Instead, he began at random to remove the dust sheets from some of the furniture.
The crockery was still in its place in the dresser. It was not the finest bone china, but it was certainly of good quality and very serviceable. The same could be said, surely, of everything in the little cottage. There was nothing extravagant or excessive in any of the ornaments or furniture, but the place had evidently been furnished with care, good taste and without too much concern for money.
Adam uncovered a small couch and sat on it for a few moments, just gazing into the empty grate and imagining what this room must have been like when the fire was lit, with all the dust sheets gone and a small boy playing with his toy soldiers on the hearthrug.
The resultant daydream was so delightful, so calming, that for a little while, Adam felt he might drift off to sleep. In his daydream, Miss Miller sat in the armchair by the fire, perhaps reading or knitting, keeping one eye on a little boy of five or six, with her dark coloring and Adam’s own features.
The idea was so bewitching that Adam fell into a trance.
When he shook himself, however, he was struck anew by the coldness of the house, by the loneliness of that empty parlor, and rose quickly from the couch. He covered it up again as though placing it in its shroud and stood in the center of the room, looking around this ghostly home for some further signs of life.
Seized by some impulse coming from nowhere, he walked over to another shrouded shape and pulled away the dust sheet, revealing a bureau that was handsome without being ornate. It contained a few ledgers and a locked writing desk.
A small bundle of letters lay on top of the desk. Adam picked up the top letter and began to read in idle curiosity, hoping that this might reveal the identity of the mysterious tenant.
My dearest Mary,
I think of you and our little Freddie with every passing moment.
As soon as he read the words, Adam dropped the letter and then backed away as though he had been burnt by the page in his hand.
The first realization, of course, was that this house had stood empty for the past year because the previous tenants had been Mary Warwick and her young son.
The second realization, which hit him even harder than the first, was that he had recognized the handwriting in the letter, to the point that he did not need to read on any further.
He left the cottage so quickly that he was not sure whether he replaced the dust sheet over the bureau, locked the front door, or generally made any efforts to restore things to the way they had been before his visit. None of that seemed to matter anymore. Not with what he now knew.
He mounted his horse and spurred him forward so that the creature leapt forward immediately into a gallop. He knew not what else to do except to ride away from this place as fast as he could and never look back.
Chapter 22
Charity’s walks with Esther seemed to provide the only form of distraction that was available to her within the confines of her narrow life. Or at least, that was how she felt today.
She had not wept through the night, as perhaps one might have expected. Instead, she simply lay awake, thinking a great deal about the way her perspective of the world had shifted in the space of a few short hours.
All her life, she had taken people to be kind and honorable, so long as they appeared to be that way. It was new territory entirely — a new world altogether — that she had to navigate. A world in which things were not as they appeared, a world in which people held all sorts of terrible secrets and were far less upstanding and open than they appeared to be.
She looked at her face in the glass. The lack of sleep had left her quite pale and pinched-looking.
If I had some unkind and sharp-tongued mamma or governess, she thought, I expect she would tell me that I ought to get more sleep, as the lack of it is ruining my complexion, and how will I ever get a husband if I spoil my looks?
She felt grimly satisfied by the fact that, despite every other reason she had to feel distressed, that particular matter did not afflict her.
Once Charity had told Esther of what her father had told her the previous night, Esther fell very silent, sober in thought. She looked a great deal troubled by what Charity had told her and asked her several times if she really believed it to be true.
“How could I disbelieve it, when my own father told it to me?” Charity replied miserably. “I know that he is not the kindest or the most generous of fathers, but I have no doubt as to his honesty. And why should he lie?”
“I do not know,” Esther replied, her face grown philosophical. “But the fact that I do not know why your father might lie is not in itself evidence that he did not.”
Charity made no reply. She knew that she could fall into dissecting the matter with Esther, trying to establish some possibility by which everyone involved could be telling the truth, and be a kind and honest person to boot.
But the idea of doing so felt too much like dangling false hope before Charity’s eyes. The story her father had told her was an entirely plausible one, and she knew if she were to accept it, then that would be the wisest way of insulating herself against future hurt.
She would have liked to believe that Mr. Harding was innocent. Of course, she would. But she simply did not dare. The fear that her generosity would be thrown back in her face was too great.
The two young ladies walked through the country lanes, arm in arm and saying very little. Charity took some comfort from the reassuring presence of her friend, but they both knew there was nothing to be said that would improve the present situation, and to try would merely trivialize it.
Nonetheless, few states of mind cannot be improved, at least somewhat, by a vigorous walk. Therefore Charity returned to the vicarage feeling, if not exactly better, at least a good deal more settled than she had previously. The roses were blooming in her cheeks once again, albeit tentatively.
She was surprised to be greeted by her father in the hallway before she had a chance to remove her bonnet.
“Charity, my dear, would you come in here?”
Her father’s voice hailed her from his study as soon as she entered the house. It was not the voice that he usually used to address her — it was far warmer and gentler. She feared perhaps his manner of address might indicate he had more bad news to give her and wished to convey it as gently as possible.
But instead, she entered her father’s study to find a young man sitting there with him, a young man that she had never seen before.
“My dear daughter, please allow me to present Mr. Edwards,” the Reverend Miller said, with a great deal of geniality. “Mr. Edwards has just taken to living in one of the neighboring parishes, and we were just conferring on some matters of the church, as colleagues often do.
“However,” he continued, smiling broadly, "Since Mr. Edwards is far closer to your age than he is to mine, I thought that it might enliven his visit a little if you were to take tea with us. I am sure that he must be tiring of my ecclesiastical talk.”
Charity smiled briefly, to let her father know that she had understood the self-deprecating nature of his little joke. Then she turned her eyes to Mr. Edwards.
She had been expecting a slight, sallow, earnest-looking youth, as her father’s protégés so often were. But Mr. Edwards had a lively and pleasant-looking countenance and rose to greet her with an open and friendly smile.
“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Miller,” he said. “I would assure your learned father that I was not tiring of his company in the least, but nonetheless, it is always a pleasure to make the acquaintance of a pretty and virtuous young lady.” He blushed. “If you will not mind my describing you so, of course.”
Charity was surprised to find herself slightly disarmed by the blush. So prepared had she been to loathe Mr. Edwards on sight, that his simple, gracious manners had caught her off guard. She curtseyed in response to his bow, and on her father’s prompting, rang the bell to call for tea.
“How long have you be
en in the neighborhood, Mr. Edwards?” she asked presently.
“Not at all long,” he replied. “Since I completed my education, I have spent a little time in London, but I was very eager to take orders as soon as possible. I have taken a small, modest house for myself and look forward to doing some good in my parish as soon as may be.”
Charity smiled in response. The way he said the words ‘do some good’ betrayed an obvious sincerity of purpose and would have been difficult to frown upon.
She engaged him in polite, friendly conversation for a little longer and found that despite her misgivings she really did enjoy speaking to the young gentleman. It would have been churlish to pretend not to be amused by his witticisms, or look displeased at his descriptions of his plans for his new parish, just because she knew that her father had an agenda in inviting her to speak with Mr. Edwards.
She presently excused herself, saying that she would allow the two gentlemen to return to their business.
“Perhaps I could call again soon, and you could introduce me to the surrounding countryside a little” Mr. Edwards suggested. “Your father tells me that you are fond of walking, and I would be very grateful if you would consider taking a turn about the neighborhood with me.”
Charity did not look at her father’s face, because she did not want to see his smug smile when she replied, “I would be very happy to.”
And the thing is, I would indeed be very happy to spend an hour or two walking about the village with Mr. Edwards. She left the room. However, what I am not happy about is the fact that my father clearly believes that he can distract me from Mr. Harding by simply depositing a young clergyman in front of me.
It was the presumption that she resented. The presumption that, with Mr. Harding removed from her path, her father would seamlessly reassert his control over every aspect of her life. All he needed to do was point her in the direction of a young man whom he considered to be suitable, and she would obey, without question.
Well, she decided, it is a pity that he does not know me well enough to know that I question everything.
Chapter 23
“Well, Father,” Adam said, entering his father’s bedchamber without knocking, ignoring the protestations of the footman who stood outside the door at all hours. “I have been to the cottage on the Roberts land.”
A brief look of astonishment flashed across the old man’s face before he turned on his side away from Adam and replied curmudgeonly, “Well, why should I care where you go?”
“Because I am your son,” Adam replied flatly. “Although it seems, I am not your only son. Or at least, for a time I was not.”
The Duke did not turn to look back at Adam, nor did his body betray any reaction to these words other than to grow very still.
“You do not deny it,” Adam said. “Why?”
“Why should I?” the Duke said. He still did not turn back to Adam, but his voice had grown heavy with emotion. “Are you accusing me of some sin, boy? I am ashamed of nothing.”
“Ashamed of nothing,” Adam replied angrily. “Not ashamed of fathering a child by a woman who was not your wife?”
“I wanted Mary to be my wife,” his father said. “I wanted it more than anything. I loved her deeply, and she loved me, and we kept ourselves apart for a long time and suffered greatly for it. I wanted her to marry me and cared nothing about her low status, about who her father might or might not have been.” He sighed a rattling noise that seemed to cost him a great deal of pain and energy.
“But I was bound by a vow that I made to your mother before she died, that I would never wed another. We loved each other ardently, and it made me believe that marriage is solely for those in love. I think you know me well enough, boy, to know that I always keep my promises.”
Adam was a little shaken by this revelation, but he responded, “You did not keep the spirit of your promise, it seems. The fact that you did not marry Mary Warwick and only made her your mistress does not excuse you. I do not believe that when my mother asked you to make such a promise that she intended for you to behave as you did.”
“Perhaps not,” his father replied. “Perhaps I have trespassed, but my trespass is against your mother and not you, and I will account for it to her when we meet again in heaven. I have no need to apologize or explain myself to you, not after what you did.”
“I did nothing!” Adam replied in astonishment. So carried away had he been by the shock of his father’s secret life that he had almost forgotten the allegations that had been laid at his own door.
“Do not lie!” the Duke thundered. Suddenly he had sat up in bed, and his eyes were flashing in anger as he looked at Adam. All his weakness seemed to have evaporated, although his body was still frail. “Do not lie to me, boy, or you will repent of it! I know very well that you have known of Mary and Freddie for a year, that you were jealous, and that that is why you killed them.”
Adam was too astonished to reply.
“Did you think that I would marry her and that some of your inheritance would go to Freddie, or did you merely resent the money that I spent caring for them? I assume that the motive was to do with money, but perhaps you killed them out of some darker jealousy. I know not!”
Tears were running down the old man’s face and disappearing into his silvery beard.
“He was a wonderful little boy,” he said softly, his voice beginning to crack. “He reminded me so much of the way that you were when you were his age — so lively, so inquisitive. How can I look you in the eye, knowing that you were responsible for snuffing out that precious light? Why should I ever see you again, knowing that the son I raised to be decent and honorable is capable of the cruelest villainy?”
“I could never kill a woman or a child,” Adam said, his breathing shallow and his mind racing, but the instinct to defend his own honor overrode his other feelings. “Whether they were your mistress and child or two complete strangers, I could never do it. How can you not believe me when I tell you this, Father?”
“You were seen at the lake doing the deed!” The Duke, at last, turned his eyes on Adam, and Adam was surprised to see that his expression was one of pure beseeching. “Why do you continue to deny it when you were seen? If you came to me and confessed your sins and begged my forgiveness, then that would be one thing, but the worst thing in the world to me is that you continue to lie, even though you must know that I know the truth!”
“Who saw me?” At this, true anger began to enter Adam’s voice, an emotion that he would never have allowed himself to direct toward his father before now. “Tell me that, at least. Do I not have the right to know who I am accused by? This is sheer falsehood, Father! Someone is lying to you, and you will not allow me to confront them!”
“You have proven yourself to be violent against innocents,” his father replied, his cracked old voice shaking with equal anger. “I would be a fool indeed to reveal the identity of your accuser to you.”
“Then how can I defend myself?” Adam’s voice was rising to a thunderous level.
“You care only to defend yourself and nothing for my pain!” his father burst out. “You cannot fathom my loss, boy, and you continue to insult me, and insult their memory, by refusing to confess to what you have done!”
“I cannot confess to a crime that I did not commit,” Adam said, his voice shaking with pain and anger. “I am sorry if my refusal to do so causes you even more pain, and I can see, Father, that you are indeed in terrible pain. If I could alleviate it then I would, but I will not tell a lie in order to do so. My conscience forbids it. You raised me to be honest, even when it is difficult, and so I must be. I am sorry, Father.”
He could not bear to continue this conversation any longer, and he left the room, with the words “Since you refuse to believe my word of honor, Father, I will find some proof.”
Standing outside his father’s bedroom, Adam found himself breathing heavily, as though he had just been engaged in some great exertion.
He leaned a
gainst the wall to catch his breath, doing his best to make sense of what had just taken place.
In some strange, distant way, Adam actually felt that at last his questions had been answered. It had seemed so strange to him, so difficult to believe, that his father had sided against his own son in the deaths of two apparent strangers.
But they had not been strangers. Freddie was his father’s son too and his own little brother.
The memory of that day came to him suddenly, so suddenly that he was obliged to drop into a nearby chair. The terrible memory of the two bodies laid out on the side of the lake — the little childish face, marble-pale with the blond curls sill damp.
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