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The tears still fell, even as she closed her eyes. There were no words. She was the product of—unwanted, completely unwanted. She should’ve never been born, never.
Her uncle hung his head, as if he couldn’t say more. When he lifted it, there were tears streaming down his cheeks. “You’re just like him, you know? Exactly like him.”
She gasped. What was he saying?
“He may not have sired you, but you and Judah could be the same person.” Her uncle’s voice cracked. “He believes he can fix everyone, save everyone. He can’t, you can’t.”
Her uncle raked his hands over his face. “I want you to ask yourself, is he happy? Will you be?”
She could no longer hear him. Her father, she had to find her father. She pulled herself to her feet and pushed past Jay into the hall.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The tears blurred her father’s face. No, not her father. Yes, her father. Yes, no matter what, he was her father, wasn’t he? He had to be her father. If he wasn’t her father and she wasn’t his daughter, who were they?
“I’m sorry.” Her father sank into his brother-in-law’s mahogany desk chair, hands on his temples. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
“You didn’t want me to find out, ever.” The words sounded harsher than she intended. Ursula gulped breath after breath after breath. “Why? Why would you close me out? Why would you lie?”
The tears fell hotter, faster. All the years, all the time, she was never actually his. She was the daughter of—“Ashamed.” The word came as a choke. “You’re ashamed of me. And you have every right. I’m a constant reminder of—you never were able to have, you were robbed—”
“No.” Her father leapt to his feet and slammed his fists on the deep stained desk. The clawed feet stamped the floor. Books on the shelves danced.
Ursula jumped back, shaking.
Her father had become a beast, a twisted creature of rage and sorrow and she’d done it to him. His face was red and swollen as if it might burst.
“Don’t you ever say that. I’m not. I never was and never will be ashamed of you or your mother, but especially not you. You are everything to me. You’re why I’m alive. You’ve been my driving force for nearly two decades. Every decision was made with you in mind. I had to protect you. That has been my life’s goal.”
“What?” The word was all breath, almost the last she had because there wasn’t enough air in the room. She was going to faint. She clutched the back of a chair.
“I liked your mother, yes, but when I was in London, it was you I fell in love with.” He closed his eyes and sat again, fanning his hands over the wood. “When we visited that place with Montefiore to discuss what to do about the matter, you—you were on the floor and came to the door with her. You mimicked our conversation. She hushed you, but you paid her no mind. You were young, not even two, but the way you repeated back phrases, and your voice, and your eyes—” His color evened as a smile crossed his lips.
“I was completely in love, love like I’d never felt before. What I felt for Amalia, my fiancée, never held a candle to what occurred when I saw you. It sounds crazy, but I knew you were my child, the child I wanted. You were so clever, so very clever, and beautiful and precocious and—you didn’t belong there. You were to be with me. I was meant to raise you. You stared at me through the darkness in that place and I had a purpose, a duty, an occupation.”
He came to the front of the desk and wiped her tears with his thumb. She pulled Jay’s handkerchief from her bosom and blew her nose. The tears still fell.
“I’m so sorry, Ursula. I should have told you. I just—” He coughed into his hand. His shoulders slumped. Had the gray streaks just appeared in his hair or had they always been there? Same with the lines running from his nose to the edge of his lips. Her eyes burned.
“You were protecting her.” Her entire chest was on fire. “She was sick the enti
re time, wasn’t she?”
“She had the early stages in London. She’d not have survived any punishment, hard labor or Parramatta for more than a year. You’d have just started weaning. Everything was a death sentence for you both.” Her father’s chest heaved.
“So, you married a woman who you liked, but didn’t love, who you could never have—”
“She had a delightful sense of humor while her mind remained. You remember it. She was also kind, very kind, considering the world was not a kind place to her. You should never speak ill of her. She did her best with very little, very, very little. And she loved you very much.”
Her father rose and paced. Plap, plap, plop, his boots crossed the floor bumping against the rug each time.
“She was an orphan too. She did what she had to survive. Our people didn’t always take care of our own, especially there. The prejudices and the laws and the banishment are easy excuses, but we didn’t do our part.”
Ursula clenched the wood harder. Excuses, logical excuses for giving up one’s own happiness.
“But was she a wife?” She shouldn’t have asked the question, but her mouth opened.
“Ursula.” Her name, laced with so much pain from her father’s lips.
