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Hattie stared at Mrs Reynaud, remembering the
stories she had told and the way she had described herself. Hattie narrowed her gaze, comparing. Her stomach tightened with excitement. It made sense now. She’d wondered that she had not seen it before. Mrs Reynaud’s eyes were the exact same myriad shades of grey as Kit’s. Then there was the shape of their jaws. ‘You’re Kit’s mother, the scandalous woman.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about, my dear.’ Mrs Reynaud raised her teacup, hiding her expression. ‘Did I ever tell you about the sheikh and me? It is a wonderful story. It is sure to entertain you immensely.’
Hattie crossed the floor and knelt at Mrs Reynaud’s feet and gathered Mrs Reynaud’s hand between hers. ‘I should like to think we are friends, Mrs Reynaud. Why didn’t you tell me that Sir Christopher Foxton was your son when he first arrived here?’
Mrs Reynaud’s body vibrated with emotion. A long drawn-out sigh emerged from her throat as she bowed her head. ‘Does it really matter? I gave up the right to be anyone’s mother years ago. All I did was to try to play matchmaker. You are the sort of woman he should have as a bride, rather than the women he has squired throughout the years. You are beautiful and intelligent, the sort of woman I always hoped he’d marry. I may not have seen him, but I have retained an interest.’
‘I shall take that for a yes.’ Hattie refused to think about Mrs Reynaud’s attempt at matchmaking. Her stomach churned. She’d nearly confided about her affair to Kit’s mother. ‘He has your eyes and your jaw. I suspect your sense of humour as well.’
‘I know about the eyes and jaw, but will have to take your word for the humour. I haven’t spoken to Christopher for years.’ Mrs Reynaud’s cheeks flushed pink.
‘And the other men? Did you really lead a scandalous life?’
Mrs Reynaud lifted her head defiantly. ‘I had to survive after Christopher’s father ruined me. Thanks to my marriage settlement, my late husband was able to lay claim to my inheritance and use it how he pleased. He refused to divorce me in the end and kept me on pin money. The criminal conversation was proved, but my lover only had to pay a meagre fivepence for destroying my reputation. He and I parted.’ Mrs Reynaud spread her gnarled hands. ‘I made sure my late husband knew about each and every one of my new lovers. It served my purposes to have him suffer.’
‘Your late husband. Kit’s father.’ The words tasted like ash.
‘Yes.’ The word was barely audible. ‘When I left, I thought it would be only for a few weeks before I could get Christopher to join me. Christopher’s father had shown no interest in the boy. But I lived in a fool’s paradise. The courts look ill on fallen women who leave their husbands.’
‘But he’s been dead for years. Why haven’t you been in touch with Kit? He must long for his mother. He is your son. I know if my mother was alive, I’d want to see her.’
Mrs Reynaud touched her pockmarked face. ‘You know what I look like. I fell ill just before Christopher’s father died. Divine retribution. I changed my name by deed poll as soon as I could. I didn’t want to shame him.’
‘You’re his mother.’
‘I am the woman who left him. He was only four. At first I tried to justify it. He had his nurse. He had stability and John, my brother-in-law, promised to look after him as much as he could. John desired me once, you see. The brothers were like that—rivals.’ She held up her hands and turned her face away. ‘When John gave me this cottage, I agreed I would never contact Christopher. My late husband spent my inheritance. I had nothing. I had no choice.’
Hattie clenched her fists. Mrs Reynaud had had a choice. She had simply chosen not to take it. ‘Go on.’
‘The agreement was I would let him contact me. I have stuck by the agreement. John used to share his letters with me. He’d bring them over and read them. The highlight of my existence, those letters. I used to write to him. I have packets of letters which were never sent, just waiting for the day when he did contact me.’
‘Does he know you are here?’
‘John promised to leave him a letter. Once, a long time ago, I begged John for a chance to see Kit. He brought him to the Stagshaw fair. I made wild plans. John suggested we run away together and raise him. In the end I lacked the courage as I loved John like a brother, not a lover. It wouldn’t be fair to him. I bought Christopher a jumping-jack and had John give it to him. Shortly afterwards, I left for the Continent.’
