‘I don’t imagine many tears were shed over my departure,’ he said. ‘My mother was dead by then and my father was no doubt pleased to see the back of me, and I was pleased to get away.’
‘Your father does look rather stern in that painting in the entranceway.’
He laughed, but it did not contain its usual humour. ‘I thought the artist rather flattered him and made him look much less of an ogre.’
‘I’d like to hear about your father’ she said gently.
‘I wouldn’t want to ruin a decent walk,’ he said, giving another of those mirthless laughs.
‘You won’t.’ Without intending to, she moved in closer to him, wanting to do something, anything, to give him comfort.
‘I hated him,’ he finally said. ‘I know that’s a terrible thing to say about your father, but it’s true.’
He continued walking for a few minutes in silence.
‘My parents wanted an heir, or should I say they were duty-bound to produce an heir for the Rosedale line, but they never wanted children, and that was constantly made clear to me.’
He huffed out another humourless laugh. ‘The ways in which he let me know how unwanted I was are countless, but one minor incident came to mind when we first arrived. He caught me running through the entranceway, grabbed me by the arm, almost wrenching it out of its socket, and shook me until my teeth rattled, all the while informing me that all children were an abomination, and I more than most.’
Margaret closed her eyes, horrified that anyone could treat a child like that, just for being a child and doing what children loved to do—run and play. ‘How old were you?’
‘I’m not sure. It was before I went to school, so younger than seven.’
‘And what of your mother?’ she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.
‘I have no memory of her, which is probably all for the best. Along with informing me that I was an abomination, my father often reminded me how much of a disappointment I was to my mother and that was why she had never been able to love me the way a mother should.’
‘They were the ones who were an abomination,’ Margaret said, rage at those long-dead parents welling up inside her. ‘Children should be loved and cherished, and they should be allowed to be children, and that includes running through entranceways.’
She looked up at him. ‘I’m sorry that you were cursed with such terrible parents.’
‘Don’t be,’ he said, once again his lips quirking into a smile that did not look genuine. ‘My childhood made me the man I am today.’
It was obvious he was trying to make light of what was a tragedy and she wondered how much of what he had said in jest was true. The more time she spent with him, the less like that strutting peacock he became. There were layers to him that she had not realised existed when she had dismissed him as a handsome rake who revelled in the effect he had on women. But had he turned himself into a man who hid behind a charming façade because he wanted to push away the dark shadows of such an unhappy childhood?
Maybe that was something she would discover during this imposed time together.
Chapter Thirteen
Once again Jacob had revealed more about himself to Margaret than he had intended, yet, strangely, talking about his father had not increased his agony. Rather, that unrelenting pain that had sunk its talons into him the moment the carriage had turned into the long driveway had eased somewhat.
They continued to walk, past the formal garden which, as always, was laid out with military precision, as if even the flowers and shrubs had to bend to his father’s will, towards the path that led them through the woodlands.
‘Finally, somewhere that brings back fond memories from my childhood,’ he said as they entered a grove of oaks, beeches, elms and birch trees. ‘This was where I would escape to as a child. It became Sherwood Forest or King Arthur’s Camelot.’
‘And can I assume you were always Robin Hood or King Arthur?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said, remembering those childhood games. ‘Defeating enemies, saving damsels in distress, slaying dragons. I did it all. And there’s something I want to show you. If it’s still there…’
He led her deeper into the woodland, the canopy of trees growing thicker overhead so that only filtered light was reaching the soft, leaf-strewn ground below.
‘There it is,’ he said, coming to a halt beside a ramshackle hut built of rough-hewn stone and untreated timber, its slate roof draped in thick green moss so it almost appeared to be merging with the forest.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘A hermit’s cottage.’ He led her closer to the small entrance. ‘It was built during my grandfather’s time, when it was fashionable to have an ornamental hermit living in your garden.’
She laughed as if he was making a joke.
