Gail Whitiker (3 page)

But why did he not keep in touch with them, or make any effort to visit his mother? He knew the Viscountess’s health was failing. Was he truly more concerned with his life in London than he was with the welfare of his family in Sussex?

It certainly seemed that way, Hannah thought darkly. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d been home for Christmas, or when he’d bothered to stop by to celebrate one of his mother’s birthdays. Certainly he had never acknowledged any of
hers
. It was almost as though he was ashamed of them. As though they didn’t exist.

Ironically, both the Viscountess and Sally had repeatedly tried to defend him. They’d said he was a gentleman intent on making his way in the world, and whose affairs kept him occupied in London.

Hannah had her own opinions about that. It might have been affairs that were keeping him in London, but she doubted they were strictly of the business kind. However, because it was her nature, she had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

But not any more. If Robert hadn’t come home by Wednesday next—the day they celebrated the Viscountess’s sixtieth birthday—she would be forced to conclude that her brother was as thoughtless and selfish as time had proven him to be, and she would wash her
hands of him completely. She would not forgive him for ignoring their mother’s birthday, no matter what the justification. Because London would be there next year.

Hannah had a sinking feeling their mother would not.

T
HE
stately old clock in the hall had just chimed three when a frantic knocking at her door roused Hannah from the depths of sleep. ‘Yes, who is it?’ she murmured, struggling to sit up.

‘It’s me, miss. Sorry to wake you so late, but her ladyship’s in a very bad way.’

The sound of Sally’s voice had Hannah out of bed within seconds. She reached for her shawl and, throwing it over her shoulders, hurried to open the door. ‘That’s all right, Sally. Has the doctor been called?’

‘Yes, miss. I sent young Ned to fetch him.’

‘How bad is it?’ Hannah asked as they hastened towards her mother’s room.

‘I fear it’s one of her worst spells so far, Miss Hannah. I tried to settle her down before coming to get you, but she wouldn’t have it.’ The old maid cast her an anxious glance. ‘Told me his lordship was standing in the corner of the room again, looking just the way he always had, and that he was waiting to take her away.’

Hannah pressed her lips tightly together. Her mother’s coughing fits had indeed been getting worse over the past few weeks, but it was the delirium which accompanied them that was the more upsetting. For brief periods of time, her mother seemed to lose all touch with reality. She started rambling about people and places that didn’t exist, or that she hadn’t seen in years, and she was constantly seeing the ghost of her dead husband,
John, standing in her room. She claimed he was waiting to take her to heaven.

The doctor had been called, of course, and each time he’d administered a dose of laudanum to help settle her down, but the effect was only temporary, and it did nothing to prevent further attacks. Worse, he could not say what was causing the attacks, which meant he also couldn’t suggest any ways to prevent them. But they all knew that the Viscountess was slowly slipping away.

‘She’s so very frail,’ Sally whispered, dashing tears from her eyes. ‘I don’t think her poor heart can stand much more of this.’

‘Then we must pray for her, Sally,’ Hannah said, refusing to dwell on the possibility that Sally might be right. ‘Pray that the good Lord isn’t planning on taking her from us so soon.’

‘I don’t know I’ve much faith in the good Lord’s planning, miss,’ Sally muttered. ‘He took her husband long before it was time, and if your mother thinks his lordship’s calling to her now, I don’t know there’s much we’ll be able to do to stop her from going. You know how much she’s missed him.’

Yes, Hannah knew all about the depth of her mother’s love for her husband, and about how deeply she had mourned him. Charlotte Winthrop had been left a widow at the age of nine-and-thirty; far too young for a woman who had loved her husband as much as she had. And while the ragged edges of her grief had dulled somewhat over the years, Hannah knew—as Sally did—that the pain had never completely gone away.

Sadly, this time, there seemed to be little the doctor could do. Standing by the bed watching his efforts, Hannah knew they were losing the battle. Her mother was barely breathing. She had slipped into a semi-
consciousness state only moments after she and Sally had entered the room, and had shown no signs of recovering ever since.

At half past three, Hannah sat on the edge of the bed, holding her mother’s hands, trying to infuse the frail little body with some of her own strength. But it was no use. There was nothing anyone could do.

And when, finally, the Viscountess slipped peacefully into God’s care, Hannah closed her eyes and let the tears fall silently on her mother’s chest. She could hear Sally weeping in the background, and the sounds of the doctor closing his bag, but all that mattered was her mother, and these last precious moments she had with her.

‘Be at peace, dearest,’ Hannah whispered, tracing the line of her mother’s cheek with her fingers. ‘Be at peace, and know that you have left behind people who love you…so very much.’

Hannah’s voice broke as she bent to press a kiss to her mother’s forehead. She’d known this was coming. Known there could be no outcome other than death. But even so, she hadn’t been prepared for the devastating feeling of loss. This terrible sense of finality.

She hadn’t been ready to say goodbye.

Some time later, Hannah felt the touch of the doctor’s hands on her shoulders, and reluctantly got to her feet. She took one last look at her mother, and then slowly walked across the room to enfold Sally in her arms. She said nothing as the elderly woman wept, knowing there was little she
could
say that would relieve the woman’s suffering. Instead, she waited until Sally’s sobs had eased before putting her arm around her shoulder and taking her back to her room. Grief, like any strong emotion, was always tiring, and with luck, Sally would fall asleep quickly once the initial shock had passed.

After that, Hannah slipped back downstairs to the music-room where, only hours before, she and her mother had passed the hours in pleasant conversation. Where she had played the pianoforte for her, and where the two of them had laughed and talked as though they’d had all the time in the world.

But they hadn’t had that much time. They’d had only a few precious hours before God had come to claim her mother, and Hannah had been left alone, broken-hearted, and sure in the fact that one part of her life was over, and that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

Robert received his sister’s letter late the following day. Alone in his study, he read it over, regret etching deep lines into his face as he digested the fact that both of his parents were now dead. But he did not cry. He had not allowed himself the luxury of tears in nearly twenty-one years, and he didn’t intend to start now. But in his own way, he grieved. Grieved for a woman he had once loved in the way a son
should
love his mother.

A love that had dried up when his mother had lain with another man and become pregnant by him.

Robert pushed the letter away and restlessly got to his feet. It was years since he’d let himself think about this. Years since he’d had to. But time notwithstanding, he knew it to be the truth. The simple, accidental overhearing of a whispered conversation between his mother and her maid when he’d been just thirteen years of age had told him all he’d needed to know.

Hannah was not his father’s child.

It had been an appalling discovery for a young boy still innocent as to the ways of the world. He’d heard, of course, that gentlemen took mistresses and that mar
ried women took lovers, but it had never occurred to him that his own mother might do such a wicked thing.

Still, even had he not learned of his mother’s treachery in such a way, Robert knew that he would have eventually discovered the truth about Hannah. He’d only had to look at her to know she wasn’t truly his sister. She bore not the slightest physical resemblance to him, or to anyone else in the family. And in a line where likenesses were so striking as to be uncanny, any deviation from the norm was easily discernible.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t so much his mother’s indiscretion that had hardened him against her, but the fact that she had never told him the truth. Even the last time Robert had visited his mother at Gillingdon Park, when he had been a young man of five-and-twenty and well versed in the ways of the world, she had still not confessed her sin to him. And that had made him angry. As had the fact that the man involved had never had the decency to step forward and claim responsibility for his actions.

Robert had often wondered who the man was. It had been impossible to tell, given that his mother had never shown any partiality for one gentleman over another. Nor had anyone else in the family been inclined to question the fact that Charlotte Winthrop might have been involved with another man. Why would they? She had told everyone that she was carrying John’s child, so they had all accepted as natural the fact that she had given birth to a daughter within nine months of her husband’s death.

But Robert had known it wasn’t true. And, knowing that, was it any wonder he’d stopped going home and pretending that everything was all right? How could he be expected to take part in the family celebrations his
mother and half-sister had been so determined to put on? What should he have done in light of his mother’s continued silence? How would it have looked if he had openly questioned her story?

What would that have said about him? About his father?

Robert already knew the answer to that. It was the reason he’d never forced the issue with his mother. He hadn’t been prepared to listen to the lies he knew she would try to tell him. But he suspected it was the reason she hadn’t brought Hannah to London and launched her into Society, as she should have done.

After all, his sister
was
the Honourable Hannah Winthrop, a young lady entitled to a court presentation like all of the other well-bred society chits. She should have been paraded in front of a select group of handsome, eligible gentlemen and then been allowed to take her pick from amongst them in the hopes of achieving an illustrious match.

But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d been kept at home. Closeted in the rolling Sussex countryside. Protected by a mother who was afraid that others might finally see and discover the truth.

But would they have cared, even had they seen it?

Robert swore softly under his breath. He thought it unlikely, because it seemed that everyone who met Hannah soon came to love her. They were all quick to say what a delightful child she was, and how sweet and good-natured she appeared. They all told him how lucky he was to have her for a sister.

But would they have been as accepting of her had they known she’d been the result of his mother’s lying with another man—even as her own husband had been suffering through his final weeks of life?

He thought not.

Still, when it came right down to it, what did it matter what anybody thought?
He
knew what his mother had done. And it had been reason enough for him to sever any kind of relationship he might have had with her.

It was also the reason he’d shut himself off from Hannah. He had been unable to see in her anything but the evidence of his mother’s treachery.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t only his mother and half-sister who had suffered from his hardening. In the years that followed, Robert had allowed very few people to penetrate the protective shell he built around himself. James Stanford was one of the few, but certainly no woman had ever laid claim to his heart. He’d had affairs, of course, but only because they satiated the physical cravings of his body. His partners were usually older women content to indulge in passions of the flesh. They were not looking for emotional commitment. Or perhaps they knew better than to expect it, since it was well known that Robert Winthrop did not give away his heart.

But now, as he stood alone in the silence of his study, Robert did experience a brief sense of loss for the woman who had done her best to love him, in spite of his refusal to open his arms to her. He was not made of stone, and on some deeply buried level, he realised that he was truly sorry he had not been able to show her more affection. But he also realised it was too late to do anything now but pick up the pieces of his life and move on.

He had become Viscount Winthrop on his father’s death, and now, on his mother’s, he became master of Gillingdon Park. But with that responsibility came a situation he had no idea how to handle.

How did he tell a young woman who had grown up
believing that she was a full-blooded Winthrop that she was not his full sister, and that he had absolutely no idea who her father really was?

Before the carriage came to a halt at the porticoed entrance to Gillingdon Park, Robert opened the door and jumped down. For a moment, he just stood there, ignoring the noise of stable boys and prancing horses, to concentrate on the unexpected beauty of the old house, shown to such perfection in the mellow light of the waning day.

From a purely structural sense, Gillingdon was an impressive house. Built of honey coloured stone, it was gracious in its age. Stately, like a grand old lady; elegant in its surroundings of lush rolling pastures and densely wooded forests. It was not an ungainly house, nor a sprawling one, but a comfortable home with rooms enough to accommodate a large number of guests. The stables and outbuildings were neatly arranged at some distance behind it, while the ornamental gardens, complete with lakes and fountains, stretched out before him.

Robert closed his eyes and took a deep breath of fresh, country air. Truly he had forgotten how lovely, and how peaceful, Gillingdon Park was.

‘Welcome home, Robert.’

Robert turned, startled by the clear, bell-like quality of the voice, and wondering to whom it belonged. But when he saw the uncommonly lovely young woman dressed all in black standing on the uppermost step, he could only stare at her, speechless with shock and disbelief.

Good God, was this Hannah?
Surely a mere seven years had not wrought such a startling change. Where was the awkwardness of youth he remembered? Where
were the shy and downcast glances so typical of their previous meetings?

‘Hannah?’ he asked softly. ‘Is that you?’

He was totally unprepared for the smile she gave him. ‘Of course it’s me. Have I changed so much that you do not even recognise your own sister?’

In truth, Robert recognised nothing about her. When had her voice changed and taken on such a sweetly seductive pitch? When had the youthful ruddiness of her complexion smoothed into this alabaster perfection?

‘I have been listening for the sounds of your carriage,’ Hannah said. ‘I wanted to be here when you arrived.’

As he started towards her, Robert could only stare in astonishment, aware that it wasn’t only Hannah’s voice and smile that had changed, but every other aspect of her appearance as well. She had always struck him as being somewhat tall for a woman, yet now the gawkiness of youth was gone. She stood poised and elegant on the top step, her hips gently curved, her waist slender beneath the gown of black crape. Her breasts, barely noticeable when he had left, now rose in gentle swells beneath the dark bodice.