Page 38 of The Gentlewoman Companion

One of your women, she called herself Jane, brought her son to me. She claims it is yours and begs me to keep it until I hear from you. How she knew about me I’ll never discover, for she is dead. I now have two of your children to care for and the beauty of our time together diminishes amidst the ruckus of your boy. Come, take care of this or send money. I knew I was not unique to you, but I find it distasteful of you to direct your offspring to my door.

Sarah Cooper

He sank to the floor and read the letter again, looking for any reason to doubt its meaning. It could not be true. His father had criticized high society for their dalliances. This must be blackmail, a fabricated letter meant to damage the Halverton name. There were those who wished to besmirch the moral and dignified. Who was this Sarah to accuse his father of such a thing?

A thousand bits of information converged. His mother stayed in the country while others of their acquaintance went to town. His father left for months at a time, even when parliament was not in session. He’d always believed his mother did not like the city, but this was the woman who loved society and was anxious to accompany him to London now she was out of mourning.

He stood, letter in hand, ready with questions for his mother.

But what if she didn’t know? Should he tell her? She ever-praised her husband, his position, his influence among the lords. She taught her son to follow his father’s example.

“If a man sows his seed like a farmer in a field, let him keep it private and care for his offspring.” Halverton remembered his father’s comment because the sentiment had upset a dinner guest—who had probably been the object of the remark. At the time, he had understood it as a statement of fidelity. If the letter in his hand revealed the truth, he had misunderstood his father’s meaning. The implications sickened him.

Like mold inching over rot, a shadow darkened everything Halverton endeavored to become. If this were true, his hero, his idol was not the man he had believed him to be. He threw his father’s coat to the floor and kicked it into a corner, a groan growing in his chest until it could not be retained. Bent in half, he cried out. He clapped his hand over his mouth, not wanting to draw the attention of his mother. A few deep breaths calmed him. He stuffed the letter into his pocket and returned to his study.

Papers covered his desk in neat stacks, the same sorts of documents his father had forever been reading. Halverton sat in the same leather chair his father had occupied, stood, and began pacing the room. Blue light screamed through the windows. The study was taciturn, the colors cold, no longer a refuge where he could hear the ghost of his father’s booming laughter, recall a clever turn of phrase, or catch a whisper of advice. It was a place where he had felt his father’s approval. He didn’t want it anymore.

He left the room and found the housekeeper. “I would like to relocate the contents of the study.”

“If you’re certain, my lord?”

“Leave the furniture. I want only the books and papers. See to it they are arranged in the library.” He was almost growling. “Please,” he added in a softer tone.

The library was rarely used. His mother preferred the parlor and the drawing room. He would create his own haven, free of the burden his father had left behind.

He stomped toward the door that led outside. One letter did not convict a man, did it? In three weeks, he was due in London. Upon his arrival, he must find this Sarah and discover the truth.

The colors of dusk filtered through crimson velvet curtains, lending a macabre haze to the room already darkened by mahogany bookshelves. Halverton pushed his knight two squares forward and one square to the left, setting it in position to check a pawn. He turned the board around. Moving the king would save the pawn, but was it worth the risk?

He swiped the board with his forearm, sending the pieces pattering onto thick, red carpet. Resting his forehead on the table, he closed his eyes. He could not stop thinking about the letter he had discovered in his father’s coat pocket. If the letter represented truth, the stakes that had anchored his life were gone, sending him adrift.

Three days after the discovery of the damning letter and Halverton was still unable to read his correspondence, think about the House, or remember what his speech was about. He ate, he slept, he stared at the library wall where a dark rectangle above the fireplace marked the place his father’s portrait had hung. How could he wait three weeks to confirm his father’s character in London?

A warm hand squeezed his shoulder.

“Mother. I did not hear you come in.”

“What is bothering you?” She removed a rook from her chair, returned it to the chess board, and sat across the table from him.

How could he answer that question?

She waited.

“Do you miss him?” he asked.

“Your father? I am sorry he is gone.”

Not the same thing.

She sighed and leaned toward him. “After we lost Alice, your father began to stay in London for longer and longer periods. Then, you left for school, and he almost never came home. He blamed himself. I blamed him. We were never the same. I missed him long before we put him in the ground. Little changed for me when he died.”

Alice.

Halverton had been oblivious. Alice had been only a few months old when taken by a fever. He knew both his parents had been devastated by her loss, but at eight years old, he had not perceived the depth of their pain.

An oily nausea swirled in his stomach. His father had disappointed his mother, left her when she’d most needed him. The pristine ideal that was his father slowly crumbled. Was this evidence that his father had taken his pleasure in London?

She took his hand. “He was a fine man. Intelligent, charismatic. Some say he would have become Prime Minister. He would be so proud of you, of your efforts and integrity.”