At length she looked up at him absently, the expression that curved her full lips forced. Her cheery tone could not mask the melancholy underneath. “He answered a great many of my questions. I thought any information would bring consolation, but now it seems there are even more questions.”
He wanted to bring her encouragement, but how? “I’m certain that once you have time to contemplate what you learned, you will feel more at ease with it.”
“You are right, of course. I should be grateful. And I am. I just—” Her voice broke off, and she struggled for words. “I think it best that I return home.”
He studied the expression in her golden eyes, in the downcast set of her lips. For the first time since he’d met her, her customary poise and tenacity waned. Whatever had transpired in the study had affected her. “Of course. I’ll call the carriage. And do not bother to argue, Miss Hale. This time I will not take no for an answer.”
He half expected her to refuse—to insist on walking as she had so emphatically done in the past. But there was a sense of exhaustion, almost defeat, in her disposition. “Thank you, Mr. Warrington. I’d be grateful.”
He left her alone in the great hall to make arrangements for the carriage, and when he returned, he found her standing in front of the portrait of Mr. Clark.
He did not want to interrupt her. Her attention seemed quite focused on a rather somber piece of artwork.
“Do you think we share a likeness?”
The personal nature of the question took him aback.
When he did not respond, she adjusted the plum pelisse in her arms and looked back to the somber expression, captured in time. “I know you heard Mr. Longham say that this man was my father. He said I resemble him.”
James moved closer to her and gazed up at the portrait. No fireburned in the fireplace, but even in evening’s dull gray light, he could see it.
Yes, there was a resemblance. But whereas his umber eyes appeared stern, her hazel eyes were soft, full of emotion, and feathered with dark lashes. The cleft in the man’s chin was severe, but the cleft in Miss Hale’s chin was so slight he’d not even noticed it at first. “Perhaps. But I’m hardly an expert on such things.”
She crossed in front of him to the other side of the mantel to the portrait of Mrs. Clark.
Once again, he stepped next to her to assess the painting of the titian-haired woman with a decidedly full face and pale, almost sallow complexion. “I don’t think your resemblance to her is as strong.”
At first Miss Hale did not respond. Then her voice was barely above a whisper. “She’s not my mother.”
He sobered.
Suddenly it all made sense.
Miss Hale was Mr. Clark’s illegitimate child.
The sound of the carriage crunching over the drive in front of the house as it came around from the carriage house drew their attention. She donned her pelisse and fastened the buttons with shaky movements, then they moved through the foyer and door. Her eyes did not meet his as she spoke. “I fear I have trespassed upon your kindness once again, Mr. Warrington.”
He followed her out, wishing he could offer a compelling reason for her to stay.
She climbed into the carriage, and before long, the conveyance had departed down the drive.
He stood still, out in the brisk night air. As the carriage disappeared around the bend at the copse of trees, he felt her absence keenly.
And that surprised him.
It was ridiculous, really. He hardly knew this woman. A week ago he didn’t even know she existed. But she’d swept in from Lamby, and her very presence was awakening a part of him that had been locked in grief. What surprised him the most was the blossoming realization that he wanted to care about someone again. To help heal the broken places and be loved in return. And their fleeting yet usually poignant interactions were starting to fill those cracks or, at the very least, make him aware of how desperately he wanted to feel whole. It was not reasonable for him to think that this woman might be that person, but the very fact that she was awakening such a sense in him was alarming indeed.
***
Cassandra swayed with each movement of the Briarton carriage as it jostled over the stone bridge leading back to Anston.
Darkness had fallen over the Briarton Park grounds. Faint wisps of faded light slid through the carriage windows, falling across her gloved hands and lap.
So much had been confirmed to her in a single, tidy conversation with Mr. Longham.
Yes, Mr. Clark was her father.
Yes, she was illegitimate.
