Mr. Lawson nodded and left.
John stared at the letter on the desk. He could pitch it into the fire. He probably should. And yet the idea of one last communication from his father was too tempting. He was still angry with the man and the visit to Mary Forster had done little to disrupt that. He still wanted to understand why his father had stitched up such a snare for him. With those thoughts, he tore open the letter.
Dear Son,
If you are reading this letter, I have presumed on your good nature past the point of endurance. For that, I am gravely sorry, just as I am very regretful that I must presume upon it further.
By now, you have succeeded in finding Mary Forster and giving her an annuity—to that, she is entitled, and I knew you would prevail upon her to take it, particularly when you explained the circumstances in which I situated the funds. I also flatter myself that she has enough regard left for me that she will not refuse my dying wish.
I wronged both her and your mother. I loved the two of them in different ways and, in giving up neither, lost both. For that, I apologize to you as well, for you too had to bear the consequences of my recklessness.
I do not presume to give you advice, my son, given my own failings, but I would be remiss if I did not share the one piece of wisdom I have paid for in pain beyond measure. If you ever love a woman, really and truly, seize any opportunity you have to unite yourself to her, even if the price seems too high or the obstacle insurmountable. If you survive to my age, you will live to watch this supposed mountain dwindle to an anthill.
I write you this letter, however, not to give you the final tidings a good father should communicate to his son upon his deathbed. I have been, at best, a tolerable father to you and, even now, I still stand to give you more difficulty.
I have told Lawson to give you this missive because your sister deserves to know the truth. I am sorry for the pain that this information will cause—to you and to her—but it will be invariably better than keeping this secret any longer. I trust you to find a way to tell her. I know you will do what I never had the courage to do. For this again, my boy, I apologize once more, but I rest easier knowing my faults have made you infinitely better than I ever was. I can forgive the hard masters of my own existence when I know I have a son and heir who will inevitably surpass me in every way.
Therefore, I must tell you the truth. Henrietta is not your mother’s child. She is the natural child of Mary Forster and myself. Henrietta was born at Edington Hall, to Mary Forster, on that very night you returned from school all those years ago. I concealed the truth from you as well as the rest of the world. Please, find a way to tell your sister this truth gently. She deserves to know that she has one parent left living.
For years, you have been my pride. I have always thanked God that I have you, my son and heir, to carry on the line. Despite our differences, you have been a great comfort to me in recent years and, as ill as I am at present, it contents me greatly to know that, if I should fail, you will be there to guide Henrietta. For I know that even this rude knowledge of her true parentage could never disrupt the love you bear her.
With all my love,
Your father
John had to read the letter a few times over. He felt like he was not absorbing the words, even though he understood their semantic meaning after his first glance across the page. The room didn’t spin, but seemed to almost recalibrate, as if his very being was forced to adjust to this new knowledge.
His mind spun back to that farmhouse near the sweet bend in the river, to the figure of Mary Forster, and that eerie familiarity that had surrounded her every movement. He had attributed that sensation to his memories of Mary Forster herself, so potent and terrible. But now he wondered if he had recognized more in her movements.
She was small like Henrietta, with the same delicate features and thinness, like a doll. Yes, he could see it—how they could be mother and daughter.
He felt a strange lightness as he looked around what had been his father’s study, what had been the scene of that awful day. Everything looked different in the wake of this information, which he could not yet fully understand and yet made a horrible kind of sense. Perhaps, on some level, he had always known. Perhaps, it was why the scandal had ripped through him, even years later, because he could tell something was unsettled in the air of Edington Hall. It had been a mistruth hiding in plain sight, in the guise of his innocent little sister, who had no knowledge of it.
His father had really managed to make a hash of his life, he thought, sinking down into a chair. As he himself wrote, in choosing neither woman, he had ended up alone—and with a child from each. No wonder he had seemed faded and sunken in his later years, John thought—what joy and what sorrow, to have your two children remind you, unconsciously, of the two women you had betrayed? Or the two loves you had lost?
And then it hit him.
Catherine knew.
Nothing else explained her abrupt departure.
She had always castigated him for running. He realized now that she would only do the same if she had a reason.
A very good reason. Like this one.
He couldn’t be sure, but he had a strong suspicion that Mary Forster had told her this information. She must have found out and wanted, selflessly, to spare him and Henrietta the pain. It would be in her nature to neither want to tell him this secret nor marry him with this secret between them.
He heard a creak near his study door and looked up, fearing that the noise signaled Henrietta entering, ready to have the discussion he had promised her. The discussion that had just become infinitely more complicated.
Instead, Mrs. Morrison stood in the doorway. He rose out of his chair at the sight of her figure hovering at the threshold.
“Did Mr. Lawson just leave you, Your Grace?” she said, her face a matte white. He realized, with one look at her worried eyes, that she knew much more than she had ever communicated.
“You know,” he said, evenly.
She entered the room and shut the door behind her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said, anger flaring at the one person who must have known all along, who must have colluded with his father. “I asked you. You told me you didn’t know a thing. Youlied.”
