable?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Very much acceptable. I am overcome.”
He clasped one of her hands in his. “As am I. It’s so good that you’ve come. I cannot tell you what it means to me, this connection to her, my mother. I feel as if some empty part of me, long hollow, is being filled for the first time.”
“Yes,” she said.
“You’ll tell me everything you know of her?”
“Of course,” she said. “I wish I had known her better as well. I will do as I can.”
THE CARRIAGE CAMEin the morning, but it did not take her to Neith Abbey.
Instead, the carriage came to a stop in the middle of the wood, and when it opened, a severe looking woman, who reminded Elizabeth rather a great deal of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was standing there.
She was regal, with her gray hair and her proper clothing. “Well, then,” she said. “Let me look at you.”
“I’m sorry, I thought I was to be taken for breakfast with the Duke of Neithern and his grandmother,” said Elizabeth.
“Iam the duke’s grandmother,” she said. She furrowed her brow, looking Elizabeth over, and she shook her head. “This is a disaster, I’m afraid.”
Elizabeth clasped her hands together. “If you’re concerned that I will bring scandal down on the heads of the family, I must assure you, I have no intention of doing that.”
“No intention at all, which is why you’re here and stirring things up with my grandson,” said the dowager duchess, pressing her lips together. “This can’t be known, whatever your name is. I am confused about that. Are you married or not?”
“I am,” said Elizabeth. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam is my name.”
“Mrs. Fitzwilliam, this cannot be known. But I have no idea what the solution may be. I must think on it. I need time, I tell you.”
“I have questions,” said Elizabeth.
“Oh, I’m certain you do,” said the dowager duchess. “I have questions, too. I understood Matilda Bennet died in childbirth twenty years ago after giving birth to a single child, a boy child.My servants confirmed seeing her body. They confirmed she was quite, quite dead.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say to that,” said Elizabeth. “My aunt—mother, mymother. She only died recently, a few months ago. You had the marriage license with her name on it all along?”
“Oh, my son had it, amongst his papers,” said the duchess. “I don’t know that I have seen it or known the name of the woman, to be truthful. I know that I became aware that my son was married and had sired a child because some man… some French man made me aware of it.”
Larilane.
“However,” the duchess continued, “whatever your questions may be, you will hold onto them until such time as it seems prudent to delve into them. You will now answermyquestions to my satisfaction.”
Elizabeth was even more reminded of Lady Catherine. The duchess was quite used to ordering people about and to having people do as she said, it seemed. Elizabeth supposed a duchess would be used to such things. “I assure you, Your Grace,” she said, “I am not here with any ill intentions. You needn’t treat me as if I am here to do you harm.”
The duchess scoffed. “As if the likes of you could harm the ancient institution that is the Dukedom of Neithern. Answer my questions, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”
Elizabeth drew in a steadying breath and gazed at the other woman, her expression cool. She waited.
