Lorelei pulled a handkerchief from the drawer of a table and pushed it into Corinne’s hand. “Yes, she confessed her relationship to you when you were quite ill.”
“But…” Corinne blew her nose, shook her head, and spoke into the cloth. “She’s not my mother. She is my sister.”
Lorelei paused. What did it matter? “It’s of no consequence. We must see to the care of you and your baby.”
A stubborn light flashed in the girl’s eyes. “She is my sister, I tell you. I don’t know why she would tell you she was my mother.” She heaved in a deep breath. “How… how did she fall?”
The question caught Lorelei off guard.
“The truth, my lady. My sister was afraid. Of what or whom, I can’t imagine,” Corinne said, her gaze direct and unwavering.
Lorelei did not relish this conversation. But she was encouraged to see Corinne’s persona resemble that picture her brother had captured. “Someone broke into the cottage. I think she fought most valiantly, and”—Lorelei took a shallow breath and squeezed the girl’s fragile hand—“her head hit the wall.” She ended on a whisper.
“Where is she? Has she been buried yet?”
“Yes. In the churchyard. Shall I take you to her?”
Corinne struggled with the information. A tear slid down her cheek before she nodded sharply. “I would be most grateful, Lady Kimpton. Might we go today?”
“If you feel you are up to the challenge, I shall be happy to accompany you.”
“Thank you.” A charged silence filled the chamber. “Nathaniel.”
“What?”
“My baby. His name is Brandon Nathaniel.” Corinne raised her chin, as if preparing to fight for the basic right to call her child by Lorelei's brother’s name.
Lorelei blinked quickly and swallowed past a lump in her throat, pleased beyond words. Nathaniel might be all she had left of her brother in the event he was never found. “Yes. Yes, Brandon Nathaniel is a lovely name.”
Thorne escorted the young ladies from his wife’s sitting room, cognizant of Cecilia’s tightly clinging hand. Once Miss Elvins excused herself to her own chamber, Cecilia’s grip loosened, and she skipped beside him until they reached the dining room.
“Will you make us go back to Papa?” she asked.
Irene’s hand trembled on his other arm as he considered how to answer. He detoured from the dining room, instead walking the girls to his study. He sat in a large chair and lifted Cecilia onto his lap. Irene sat on the footstool. “Don’t you miss your mama?”
“A-course,” Cecilia said. “But she’s dead.”
Such a gruesome statement. And disturbing from one so young. He glanced at Irene. Not a word passed her lips, but the same question pierced him from her steady gaze. “What did you see when you saw her last?”
“Blood. Her hair was messy,” Cecilia said. Her thumb disappeared into her mouth.
“You said she spoke to you?”
Irene nodded. “Yes, she wished us to pretend to sleep.”
“Did Lord Brockway say anything in the carriage to you on your way to the Kimpton townhouse?”
“He told us not to worry. He saidhewould take care of Mama.” Irene dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap.
“Then we must cling to those words. Lord Brockway will inform me of any developments. And I shall inform you.” He spoke sternly. “Am I clear?”
Cecilia leaned her head on his shoulder and pulled her thumb from her mouth. “I do wish to see Mama again.”
“And until we hear differently, I insist we think in a positive manner.”
Irene’s bottom lip trembled. It was the hope in her eyes that let him breathe again.
“Thorne?” Lorelei stood at the door, beckoning him. “Might we have a word?”
