She knew her papa loved her. Maybe it was time to let her mama know the same.
CHAPTER 42
JEMINA—WHATDOESHEKNOW?
Ilaid on the mattress in my bedchamber, my head floating on a pile of pillows. Wasting most of the morn staring at the sealed note Daniel scooted under my door, I decided to open it and see if he’d confess.
Finchely House, London, August 30, 1814
Dearest J,
I wondered if you’d smile at me just once. I didn’t mean for your role as “mother” to become so exhausting.
I miss you.
I miss everything.
Please tell me a secret. Tell me how to make things better.
Your servant,
D. Thackery, Earl of Ashbrook
Finchely House, London
Daniel’s letter sounded miserable. I was miserable, fretting about Hope and twisting myself up about the lack of trust between husband and wife.
My eyes and face felt puffy from poor sleep. I burrowed deeper into the bedclothes, bundled in a gauzy bronze robe.
The lacy cuffs, the sash embroidered in gold, another of Daniel’s gifts, seemed meaningless compared to having my daughter. How did I tell him he’s raised my girl for two years? I was committed to Bedlam because no one believed my child was alive. I screamed for her until I was hoarse. No one listened. They only wanted me to admit I’d lost all.
I hadn’t.
My daughter was taken. How did Daniel get her? Did he help those who took her?
This was my secret; one I could not share. Not without proof. I knew in my soul Hope was mine.
But I remember nothing else, not her birth, not her true father.
A Blackamoor child couldn’t be Cecil St. Maur’s child.
Covering my eyes with my pale hands, I laughed, laughed like a loon. I had no facts, no proof to offer. Daniel would think I was crazed. He’d wish me to Bedlam, not his bed.
Lord Ashbrook, a barrister of the courts, could send me away. As my husband and a peer, who would stop him? No one would believe this girl over an earl.
My heart beat fast, whirling in my chest.
My breath a full-blown cyclone. My safety, my relationship to my daughter all hinged on a man versed in the laws, laws which were always used against women.
With a knock on my door, Mrs. Gallick brought a tray with a shiny silver dome, a teapot, and a cup. Letters were stuck under the crook of her gingham-checked arm. “Lady Ashbrook, you are up.”
“You didn’t have to bring me breakfast.”
“I had to, ma’am. You’re not to waste away, not under my care.” Mrs. Gallick said with a smile. She set the tray on the night table by my large window. The housekeeper fussed with the panes and let the warm air inside.
She turned, wiping her hands on her white apron. “This room hasn’t been used that much. The master’s late mother enjoyed it. She insisted on sunny yellow walls and for this window to be open every morn to let in the fresh air.
Mrs. Gallick parted the jonquil curtains wider.
