He was trying to ignore it, but the memory wouldn’t leave. If she had lied about her name, what other tales had she told? Cordelia stirred, a small, broken sound escaping her lips. Adeline leaned forward, murmuring something Winston couldn’t hear. He was stung by the closeness that existed between the two ladies: his mother and a woman who…who they might not really know at all.
He left the room abruptly. The air outside the chamber was cooler, easier to breathe, but no less heavy. He stood at the landing, gripping the railing until his knuckles whitened. He didn’t want to believe what Mr. Pike said. He wanted to trustthat everything Adeline had told him was true, that the fear in her eyes these past weeks came from danger outside their walls, not deceit within them.
Downstairs, the great library waited like a confessional. He went there because he couldn’t bear to stand idle, because anger felt safer than longing. The room smelled of old paper and leather polish. He went straight to the shelf behind the writing desk, where a volume ofDeBrett’s Peeragestood among the histories. The gilt spine gleamed under the lamp.
It wasn’t a current edition; Winston had purchased it three years prior. But that was current enough. He opened it with shaking hands, scanning the entries until he found Clifford-Edge. No daughters listed. Only a son, deceased in infancy.
Then Harston, Lord of. One child. Adeline Warren. He let the book fall shut. The sound was small, final. So, Adeline had lied. About who her father was. About being an orphan. All of it. He stood a long time staring at the spine of the book, rage rising like a tide he could not command. Rage at himself, at her, at this whole wretched charade. She’d lied from the moment she entered his house. And still, he could not bring himself to hate her.
When at last the bell rang below to announce the doctor’s arrival, Winston straightened, forced the mask of calm onto his face, and went upstairs again. He met Adeline and Louisa on the landing. Both were pale and exhausted. Louisa clung to Adeline’s hand, refusing to leave her side.
“The doctor’s here,” Winston said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, flat and almost mechanical.
Adeline nodded. “I’ll take Louisa downstairs. She shouldn’t see too much.”
He hesitated, then stepped aside to let them pass. The child brushed against him as she went, and he caught the faint scent of lavender from Adeline’s hair. It lit a fire within him, made him reach out as she passed, his fingers brushing against hers. His nerves tingled with the contact, and he snatched his hand away as her head began to turn. As much as he wanted to, Winston could not look at Adeline directly right now. He could not bear to see another false promise in her eyes.
After the Doctor entered his mother’s room, Winston went to the sitting room to wait for his verdict. Adeline knelt beside Louisa, smoothing her hair and promising that her grandmother would be well. Louisa’s eyelids drooped. Adeline stayed by her until her breathing evened into sleep. Winston stood at the far side of the room, watching.
The candlelight threw soft shadows over them both. Adeline’s gown was rumpled from travel, her hands reddened by water and effort, yet she had never looked more beautiful. There was strength in her gentleness, the kind of strength his mother had admired in women of old. He felt the pull of it like gravity.
I should demand the truth. Accuse her.
But the anger died in his chest as he looked at his sleeping child and the woman who knelt vigilantly by her side. A mother whom Louisa had never known.
He crossed to her quietly. “You should rest. I doubt my mother will be back on her feet this evening. Or for many evenings to come.”
“I can’t,” she said softly. “Not yet.”
“Louisa’s asleep.”
“She’ll wake if she dreams that I’ve gone.”
He sat at his daughter’s feet on the low chaise. They spoke in whispers, careful not to disturb the child. He reached out and took Adeline’s arm, guiding her to sit beside him, moving so that she could be closest to Louisa.
I defer to her as though she really were Louisa’s mother. I must remember that she is not. She is an impostor. A liar.
“The doctor will help her,” Adeline said, meaning Cordelia. “She’s strong. She’ll recover.”
“I’ve seen stronger women die,” he said.
“Don’t say that.”
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Forgive me. I’m not myself.”
“No one could be, after tonight.”
The clock on the mantel ticked between them. He felt her hand shift, resting for a moment on his sleeve. It was a brief, unthinking gesture of comfort, and it broke something in him.
“Adeline,” he said quietly, “when you look at Louisa like that…it’s as if she were your own.”
Her eyes met his. “She’s a child who’s lost too much. What else can I do but love her?”
The simplicity of her answer cut straight through his defenses. “You make it sound so easy.”
“It is easy to give love to someone who so very much deserves it.”
He wanted to tell her he trusted her, but the memory of the book upstairs burned behind his eyes. A tremor passed through her then, as though the night had finally caught up with her strength. He reached for her hand without thinking. “You’ve done enough for one day. Sit back. Rest. Sleep while Louisa sleeps.”
