“Where is the child?”
“Won’t you just go away? You know you want to.”
“That’s true. However, I can’t.” He knew he could leave if he really put his mind to it, if he just forced himself to turn about and march back down those steep stairs, outside to the singing stable lad and Gulliver. George’s child. George’s bastard. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it.
He kept walking.
Her shoulders slumped. “All right, this way.”
The little girl was asleep on a narrow bed, on her stomach, one arm wrapped around a doll that had very little hair left on its head. A light blanket was tucked around her.
Her face was turned away from them. The small head was covered with blond hair.
“What is her name?”
“Marianne.”
His heart began to pound, slow, dull thuds. Marianne, the tiny daughter of Squire Bethony who had died coughing blood when she was only five years old. The little girl had been George’s best friend. George hadn’t spoken for nearly eight months after she died.
“Does she have a second name?”
“Yes. Lindsay. Her name is Marianne Lindsay. It’s my mother’s name.”
The pain was sharp and hard to his heart. Slowly, he turned to face her. “You know where her first name comes from, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know.”
The child stirred, sucking her middle fingers.
“Do you still insist that the child is your sister?”
“I suppose it wouldn’t do much good now.”
“None at all. Please awaken her. I want to see George’s child. I want to see my niece.”
She leaned over and gently began rubbing the little girl’s back. The sucking sounds speeded up.
“Wake up, Marianne. Come on, lovely, wake up. There’s a fine gentlemen who wants to meet you. Come, love.” She picked the little girl up, wrapping the blanket around her, kissed her small ear, then turned her to face him. The child’s eyes slowly opened. Rohan stared into his own eyes, into George’s eyes—a bright, soft green, the color of nearly all the Carrington males’ eyes for the past three generations.
He swallowed. Slowly, he touched his fingertip gently to the little girl’s face. She drew back, frowning.
“It’s all right, lovey.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice very low and as gentle as a soft spring rain, “I’m your uncle.”
The little girl took her fingers out of her mouth. She stared at him, those green eyes of hers intent and deep as a vein of emeralds, “What’s an uncle?”
“I’m your papa’s brother.”
A small hand with two wet fingers touched the cleft in his chin. “You have a hole in your chin just like Papa did.”
“Yes,” he said, and swallowed.
“I don’t have one. Mama told me God doesn’t give them out to everyone.”
“That’s right. But God did give them to most of the Carrington male children.”
“Mama told me that Papa would yell when he shaved himself because he always cut himself in that hole.”