Page 82 of A Scandal at Stonecliffe

“Yes, but she wasn’t a strong woman like you, dear. I gather she was quite cowed by her mother. She pined for her son and got paler and more downcast, so finally her parents let her go visit some cousins in the hopes she would improve. The cousins brought her to London for the Season. And she and George met. Of course, when she explained it all, George told her she should have sent for him—he would have whisked her away from her family and married her. Then they got married in London and went racing back to Scotland to get their baby. But along the way, there was a terrible accident—the coach went off the road, and poor Margaret died.”

“How sad,” Annabeth said.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Rose nodded. “I always felt very sorry for the poor girl.”

“But if they were married, why did Father keep Malcolm a secret?” Nathan asked. “Why wouldn’t he have brought him back and raised him?”

“George wanted to, but the Douglases were terribly against it. Flora loved the baby and everyone thought he was her son. The boy was almost a year old by then. Your father realized that to take him away from the only mother and home the child had ever known would be cruel. John and Flora doted on him.”

“But couldn’t he, I don’t know, have had Malcolm come to visit us sometimes?” Nathan sounded wistful.

Rose smiled fondly at him. “George and I would have loved that. I so wished you had a brother to play with. It always grieved me that I could have no more children. But Margaret’s parents were adamant. You see, John—that’s Margaret’s father—was glad to have a son who could inherit his estate. If Malcolm spent any time with us, people would start to wonder why, especially given the Douglases’ aversion to the English. There would be gossip, and it was all too likely that the true story would get out. Even if it wasn’t proved, the rumor would follow him all his life. And Margaret’s memory would be irreversibly besmirched. George couldn’t do that. He understood it would be better for everyone that way.” Rose sighed. “I really believed George had told you and I had hoped that perhaps when you were adults, you and Malcolm might get to know each other. Become friends.”

“I don’t think that’s very likely,” Nathan said.

“Why not, dear?” Rose asked. “I mean, now that you know, you could meet each other.”

“I have met him,” Nathan replied and began to explain the whole story to his mother. The others had heard the first part of the tale, but everyone hung on his account of Malcolm’s kidnapping and their subsequent rescue of him.

There was a long silence after he finished, then Rose said faintly, “Oh, my.”

“Well, they’re Scots,” Lady Lockwood declared, as if that explained the matter. “What can one expect?”

“Not that, one would think,” Sloane replied sardonically.

Nathan snorted out a laugh, quickly covered with a napkin, and Lady Lockwood favored both of the men with a stern look.

“I rather like the Scottish myself,” Marcus said mildly. “You remember that chap McSweeney, don’t you? Capital fellow.”

“Sean McSweeney?” Rose said. “I thought he was Irish.”

“He was,” Jocelyn said.

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” Lady Lockwood put in, and from there the conversation devolved into a discussion among the older group about their various acquaintances of both nationalities.

Verity, struggling to suppress a grin, looked across at Nathan, and he grinned back, and a pain pierced her at the thought of never again sharing a thought with him without even needing to speak. She swallowed and looked away.

Nathan and Verity left as soon as the meal was over—even Nathan couldn’t summon up enough social graces to remain long enough for a properly courteous departure. Verity thought about the fact that this was the last time she would be with these people, and her throat tightened with tears. She had never before felt this way—at least, not since she had left her sister with her new parents. After that, Verity had come and gone, slipping in and out of lives without a regret. But, then, she had never had a group of people she was close to before. That had been the wiser course, she thought. She hated the way this felt.

“I can’t believe it!” Nathan exclaimed as soon as they were in their carriage. “All this time, all the effort we made to keep Mother from learning about Malcolm Douglas—and she knew all along.”

“It would have been a bit easier just to have asked her to begin with,” Verity agreed, glad to be distracted from her blue mood. “I’m glad, to hear the whole story though, even if it is late.”

Nathan smiled at her. “It’s much more in keeping with the father I knew. I’m glad he wasn’t aware Margaret had borne his baby and that he married her as soon as he found out. He wanted his son, he didn’t abandon the boy, but instead did what was best for him.”

“Many men would have hidden that knowledge from their wives.”

“Yes. He trusted my mother enough to be honest about the matter—and she loved him enough to accept his past.”

What must it be like to be that certain of love? Verity wondered. To know that the person who held your heart took you as you were, to believe that your love would hold even through your troubles? Verity had never seen the likes of it.

She had seen infatuation that turned into indifference or dislike. She had seen young love, but there was no assurance that it would last a lifetime. But Nathan’s parents had had that sort of love; they had known each other’s faults and loved each other still, had weathered their troubles together.

It was no wonder that Nathan was the man he was, growing up with their example. Verity had more than once considered him naive, too ready to trust, too prone to leave his heart unprotected. But it wasn’t naivete; it was seeing that love between his parents all his life that made him believe in things she didn’t dare hope for.

It was a subject she didn’t want to dwell on.

“I have been thinking about this case,” she said. “There’s something odd about it. And it’s not just that I hate to see those three villains get away with what they did.”