His father’s familiar bold scrawl hit him like a runaway carriage, knocking the breath from him. It didn’t take long, however, to see the letter was not to him at all. No, it was to Miss Willa Brandon, and from before his marriage to the duchess. It was a long, rambling letter of flowery prose. But one line stood out from the rest.
I cannot wait to see you again, to hold you in my arms. Soon we shall be married; it seems I’ve waited for this day my whole life.
Quincy stared, stunned. His father had been engaged to Miss Brandon?
“Oh, Quincy,” Clara said, reading over his shoulder. “He loved her very much.”
He had. It was in every word, every line, nothing but the deepest regard. “Why didn’t he marry her then?” he asked, his voice a hoarse thing. “Why marry the woman who would make his life such hell?”
She rubbed his back. “Mayhap the letters will explain why.”
He nodded, then took a deep breath and reached for the next letter in the stack. When Clara made to rise, however, he grabbed her hand.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
“To give you privacy.” She gave him a sad smile. “I’ve a feeling the story won’t be an easy one to learn.”
“All the more reason to have you with me when I do,” he murmured as he pulled her back down beside him. “Besides, I’ll tell you everything anyway; you may as well save me a step by being here for the learning to begin with.”
Smiling tenderly at him, she curled up against his side. Once he was certain she wasn’t going anywhere, he took up the letter again. And together they began to read.
The story quickly took shape, a heartbreaking history in the carefully penned words: how they’d loved one another since childhood, had planned to marry. Then he was found in another woman’s bed. Though he was certain he’d been drugged, Willa broke off their engagement.
There was a glaring lack of correspondence in the years that followed, but Quincy could piece together what occurred, his father’s subsequent marriage to the duchess producing sons but no affection, where every day he grew more miserable.
Until the letters picked up again years later, when one night of passion forever altered their lives. And though she wanted that child with everything in her, though she loved it desperately, she made the duke promise to take it and raise it as his legitimate child, so it wouldn’t have to live with the stigma ofbastardand all the hardships that entailed for the rest of its life.
And all through the reading of that history Clara was beside him, reading over his shoulder, her presence like a balm to his soul. He didn’t know that he would have been able to get through it without her, for the emotions coursing through him, from anger to hope to frustration to grief, were enough to destroy him, especially as such heartfelt anguish saturated every word.
Finally, after what felt hours, they reached the last letter, written just a few short months before the duke died. But it was written to Quincy.
He stared at his name on the missive, shock overriding his weariness, hands shaking. He felt battered both inside and out, as if who he was had been torn to shreds.
Thankfully Clara was there, her hand on his. And they opened the letter together.
My dear Quincy,
There was so much I wish I could have told you, my boy. I pray you’ll forgive my cowardice. But my wife insisted on my silence on the matter in order for you to be claimed as my legitimate son. By the time you read this letter, and the other letters bundled with it, I will be dead and gone, and thus I consider our bargain at an end. So you see, I had always intended for you to know the truth one day. That I had to leave you so early, however, is one of my greatest heartaches.
I cannot begin to guess what might be going through your mind. To learn that one’s parentage was a lie cannot be an easy thing. But know that you were conceived in love. If you take nothing else away from this, I will be content. The truth of the matter is, I loved Miss Willa Brandon. I had loved her since we were children. When she agreed to marry me, I was the happiest man in existence.
I think you have read enough to know why we never married. Please don’t hate the duchess. I would not have that horrible emotion poisoning your heart. I have tried to teach you, as best I was able, to look for the good in life, to keep your gaze on the future, and leave behind the past. I pray you are happy, my boy. And know that your mother loved you.
Now I go to meet her in heaven, if God is forgiving. Enjoy your life, my son. And when you find love, don’t let it go.
Your loving father
Quincy stared at the letter, aware of the realigning of those torn pieces of his old self into a new man. So much he’d thought was true had been a lie. Yet the most important thing had remained true: his father had loved him. Even more important, his mother—histruemother—had loved him just as deeply. She had loved him so well she’d made certain he would have a secure life, had given him up so he might live without the labelbastard.
His throat burned with tears, of both grief and happiness. There had been so much unnecessary suffering, so much stolen. And yet he’d just been given a wonderful gift.
Clara’s hand moved over his back again, returning him to the present. Speaking of gifts, he thought. His heart, already full, began to overflow with his happiness.
All it would take to make it complete was her accepting him.
Chapter 24
Clara stayed quiet as long as she was able, to give Quincy the time he needed to process what he’d just read. So much heartbreak, so many things conspiring against the duke and Willa. The tears that she’d fought during the reading of those letters threatened again, making her throat ache. And still he remained silent, merely staring at his father’s last letter to him.