Jack patted Brandt on the back and strode across the hallway and out the front door.
Chapter Twelve
Drowned, frozen, deadforever!
We look on the past and stareaghast
At the spectres wailing, pale andghast,
Of hopes which thou and Ibeguiled
To death on life’s darkriver.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley,“Lines”
The walls seemedto be closing in on Ottilie. She no longer knew truth from lie or whom to trust. She’d once thought her life simple, but now she knew that had been an illusion. Since her mama’s death, secrets and lies had started to leak from the carefully patched cracks in her past. But her aunt’s revelation today had been the biggest shock of all. Was it true? And whom could she ask? Mama had taken all her secrets to the grave, and her stepfather—how much did he know?
Ottilie’s chest tightened. She had to get out of her aunt’s house. It was suffocating her. She needed time to think—to breathe. But where could she go? Should she risk going to Albany to find Henry? No, that would be foolish. Women were not allowed at Albany, and the doorman would surely order her to leave. Besides, she doubted her cousin knew anything about her father. He’d spent his early childhood in Germany with his mother and only returned to England to attend boarding school.
Now Ottilie understood the reason behind that decision. Her aunt had moved to the continent to escape the shame Ottilie’s mama had brought on the family. And she’d waited until her sister was good and buried before she returned home. A bitter resentment settled in Ottilie’s stomach when she remembered that her aunt had not even attempted to contact her after her mama’s death. If Ottilie’s stepmother had not been so eager to get rid of her, she might never have known Henry existed.
She could still recall her stepfather’s words when he first told her about Henry. “You know I have always loved you as my own daughter, Ottilie. But you are a grown woman now. You have a job and a life. My boys are infants, and I must consider their futures.” Her stepfather ran a hand through his thinning hair. “This tension between you and your new mama must end. She suffered a terrible ordeal giving birth to our sons and cannot tolerate further stress.”
Ottilie stared at the man she’d adored since childhood. He’d been the only father she’d ever known. She’d thought he loved her, but now she knew that had been a lie, just like his love for her mama had been a lie.
“She is not my new mama, so please don’t call her that again. And you needn’t worry about me disrupting your new life. I will return to Canterbury, and you will not hear from me again.”
“I did love your mother,” he said, “and I do love you. That is why I want to give you this.” He handed Ottilie an envelope containing a black-and-white photograph of two young women. Ottilie turned the photograph over. “Alice and Augusta,” she read aloud the words penned in her mother’s neat script.
“What is this?” Ottilie asked.
“It’s a photograph of your mother and her sister, Lady Augusta Hudsyn. She recently returned to England from Germany. Her son, your cousin, is a student at Oxford. I wanted you to know you are not without family.”
That was her stepfather’s parting gift—a new family to replace the one she’d lost. She’d sought out Henry, and they’d become instant friends. Ottilie supposed Lady Hudsyn had no other choice but to embrace her, with the hope she could reform her or marry her to an aging peer. She’d been trying and failing in this venture for the past two years. Ottilie had viewed her aunt’s interference in her life as harmless, but now she understood the gravity behind Lady Hudsyn’s efforts. Lady Hudsyn did not merely think of Ottilie as a wayward niece who needed taming but as a canker. The future belonged to Henry, and Ottilie was the remaining link to a sordid past her aunt was determined to bury.
A sudden need for air propelled Ottilie to jump up from her seat and retrieve her cape and gloves. She raced down the stairs and made for the front door.
“Are you going out, Miss?” Benson asked as she scurried past him. “Do you need a carriage?”
“No, thank you. I’m in need of some fresh air,” she said without stopping.
“But Miss—” Benson said as Ottilie closed the door on his words.
She left the square, turned onto Mount Street, and hurried toward the Grosvenor Gate entrance at Hyde Park. Her mind churned with questions about her past as she walked to Serpentine Bridge and crossed into Kensington Gardens. Only then did she notice the park was far less crowded than it usually was during the fashionable hours. She glanced up and saw that the sky had turned cloudy. Unwilling to turn back, she continued to Round Pond and rested on a bench next to the water.
Two small boys scampered past her bench and made for the pond.
“Slow down!” their guardian shouted, her yellow dress swishing behind her as she chased after them.
“We want to feed the ducks,” one of the boys said.
“Not today. It’s time to go home.”
“They’re hungry.” The second child stuck a pudgy hand in a paper bag and threw some breadcrumbs into the water. The ducks immediately descended on the crumbs.
The boys squealed in delight, then cried in protest as their guardian led them away. Ottilie smiled. The ignorance of childhood was blissful indeed. How had her mother kept a smile on her face, carrying all those burdens she’d sheltered Ottilie from?
A sudden wind stirred, and she wrapped her thin cape around herself. The air had grown cooler, and people were leaving the park. It would grow dark within the hour, and it was time to leave. But she loathed the idea of returning to Berkeley Square. She thought briefly about going to Mrs. Briggs, her former headmistress from Westminster Ladies’ College, but she often traveled to France during the summer months to visit her daughter, now a French baroness.
