But knowing what he had to believe, and actually believing it, were two very different things. He let loose a low curse. Before Bronwyn, he had never forgotten whose son he was. He had been painfully aware, every second of every day, that he was his father’s son, and that if he had not been so damn selfish he might have been able to stop the bastard from destroying so many lives, much less that one person who had meant the world to Ash. And his mother might still be alive.
Without thinking, he yanked open the desk drawer and pulled out that familiar green journal. He had brought it with him to Synne, having felt compelled to keep it near him while he was at Caulnedy; he supposed having his mother’s words near him in the place that had meant so much to her had been like having her there with him as well. Upon his return to London, however, it had only reminded him of all he had lost. He had considered relegating the blasted thing to the trunk in the town house where it belonged. There were no curious children running amok there any longer, no sticky fingers to steal it from its hiding place. He could replace it and close everything up once more nice and tight, with an extra lock for good measure.
But he never had. No, he had shut it up in the drawer at his side, as physically close to him as possible without actually keeping it in his breast pocket. He stared down at the tarnished gold lettering embossed on the front. Mayhap Beecher was right. Mayhap he truly was emotionally masochistic. He had been loath to part with this book, which not only reminded him of his mother, but also now of the girls and even Bronwyn. If Eliza had never nicked it from that trunk, if she had never read the stories within, if she and Nelly had not been so enamored of his mother’s descriptions of Synne, they never would have run away. He never would have gone after them, or met Bronwyn, or married her. And he certainly never would have learned what it was to become close to those girls…or to fall in love with his own wife.
Sighing, he opened the cover and listlessly flipped through the pages, his mother’s familiar delicate, looping words like salt in a wound. Perhaps it would have been better to have burned the thing years ago. It had never given him anything but pain since her death, anyway. And now the pain was so heavy, so deep, he thought he might drown in it.
But he knew that, even if he had the chance to travel back in time and do away with the cursed thing, he never would. There was nothing in heaven or on earth that could make him do away with the one thing that had inadvertently brought Bronwyn into his life.
But enough of torturing himself. It was time to put the thing away and return to his day-to-day drudgery. And tonight, before half of society descended on Brimstone for its nightly bacchanalian revelries, he would bring the blasted thing to the town house and lock it away for good.
Just as he was about to shut the cover, however, something strange caught his eye, an awkward, peculiar writing he didn’t recognize. Frowning, he peered closer at it.
And he lost his breath entirely. This writing was childish, and fresh, the entry dated during their time on Synne, Nelly’s name written in careful script beneath it.
She must have stolen the journal from his trunks during his stay at Caulnedy, just as Eliza had stolen it from his trunks at the Mayfair town house. He should be furious, of course. She had altered something that was precious to him, one of the few things he had left that was his mother’s, seeing as his father had destroyed nearly everything else in his rage after Ash had spirited her away.
Yet he wasn’t remotely angry. Instead, he felt gratitude that he had this memento of her.
Dragging in a shaky breath, he skimmed Nelly’s writing. Soon, however, he began to read it closer, for it became quickly obvious to him that this was no mere scrawl, but something with a purpose, a retelling of her time on Synne. It was as if she had picked up where his mother had left off.
No, not where she had left off. Rather each entry began withDear Miss Mary, as if Nelly were writing letters to his mother, each of her passages detailing the adventures she and her sisters and Bronwyn had shared. And to his shock, he had played an important part in each one. It was not until he reached the end of the passage telling of their trip to the beach and the fairy coins, however, that he realized how important.
Ash was wonderful at finding fairy coins. I did not tell him, but I made a wish on each coin we found that he might stay with us, that we were a real family. Maybe, if I wish on enough fairy coins, it might come true.
Ash had not understood until that very moment that one could feel equal parts joy and despair, that one could simultaneously be broken by grief yet buoyed by happiness.Family. She wanted them to become a family. Little did she know…
He should put the journal aside. This was too much for him to handle. Yet no matter that his mind knew better, he purposely ignored it, allowing his heart to take the lead for the first time in over a decade. And his heart wanted to continue reading Nelly’s entries, though they could quite possibly destroy him.
But there was only one more, and the tone of it was so different he could hardly believe it was written by the same person.
Miss Mary, Ash is leaving. Maybe I wished on the fairy stones wrong. I must have done something wrong to make him not want us any longer.
If Ash looked down to see that Nelly had reached out from the page and taken his heart in her hands and crushed it, he would not have been surprised. She thought he didn’t want them and it was her fault he had left?
But the passage was not done, not by far.
Eliza pretends she does not care. But I hear her crying at night when she thinks I am asleep. Regina is back to being angry. And Bronwyn is so sad. I wish I knew what I did wrong so they did not hurt anymore.
He gripped the book so tightly his knuckles turned white. He had thought that by staying away from them, he was protecting them. The dukedom was a cursed thing, after all. The farther the girls were from anything it touched, himself included, the happier they would surely be. And they would forever remain oblivious about who their father truly was and what that man had done to their mothers, never having to know the shame and pain Ash carried around every minute of every day from such knowledge.
But he had been wrong, and in holding himself back he had unintentionally hurt those he cared for in an entirely different manner. Nelly’s passages, a young girl’s heart poured out on the page to a woman long dead, was proof of that. Worse, she thought it was something she had done, when it could not be further from the truth. Now they were hurting. They had lost so much in their short lives. He could not allow them to lose anything more. Somehow he had to let Nelly and Eliza and Regina know that it was not their fault, that he loved them and wanted them though he did not deserve them. And Bronwyn—
His breath hitched in his chest. Ah, God, he loved her, so damn much. More than anything he wanted to be with her, to make a life with her. If he returned to Synne and saw her, he would never be able to leave again. He would not have the strength.
He stilled, an image taking shape in his head, of spending his life with Bronwyn, of making a home for the girls, one where they would never have to question whether they were worthy of love again. It was so powerful, he could not breathe for wanting it.
Was it really so simple? Could he truly claim a life with them all, to end this purgatory of an existence? He still had no qualms that he was undeserving of whatever love he might receive from any of them. But maybe, just maybe, Beecher was right and he could aim to deserve it.
Excitement and anticipation thrummed through him as he recalled those halcyon days he had spent on Synne with them all. They could have that every day. The girls never needed to know their origins, and what he truly was to them. No matter how people might talk, he could keep that secret to himself for the remainder of his life. The girls would never need to know their devastating heritage. No, all they needed to know was that they were loved and wanted.
And he could be with Bronwyn.
She might, of course, refuse to accept him back. He had been an unmitigated arse, after all, and had hurt her terribly.
But if there was even the slightest chance she might agree, even the possibility that she might come to love him even a fraction of how deeply he loved her, then wasn’t it worth it?
He was across the room before he knew what he was about. Beecher would, of course, gloat. But Ash didn’t give a damn. All he cared about was packing his things as quickly as possible so he might start the journey back to Synne. So focused was he on what needed to be done, that when he threw open his office door he nearly bowled over the slight figure standing on the other side.