allowed servants to attend me—it was odd, of course, and earned its share of gossip. But it was a small sacrifice compared to what life would be if the truth came out.
“As for Mistress Julia, she was housed in a cottage with a well-paid midwife, who delivered ‘my’ daughter, bringing her to me under the cover of night. Thank God she hadn’t been born a boy or Hal would have gone so far as to make her his heir, no doubt,” she added as tears gathered like storm clouds in her eyes. “But I had Brey. I had the heir. And now he is gone. Gone.” She raised her eyes to Cecily. “Now you see why I have nothing.”
Cecily shook her head. “But you do not. You chose to live as Mirabella’s mother; it did not have to be. She could have been raised by a nurse and still be acknowledged as Lord Hal’s. The gossip would have faded; your dignity could have been spared in your character, in how you handled the crisis. Instead you lived a lie, allowing the hatred to cripple you until you caused more agony for yourself than need be. Because of that you have become a source of gossip anyway. Mirabella is not to blame for that. She is not to blame for any of it; you cannot punish her for her father’s sins.”
“You do not understand!” Lady Grace cried, slamming her fist on the table. “I wanted to love her! I tried to love her! But from the moment she was born all I could see was that woman. She served as a constant reminder of my husband’s indiscretion, taking after her mother in every way, from her looks to her fervent devotion to God. She has mocked my good intentions at every turn! She has been nothing but an affront to me!”
Cecily bowed her head. Too much pain. She was drowning in it. She covered her ears with her hands and allowed her head to sink onto the table.
She could not bear to hear more.
Father Alec drew in a breath. His voice was soft. “If your mission today was to make everyone feel as aggrieved as you, my lady, you have been successful,” he said at last.
Grace pushed back her chair, letting it fall to the floor behind her with an angry thud as she fled the table.
“Do you believe I am sorry, Mirabella?” Hal asked his daughter in urgent tones as he seized her by the shoulders. She withdrew with a jerk. Hal’s hands fell limp and useless to his lap. God, she was afraid of him. He did not want her to be afraid of him. “Ever since that terrible night I have tried to make it up to you by giving you the best life I could think of, with the best of everything—gowns, tutors, anything. I have tried to make it up to Lady Grace, to the convent, to everyone I sinned against. I’d make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem if I thought it would expiate my sins. I would do anything. Oh, Mirabella, please forgive me.”
“I am bound by God to forgive you,” Mirabella said in hollow tones. “But you cannot think that anything will ever be the same between us.”
Hal buried his head in his hand. “No … I could never expect that.” He reached up to stroke her face. Mirabella pulled away. “Can you understand the depth of my remorse?”
“It is not important for me to believe how sorry you are,” said Mirabella. “But for God. He alone can read the sincerity of your heart. I pray for your sake you are as repentant as you appear.”
Hal nodded. He sniffled. “I do love you, Mirabella. It matters not how you came to be but that you are mine. I have never viewed you as anything but a gift from God.”
Mirabella nodded to acknowledge the statement. When Hal could see she would say no more he rose. With one last look at her, he made his retreat.
Mirabella flopped back on her bed, staring at the canopy until it became obscured by a veil of tears.
Day yielded to night. Cecily crept into Mirabella’s apartments and the two girls held each other, sobbing themselves to sleep. Father Alec sat up with Hal in his apartments while Hal begged for absolution. Father Alec, who knew the man was sincere if nothing else, gave it. He had known the story since Lady Grace’s infamous display at her last entertainment so many years ago. He could not say he was shocked. Such things happened with more frequency than one supposed.
“The damndest thing, Father, is that I do love Grace,” he said. “Yet I failed. I failed her. I failed everyone. God knows how I’ve tried to make it up to her. …”
“It seems to me you are both to blame,” Father Alec observed. “You have been at odds, her with her drink, you with your guilt … it has separated you far more than Mirabella or the initial betrayal ever could. And now with Brey’s passing … it will take a long time to heal from this. But if you want to, if you both have the desire, you can. All of you. I would very much like to help you.”
“I accept the offer, Father,” Hal told him. “God knows how much we need it.”
Father Alec reached out, taking his friend’s hand. “Jeremiah chapter twenty-nine, verse eleven, tells us: ‘For I know the plans I have made for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans for hope and a future.’ ”
Hal bowed his head over their joined hands and sobbed.
Grace could not sleep. Memories swirled in her mind, relentless, comforting, painful. She recalled when she first learned she was with child. She had two miscarriages before Brey and when she felt him stir within her she knew he would live. With each stretch and kick, she revelled in her estate. She would be a mother, a real mother to a child who was hers. Hers and Hal’s and no one else’s. A child born in the light and the truth, not surrounded by darkness and lies. He was born, golden and beautiful, happy and serene. All his life Brey was happy, growing from a happy baby to a happy boy. His laugh was like no other; it was like the tinkling of icicles on the pines. It was heartfelt with sincere joy.
He was to marry Cecily. Together they would bring her grandchildren and a legacy that she was partially responsible for. Now he was gone. Cecily would marry someone else; she would no longer be a part of them. Mirabella would go; she would join her precious convent. Even if she did not, she would leave. Grace’s actions had chased her away. There would be no redeeming their already-fractured relationship. And Hal … How could Hal ever forgive this? This was to be Their Secret.
Grace had lost everything.
She climbed out of bed, throwing her wrap about her shoulders.
Carefully, noiselessly, Grace slipped out of doors.
“I have nothing,” she said to the great manor that loomed in the darkness.
“We cannot leave without her!” Hal cried the next morning as the family prepared for the long, unhappy journey home for Brey’s interment. “Where in hell would she have gone to? Has anyone seen her?”
Cecily and Mirabella shook their heads. They clung to each other, both fragile and frightened, battered by the whirlwind of events that had left its brutal mark on the last few days.
At once Hal’s steward rushed in from out of doors, leading in a young, startled boatman.
“What’s this?” Hal demanded.
“News, my lord,” said the steward with an apologetic bow.
“M-milord,” the boatman stammered. “I was in front of your house when it happened. … I had trouble bringing up my oar. Something seemed to be grabbing at it. I jerked it up and … that’s when I saw it. I thought it was riverweeds tangling it up, but it was not. It was a lady’s wrap.” He choked back a sob.
“No …” Hal whispered to the servant, who offered a reluctant nod.
Cecily’s shoulders began to convulse with silent sobs. Mirabella held her close, her body rigid as she absorbed this new onslaught of tragedy.