Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“What have you there?” I asked.
“May I tell you some history, my lord? It has to do with Lady Wheaton.”
“Of course,” I replied, intrigued. “You have known her all her life.”
“Yes.”
I nodded for her to continue.
“I was her mother’s lady’s maid. I had been with her most of her life. I was with her when she escaped Paris. When Lady Wheaton was born, she wasn’t a usual mother. She wanted to be very involved in her babe’s care the way her mother had been. I assisted her in caring for Lady Wheaton as she refused a nursemaid. I became one of sorts.” She paused, her eyes becoming misty. I rose and fetched her a glass of Madeira. She thanked me, took a sip, and placed the glass on the desk.
“When my mistress died, I became her ladyship’s nurse for all intents and purposes for a short time. Lord Barnett had never bothered much with her. He had been disappointed she was not a boy, but he had tolerated her. At least until her mother died. She—Lady Wheaton—was very young.”
“Ten and four, I believe?”
“Yes.” She paused to take another sip. “He informed me I would be in charge of her upbringing and making sure she was prepared to be presented when she was ready.”
“What changed?” I asked. “He treated her as a servant. Worse than at times, I believe.”
“Not long after my mistress passed, he discovered something.” She placed the small linen-covered bundle on my desk. “Something I will entrust to you, my lord.”
I opened the linen, lifting two small leatherbound books. Opening one, I saw the feminine penmanship and a name written on the first page.
“These are Lady Wheaton’s mother’s journals?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And how do you have them in your possession?”
She lifted her chin, meeting my eyes. “I stole them from the baron’s desk. He kept them in a hidden drawer.”
“Why?” I queried. “Why did you take them? For Lady Wheaton?”
“Yes. So she knew the truth.”
“Which is?”
“How deeply her mother loved her.” She swallowed, lifting her head. “That Lord Barnett is not her father.”
I sat back, shocked. “What?”
“I was very close to her ladyship’s mother, and I was her only confidante. I was sworn to secrecy and remained loyal to my mistress even after she passed. But I believe it is time to speak.”
I nodded again, indicating for her to continue.
“She was newly enceinte when she met him—Lord Barnett—after fleeing Paris. He quickly became obsessed with her, desperate to marry her. Knowing the life she faced as an unmarried woman with child, she agreed. Her family would disown her, and she would be out in the streets if they discovered her secret. She liked the baron well enough and thought they would make a good match. He knew she had loved another but didn’t care. He was besotted. They married hastily and remained in England. He doted on her. Was thrilled when she told him she was with child. Lady Wheaton was a small baby, and her being early was accepted easily.” A smile pulled on her lips. “Even then, Lady Wheaton cooperated since she was past her time, in truth. Helpful, as always.”
“I see.”
“The baron never had much to do with her ladyship, and there were no more babies—no heir for him to dote on. When her mother died, he found the journals. Read them. Destroyed her rooms and shredded all her clothing. Burned it. Sold all the jewelry. Tore down the paintings he’d had purchased for her.” She met my eyes. “And punished Lady Wheaton for it from that moment on.”
“That bastard.”
“My mistress was prepared to be with him all her life. Give him other children. Set aside her own happiness for his. She wrote of how fond she was of him. How her life was so much better because of him. His wonderful gifts. But none of that meant anything. All he saw was her mistake. Her lies. He called her terrible names. And then took his anger out on the one thing she loved more than anything. Her daughter.”
“But you stayed?” I asked.
“I moved to the kitchen. He never saw me—it was as if he forgot about me most of the time. But he took delight in making sure I knew when she was being punished. How much I loathed it. But I had to stay close and help her as much as I could. Protect her, if possible.”
“You were the one to make the gloves for her hands.”
“Yes. She needed to cover her hands for protection, and the gloves the baron forced her to wear were insufficient.” Once again, her eyes filled with tears. “I tried as best I could. As much as I was able. The older servants all did at the beginning, but as they passed or moved on, it became harder. Soon, it was only Lydia and me.”