Grief and fury gathered in Eleanor’s throat, choking her.That lovely child.Perhaps one could excuse Sarah West, but the father . . .
God only knew who he was. It hardly mattered. Amelia would carry the stain of illegitimacy all her life, even if by some miracle her father chose to acknowledge her, which was doubtful. If he intended to, he’d have done so long before now.
“I think Sarah knew she wouldn’t survive the birth,” Mrs. West said. “The pregnancy was a difficult one, but oh, she wanted Amelia. So badly. Loved her, and taught Camden to love her too, despite his hatred for Amelia’s father. Perhaps she thought the child would save her, but . . .”
Mary West’s eyes filled with tears. Without thinking, Eleanor reached for her, took her hand. “But?”
“There were complications. Bleeding. Sarah died within an hour of Amelia’s birth.”
Eleanor released Mrs. West’s hand, her arm falling slack at her side. “What of Cam?”
“Camden was filled with grief, with rage.” Mary swiped the back of her hand under her eye. “I wanted to help him. I wanted to bring him home to the manor house, but Reginald wouldn’t hear of it. He’s never liked Camden, you see—perhaps because Julian is so devoted to him. I suppose my husband is jealous of that. Camden left for India soon afterwards.”
Dear God.Cam. What had Mrs. Mullins said? That all might still have been well after his father died, and perhaps it would have been, if it hadn’t been for a man who’d cared for nothing but his own pleasure. He’d shamed and ruined Cam’s mother, and Reginald West, the one person left who had the power to protect them, had tossed them both aside. Abandoned them. Stolen from them.
Cam’s world had fallen apart.
Rage. Yes, it would have consumed him then—it did still, even now. She’d seen it, in the shadows of his green eyes. Rage. Bitterness.
The ghosts only he could see.
And Amelia, left motherless in her first hour of life, and burdened with her father’s sin. Cam was determined to give her everything that had been taken from them. It must have been terribly difficult for him to leave Amelia with the Wests for eleven long years, but he’d done it, because he knew it was best for a young child to have a home. Security. A mother, in Mary West.
He’d been young when he’d left for India, but he’d behaved like a man, risking everything to amass a fortune, to make an easier path for Amelia.
To clear it of the rocks others had thrown in her way.
Everything he did, he did for Amelia. Eleanor had known it, deep down in the dark part of her heart where she hid things from herself. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but she’d known his mad marriage scheme was as much about giving as taking.
Take from her,give to Amelia.
She wanted to hate him, but even as she gasped with anger and pain at the injustice of it, even as she vowed to thwart him still, his courage, the force of his will, and the depth of his love for his sister—it stole her breath away.
Mary turned pleading eyes on Eleanor. “I couldn’t help Cam, but I got a second chance with Amelia, and I tried to do what was right by her. I tried to do what Sarah would have wanted.”
Eleanor touched a gentle hand to Mary West’s shoulder. “Amelia’s lovely, Mrs. West. Truly. I’m sure her mother would have thought so, too.”
Mrs. West managed a watery smile. “You’re kind, Lady Eleanor. I didn’t expect you to be so kind.”
Shame clutched Eleanor by the throat.Kind. No. She wasn’t kind.
Even now she stood at the edge of Amelia’s path, a rock held in her hand.
Chapter Twenty
The lamb was roasted to perfection and liberally sprinkled with fresh rosemary, the bread was hot and fragrant with dill, the peas glistened with new butter, and the wine was excellent.
But no one was eating.
Aunt Mary sat, hands folded, her eyes on her plate. Charlotte Sutherland studied the dish of new potatoes the footman had just served. Eleanor, her face troubled, seemed to be speaking to Charlotte out of the corner of her mouth. Robyn Sutherland, who’d applied himself to his meal with gusto just moments before, had abandoned his plate in favor of his wineglass. The rest of the party was silent, not sure where to look next.
Cam forked another succulent piece of lamb into his mouth. It was a waste of an excellent meal, if you asked him. He took a sip of his wine and returned the cold stare aimed at him from the other end of the table.
Uncle Reggie, the author of all this distress, his heavy face flushed with drink, glowered back at him. “Well? What have you got to say for yourself, sir?”
“The lamb is delicious.”
Uncle Reggie’s face went a deeper shade of red. He sputtered, so furious the incoherent sounds refused to form themselves into words, never mind a sentence.
