Her mother reached for her hands and held them firmly in hers. ‘They kept the secret because they loved you and still do. Miss Petherbridge is a spiteful woman to spread our secrets. She hated me from the first moment we met. Vindictive . . . uncaring . . . unfeeling. Everything your father is not. He offered his home and his love to the both of us and I would have been a fool to refuse.’
‘I don’t know what to call him.’
Her mother’s hands tightened on hers. ‘You call him Father. He earned the right the moment he married me and took you on as his own. Has he ever treated you differently from your brother and sisters?’
Grace looked away, eyes smarting with unshed tears. Her mother shook her hands to draw her back to her.
‘Look at me, Grace! You know that he’s shown you the same love as he has to Mary, Ann and Ben. Sometimes he’s shown you more. No father could care for his daughter more than Daniel has done for you. Without him, I would be nothing. Without him,wewould have nothing.’
‘Everyone knows,’ Grace sobbed. ‘How can I hold my head up, knowing where I’ve come from? People will no longer seeme. They will see the result of a rape.’
‘You will have to hold your head up high, as I must do.’
‘But I’m not as strong as you. You were a victim. You’ll have their respect for surviving it. What have I done to prove my worth?’ The more she thought about it the more questions it raised. ‘What will happen when I have a child? What if my son takes on his grandfather’s traits? What if he grows up to be a rapist too?’
‘You’re thinking too deeply,’ muttered her mother, moving away to stoke the fire.
‘Am I?’ Grace stood and followed her, shedding the blanket as she did so. ‘I have been lied to my whole life. My sisters and brother are only my half-siblings. Have they looked at me all these years with this on their mind? How many times have they thought, “What right does she have?” Have you all been watching me grow, wondering if I’ll resemble the man who raped you? Is Father reminded of him every time he looks at me? Are you?’
Her mother turned abruptly to face her. ‘We seeyou, not him!’
‘Were you raped at Bosvenna Manor? Is that why you insisted I do not visit it?’
Her mother nodded.
‘Who did it?’
Her mother told her. ‘It is in the past. He cannot harm us any more.’
‘Do I remind you of him?’
She shook her head.
‘Please don’t lie to me,’ begged Grace. ‘Did he have red hair?’
‘No. His hair was fair, but red ran in his family.’
‘Am I like him?’
‘No.’ Her mother attempted to pass her, but Grace stepped in front of her.
‘I am. I must be.’
Her mother’s shoulders sagged. ‘He was . . . impulsive and restless at times, but that is all. You are kind and caring, he was thoughtless and selfish.’
‘I can be thoughtless and selfish.’
Her mother stroked her arm. ‘Don’t do this, Grace. Don’t look for traits you don’t have. Don’t question yourself. You are you. He was another person.’
‘Was?’
‘He died. He means nothing to us now.’
‘But he was my father, not the man who claimed to be!’
Her mother’s gaze lifted behind her. Grace knew, from her despairing expression, who was standing there. She turned to see her father in the doorway, his face stricken with the news Ann had brought him. The years he had spent caring for her had been swept away in one afternoon as the lie it had been. She saw the pain in his face, but she was unable, or unwilling to console him. It was she who had the greater pain to bear.
They had talked into the night and, bit by bit, Grace learnt the details of her conception. Fuelled by brandy, bad luck and an obsession that refused to go away, her real father had abused his position of power and forced himself on her mother. Her mother had wanted to die, until the day she had felt Grace move inside her.
