Henry closed his eyes and took a deep breath before speaking. “Two years ago, Ottilie and I went to Oxfordshire to see her stepfather.”
“I remember. That is when Ottilie discovered the truth about her real father.”
“Exactly. Her stepfather confirmed what my mother had told Ottilie. Her father had not died when she was three but was confined to a madhouse after contracting syphilis. He was a heavy drinker and a philanderer with little discretion as to whom he—.”
“Yes, I’m aware of all that,” Bastin interjected.
“Well, in 1844, Ottilie’s mama fell deathly ill, and my mother traveled from London to be near her sister.”
“I thought they were estranged because she disapproved of her sister’s marriage.” Bastin frowned.
“Our grandfather did, and that is when Ottilie’s parents were relegated to Oxfordshire, but they weren’t wholly estranged. My grandfather supported them financially, and my mama still corresponded regularly with her sister. And, at least on that one occasion, she traveled to Oxfordshire for an extended stay. The estrangement came after that visit…” Henry closed his eyes.
“Are you going to continue?” Bastin’s voice revealed his impatience.
“While my aunt lay in her sickbed, her husband engaged in a liaison with her sister—my mother.”
“Good God!” Bastin stood up and ran a hand through his thick, black curls. “The prim and proper Lady Stokeford? Hater of poets—” He laughed out loud.
“I’m glad you think it funny,” Henry said.
“I’m sorry,” Bastin stifled his laugh. “It’s so incredibly ironic.”
“I’m aware.” Nausea crept into Henry’s throat.
“Well, now it’s making more sense. No wonder she hated me. Ottilie said it was because of her father, which seemed a bit extreme even for your mama. But now, her virulent hatred for creatives makes sense. In her eyes, they are all depraved and guilty of debauchery.” He paced the room. “The hypocrite! Does she take no responsibility for her actions? A liaison with her brother-in-law while her sister lay deathly ill?”
Henry watched him, vaguely aware that he should defend his mother but unable to justify doing so. Everything Bastin said was correct.
“And she escaped without consequence and then proceeded to spend the rest of her life judging and condemning others?” He laughed. “The Earl of Stokeford is a bigger fool than I thought. If it weren’t for you and the damage it would do to your reputation, I’d not hesitate to inform the earl that the picture of manners he married is no more than a harpy!”
“It wasn’t without consequence,” Henry said quietly.
“What?” Bastin turned to Henry, his face blank as if his brain refused to comprehend what Henry’s words implied. “What do you mean?”
“Three weeks after my mother returned to London—and her husband—she discovered that she was with child.”
Bastin’s eyes widened. “You?”
Henry nodded. “So, you see Bastin, your wife might not be my cousin at all. In fact, she might be—in fact, she probablyis—my sister.”
“Ottilie never said anything.” Bastin dropped back into his chair as if he was too shaken to remain standing.
“I made her promise. I know a husband and wife should have no secrets, but this is a very serious matter involving my title, as you know, and if it ever gets out—”
“Ottilie knows I would never tell anyone! Are you saying my wife doesn’t trust me?”
“No! I’m saying it wasn’t her secret to tell. And I think she didn’t want my destruction on her conscience.”
“What do you mean?” He stared at Henry, still flummoxed.
“Don’t you see? My whole life has been a lie, and Ottilie wanted me to have at least one person who was true—one person in the world I could trust. So don’t blame her for keeping this secret. It’s my fault. I know it must have killed her to keep this from you, and that’s why I’m telling you myself.” Henry ran a hand through his hair. “I honestly thought she’d told you. When you said—when I realized that you didn’t know—I knew I owed it to her to tell you and take that burden away from her.”
“I agree it’s a horror story, but you can’t be sure that the late Lord Hudsyn isn’t your father. Your mother was home three weeks before discovering she was with child, so it isn’t certain.”
“That is why I live in limbo, unable to give up my title, which might rightly belong to me, and unable to embrace it in the likely event it does not.”
“Can you not see how self-destructive that is?” He shook his head. “Of course, you can’t. Of all people, I should understand. I know what it is like to be caught in a downward spiral of injustice.”
