by Rowan Nina
Her suspicion solidified into painful acceptance as she read the neat penmanship and tried to remind herself that she had feared this day for years. She should be grateful it hadn’t dawned before now.
Every square matrix is a root of its own characteristic polynomial.
She refolded the letter and slipped it into her pocket.
Think, Lydia. Think.
The door opened and Mrs. Driscoll left the tea tray on a table before departing. The smell of biscuits caused a swirl of nausea. Lydia tried to drink a cup of tea but managed only two sips before her stomach rebelled.
She grabbed a decorative bowl and retched, sweat breaking out across her forehead, her hands shaking as they gripped the porcelain edges.
“Lydia?”
Her heart plummeted. Tears stung her eyes, blinding her. Alexander’s hand rested warm and heavy on the back of her neck.
“Lydia, go upstairs. I’ll send for the doctor.”
“No, I—”
“You’re ill. If you don’t—”
“No!” Her strident tone made him step back.
Lydia closed her eyes and breathed, trying to suppress the violent storm of emotions that would, if unleashed, drown all coherent thought. She fumbled for the teapot as Alexander took the soiled bowl out. Lydia took a drink, her stomach still roiling.
Alexander’s booted steps moved almost soundlessly across the carpet. Lydia forced herself to look up. He stood with his arms crossed, his expression impenetrable but his eyes dark with both concern and frustration.
A crack split down the middle of Lydia’s heart, jagged and sharp. She remembered when she had once believed Alexander capable of withstanding any truth, any confession she laid before him.
Now the time had come for proof—and Lydia thought for the first time in her life her theory would prove wrong.
She dug her hand into her pocket. Without speaking, she extended the letter toward him.
Alexander took the paper and opened it. His expression didn’t change as he read the contents—the contents Lydia knew by heart even after reading the letter only once.
Dear Lydia,
Congratulations on your engagement. I have anticipated the event, considering your acquaintance with Lord Northwood.
Through several colleagues, I have learned of his lordship’s family history and the divorce of his parents. It seems Lord Northwood has been committed to putting the scandal to rest.
What would his lordship say, I wonder, if he were to learn of your secret?
A secret of such immense proportions that if it were divulged among his circle, his name would be damaged beyond repair? Moreover, it would destroy the credit of his entire family, which he has attempted so valiantly to restore.
I do not delude myself by thinking you’ve already told him. We must meet privately to determine the lengths to which you will go in order to keep your secret.
Alexander must have read the letter ten times before he finally lifted his head to look at her. A muscle ticked in his jaw, the cords of his neck tightening.
“What is this about?” he asked.
Lydia took the letter back, sweeping her gaze over it. Memories pushed hard at her consciousness, her heart waging a constant, unending battle with her mind, the desperate desire to belong to something, someone. To stop thinking. To start feeling.
“He wrote it,” she said. “Joseph Cole.”
“Who, exactly, is he?” His voice began to vibrate with apprehension.
“He was a professor at the University of Leipzig. My professor.”
“And what secret is he threatening to divulge?”
He still watched her, wary and distant. Emotions swamped her—love, pain, fear, sorrow, guilt, regret. And yet as she looked at the man she so desperately wanted to marry, a strange sense of calm began to descend over the chaos, settling her heart, calming her blood. She drew in a breath and spoke in a steady voice.
“Alexander, Jane is not my sister.”
“Not your—”
“She is my daughter.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
A rustle of movement filled St. Martin’s Hall as exhibition workers and curators worked on numerous displays. The light of dusk blurred the windows. Flames diminished in the fireplaces; lights dimmed in the huge candelabras.
Jane stood near a display of natural history educational objects. Glass cases sat along the walls filled with dried plants, animal bones, and various things preserved in glass jars. The tables bore remarkable cases of insects and butterflies, spread wings and beetle shells shimmering. She picked up a bottle containing the carcasses of several stick insects.
Her stomach knotted and pulled. She set the bottle down, glancing up at the darkening windows above the high gallery that spanned three sides of the great hall. She’d left Mr. Hall and Lord Castleford finishing their work on the Chinese display, promising to return within the half hour.
Jane let out her breath. She had no idea how she was expected to find Dr. Cole, if indeed he was here at all. She peered at a case containing locusts and silkworms. A shiver rippled through her. As interesting as she found insects, she didn’t at all like seeing them dead beneath the glass, their bodies impaled with pins.
She moved away from the display toward a section beneath the gallery. At least two dozen floor globes—both terrestrial and celestial—were arranged beside a case containing numerous pocket globes. Jane twirled one of the celestial globes, studying the constellations, which were depicted as mythical figures and beasts.
Another celestial globe was made of heavy glass and sat upon an immense cast-iron stand and brass scale. Half-filled with blue liquid, the globe’s surface was engraved with stars and the rings of latitude and longitude. Jane cupped the massive globe in her hands and tilted it within the half-circle bracket, watching the liquid sway inside.
“Hello, Jane.”
The male voice, low and cultured, prickled against her skin. Her heart thumped as she turned to face the tall, slender man who stood near the back staircase, his eyes hidden behind the light reflecting off his glasses.
She swallowed. “You… you came.”
“Of course. I said I would.” He moved forward. The light slipped from his face, revealing his warm green eyes and aquiline features. “It’s a pleasure to see you, though frankly I feel as if we’ve already met. As if we already know each other.”
Jane smiled, her nervousness easing a little as she was finally able to put a face to the comments and riddles in the letters. He looked the way he wrote—elegant, clear, educated. His hair was blond, though dimmed by the twilight, a lock curling like a comma over his forehead.
He stepped closer until he stood on the other side of the globe. “I’ve been a bit concerned with your recent missives,” he said. “It’s evident that something has been upsetting you. I assume it has to do with this document of which you wrote?”
Jane nodded, her hand fluttering to the outside of her skirt pocket where the acte de naissance lay folded. She stole a glance at Dr. Cole. He was still watching her, a faint smile on his mouth, his eyes kind and curious.
“You had no idea?” he asked.
A lump clogged her throat. She shook her head. She’d apparently had no idea about anything. No idea that everyone she loved, her entire family, had been lying about her. Had been lying to her.
The emptiness in her chest widened to a gaping chasm. She stared at the surface of the globe, the engraved stars delicate against the thick glass.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
“I feared you’d stop writing if I did,” Dr. Cole replied. “And I confess I didn’t think you’d believe me.” He paused. “Would you have?”
Jane shook her head again. Of course not. Of course she wouldn’t have believed such an absurd thing. Papa was her father, not some stranger she’d been corresponding with for several months whose name she hadn’t even known until a few weeks ago.
Except that he was. Every bone-deep insti
nct told her that he was. Even though his name wasn’t on the birth certificate, she knew this man was her father. She could even see the resemblance in the shape of his face, the color of his eyes. Like hers.
This man was her father, and Lydia—Lydia—was her mother. The knowledge jumbled in her brain all over again, as riotous as a storm-tossed ocean.
She wondered if Lydia had ever planned to reveal the truth. If anyone had planned to. Or if they’d just expected to keep her in the center of a huge lie.
“Why didn’t you contact Lydia first?” she asked.
“I knew she wouldn’t want to see me,” Dr. Cole replied. “We didn’t part under the most… agreeable of circumstances.” He shrugged. “I wanted to get to know you, and for you to know me, without her influence. I suspect she has nothing kind to say about me.”
“Do you have anything kind to say about her?”
Dr. Cole reached across the globe, placing his long-fingered hand atop hers where it rested on the glass. His palm was warm, comforting. She tried to imagine what he might have been like as a father—but couldn’t.
“Lydia is brilliant,” he said. “She always was. I was surprised to learn from a colleague that she had all but disappeared from academia in the last decade. Her former mathematics tutors were astonished at her aptitude, even as a child. She was a prodigy. I was honored to have her as my student.”
An unexpected sting of tears blurred Jane’s vision. She knew that about Lydia, knew she possessed an unmatched intellect. She knew Lydia had so much to offer with her solutions and proofs and equations.
She knew Lydia could have changed the world… if she hadn’t disappeared from academia, if she hadn’t given up her public pursuit of mathematics.
Dr. Cole’s hand tightened on hers. Too tight. She tried to squirm her hand from his grasp.
“At any rate, I consider it fortunate that you found the document,” he continued. “Perhaps it’s no coincidence that you found it just before Lydia is to be married. Maybe the truth was meant to come out now that she will no longer be living with you.”
A thin but hard line of steel edged his words. Jane gave him a wary glance. He was still smiling, but something hardened behind his eyes like the first coating of frost on a window. A shiver ran down her back.
She managed to pull her hand away from his. “I’m sorry, but it’s late. I’m expected back.”
“Of course. May I see the document before you go?”
Jane pulled the paper from her pocket and unfolded it, staring at the mixture of printed French and swirled handwriting. “I don’t know very much French, but there is only one name listed as parentage. Lydia Kellaway. No profession is given for her, though her age is listed as seize… she was….”
Jane shook her head to rid herself of the reminder that Lydia had been only five years older than Jane was now when she had a child.
“The address is in Lyons,” she continued. “Both my father—Sir Henry—and my grandmother signed as witnesses.”
“Interesting.” He’d moved a little closer to her, his hand still resting on the vast surface of the globe. “Let me see if I can help you determine any further information. I’m fluent in French, you know.”
He stretched out a hand. Jane started to extend the document, then stopped. She drew it back to her, holding it against her chest.
“Actually, I… I really don’t need to know any more at the moment. It’s time I spoke to Lydia about everything.”
She took a step back. He took a step forward.
“Do you honestly think Lydia will tell you the truth now?” Dr. Cole asked, his tone both kind and slightly condescending. “Even if you confront her with the document, she has no reason to tell you the truth about your father. Are you quite certain my name is not written there?”
“Quite certain.” Jane’s fingers tightened on the paper, crumpling the edge into her palm.
“May I see it, please?”
“What for?”
“This concerns me as much as it does you, Jane. I’ve a right to see the certificate of my daughter’s birth.”
“Why weren’t you present when the document was registered? Why are you not listed as a parent?”
“I was not there because Lydia left without telling me where she was going.” A tension seemed to infuse Dr. Cole’s body, dissolving the warmth in his eyes and replacing it with impatience. “Had I known where she was, of course I would have insisted upon being included.”
“Did you intend to marry her?”
His mouth twisted in a manner that made Jane think of an uncoiling earthworm. “It is not your place to ask questions regarding my relationship with Lydia.”
“It’s my right to know the truth of my parentage.” Jane wished she could somehow believe the truth was different, that Dr. Cole was not really her father. She wished she could believe something hadn’t happened between him and Lydia. Something horrible.
She looked behind her, hoping an exhibition worker or curator would be close by. No one was there, and her view of the rest of the exhibit was blocked by a large display case.
Jane turned back to Dr. Cole. His expression was tight, the throb of a vein in his neck betraying his growing irritation.
“Give me the document, Jane.”
She shook her head. Fear pushed against her chest. She didn’t know why he was so keen on taking possession of the document, but she suspected that once she handed it over, she would never see it again.
Dr. Cole took two long strides forward, the suddenness of the movement like the strike of a snake. He reached to snatch the paper from her grip. Just as his fingers grasped the edge of the document, Jane yanked it from his reach. Thrusting it back into her pocket, she turned and ran. His low, guttural curse ripped through her ears.
Not daring to try to move past him, Jane headed for the narrow back staircase leading up to the gallery. As she passed the natural history display, she ducked around a diorama featuring mounted birds. Grabbing the document from her pocket, she shoved it behind the spread wings of an eagle before heading to the gallery with the intent of reaching the stairs on the other side that led back to the main floor.
Glass-fronted cases, desks, tables, and bookshelves packed the spaces of the gallery. As Jane maneuvered around them, she tried to look over the railing to find Mr. Hall, but there was no sign of him amid the massive displays.
Panic shot through her. If he’d gone home already… no. Mr. Hall wouldn’t leave without her.
Jane quickened her pace, not daring to look behind her as she skirted around a table piled high with scrolled maps. She was halfway across the gallery when her foot caught on something. She fell hard to the floor, a gasp jamming in her throat. Pain shot up her right wrist as she tried to break her fall with her hands.
Keep going. Keep going.
With a panicked sob, she tried to push herself to her feet. Then a man’s shadow fell across her, long fingers curling around her arm. Dr. Cole spoke through gritted teeth, his grip tightening to the point of pain.
“Foolish girl,” he hissed.
Jane tried to scream. No sound emerged before his hand clamped over her mouth.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Alexander startled, taking a step away from her. Fresh, raw pain coursed through Lydia’s chest. She averted her gaze but felt the shock that held him immobile.
“Your… your daughter?”
Lydia nodded, experiencing a sense of relief at having finally told him the truth. No matter how he reacted, at least she no longer bore the burden of such a secret.
“But Jane is—”
“Eleven. She was born when I was almost seventeen.”
She lifted her lashes to risk a glance at him. He remained still, his hands curled into fists at his sides, his expression rigid.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
“It is not a pleasant story.” She paused. “Far from it.”
“I don’t care. What happened? Is he Jane’s father?”
“Yes.” Her fingers clenched on the letter.
“He didn’t… did he…” Alexander swallowed, his fists tightening.
“No. No.” Beneath her fear, shame began to simmer inside Lydia. She attempted to contain it, knowing she owed him the full story in all its sordid details. “It… it was a… a mistake, Alexander, a hideous one, but I was a willing participant. And I promise I will tell you whatever you want to know, but I must speak with Jane first. Please. I… I didn’t think he’d ever find us again. I don’t know if he’s tried to contact her, if he would—”
Her voice shattered on the cusp of a speculation too horrific to name. She covered her face with her hands, dimly aware of the anger beginning to tear through Alexander’s silence.
“Where did Mrs. Driscoll say she’d gone?” he asked.
“To her piano lesson with my grandmother.” Lydia swiped at the perspiration on her brow. “I… It’s imperative I speak with her—it’s the reason I needed the locket back. All of this—”
“I’ll collect her from Rushton’s. You wait here. I do not wish there to be a scene at my father’s house.”
He turned and left. Lydia stared at the closed door. A bead of perspiration trickled down her neck, sliding beneath her narrow collar.
She went upstairs to her room, splashed water on her face, and fixed her hair. Nervousness twisted in her stomach. She went down the corridor to the schoolroom where she and Jane had spent countless hours together.
Jane’s possessions and creations were scattered everywhere—paintings, dolls, toys, drawings, a world globe, books, bits of crochet, and embroidery samples.
Lydia picked up an old rag doll that Sir Henry had once given Jane for Christmas. The doll stared sightlessly back at her, one button eye missing, the stitches of its mouth beginning to tear.
“Lydia?” Wariness infused her grandmother’s voice.
She turned. “Is Jane with you?”
