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But she didn’t feel upset. She felt… free. Surely he did too, now that the demons that had nearly destroyed him were gone—those within and without. She smiled as she gazed at the painting. “You were right all along.”
Something else occurred to her, something she wanted to tell him. “My lord…”
“Rachel, call me Truman, please,” he said with a laugh.
She closed her eyes at the pleasure it gave her when he rubbed her cheek with the back of his hand. It was such a tender gesture.
“If you are going to be my wife, you will need to get used to it,” he chided her.
“I like the sound of that, of being your wife.”
He smoothed the hair off her face. “I like the sound of it too.”
“But… what of Mrs. Poulson? You know she had a hand in the fire, in Katherine’s death.”
“I do. But we don’t have to worry about her. Not anymore.”
“Is she… gone?” Rachel asked.
He sat on the edge of her bed. “Yes. Gone for good.”
“What happened?”
“As soon as she heard that Wythe was dead, she”—he cleared his throat—“let’s just say she fell into despair.”
“I have never seen a servant love someone she has served as much as Mrs. Poulson loved Wythe,” she marveled.
“He wasn’t just someone she served, Rachel.”
There was something… odd about his tone. “What do you mean?”
“She was his mother.”
Rachel felt her mouth drop open. “But… how?”
“All too easily, I’m afraid. Apparently his father dallied with the servants as often as he did.”
“The woman who was supposed to be his mother hid that from the world?”
“From everyone, even my parents.”
“Why would she be willing to do that?”
“She was unable to give him a son herself. Maybe she felt it was her duty to accept Wythe because of that. I don’t know. But I didn’t find out about the relationship until she learned of his death. Then she fell to the floor, weeping uncontrollably and rocking back and forth, moaning, ‘My son, my son, what have they done to you?’ ”
Rachel winced. She wasn’t sure if it was for the sight Mrs. Poulson must’ve made or the pain she must’ve felt. Rachel had no love for the housekeeper, but losing a son was a terrible thing. She knew because her own mother had suffered so badly when Tommy died. “Could she have meant that metaphorically?”
“No. It makes too much sense, now that I know. Why she was his wet nurse. Why she followed him everywhere. Why she was so devoted.”
“Katherine was carrying Wythe’s babe.” That was it. That was what Rachel had wanted to tell her betrothed. But she was still so weak and tired. “Mrs. Poulson killed her for fear she’d tell.”
He grimaced. “Yes. I know that, too. She didn’t stay crumpled in a heap of grief for long. She soon grew angry. She told me about the baby, said I wasn’t man enough to father a child, that Wythe never should’ve saved me, that I wasn’t anything compared to him, that he deserved the title.” He waved a hand. “You get the idea.”
Rachel had a headache. She adjusted the pillows to give her more support. “It’s a wonder she didn’t try to kill me, too, before I could bear you an heir. It felt like she hated me enough.”
“I’m afraid she might’ve tried. That’s why I’m glad she’s gone.”
“What happened to her in the end?”
“She ran out of the house and, before anyone could stop her, jumped off the cliff to the rocks below.”
Horrified, Rachel covered her mouth. “No…”
“I’m afraid so,” he said.
“We will both forget,” she promised. “We won’t think of it again. Her or Wythe.”
His gaze shifted to the Bruegel. “It’s sort of eerie that this particular painting is what unraveled the mystery, don’t you think?”
“Why?” she asked.
“You know who Icarus was.” His fingers moved over hers as he talked.
“Someone from Greek mythology?”
“Yes, a very ambitious fellow. He wanted to fly. So his father made him a set of wings with feathers secured by wax.”
It seemed as if she had read the story before, but she couldn’t remember it. “Did those wings work?”
“They did. But he got too ambitious for his own good and would not heed his father’s warnings. He decided he would fly all the way to the sun.”
“And the heat melted the wax.” It was coming back to her now.
“That’s right. He fell into the sea and drowned.” He pointed to the painting. “These are his legs here, just below the ship. As you can tell, he didn’t get very far.”
“Wythe tried to fly too close to the sun,” she murmured. It was such a fitting description for what had happened, how ambition had taken hold and caused his downfall.
“At least he got a lot further than Icarus,” Truman responded.
“He wanted your title so badly—and all that went with it, my love. The admiration, the respect, the money.”
Truman’s handsome face looked pensive. “If he had only waited, he might have inherited it all.”
“No.” She smiled as she placed his hand on her stomach. “You will one day have a son to inherit it all.”
He bent to kiss her lips. “And the farmer continued to plough.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It’s an old Flemish proverb that goes with the painting. It means life will go on.”
“It will do more than go on, Truman. We will be happy, won’t we?”
His hand cupped her cheek. “It makes me feel guilty to say it, but I am already happy. You make me happy. That’s all I need.”
EPILOGUE
Rachel snuggled closer to the warmth of her husband’s body. They had been married for six months, but having him in her bed never grew old. She enjoyed hearing his steady breathing, relished the feel of his bare skin sliding against hers as he moved in the night. She had tried telling him it was unseemly for them to sleep without clothes every night, but he wouldn’t hear of letting that change, and she had only been teasing him anyway. She never felt so content as when she was lying naked in his arms.
A knock sounded at the door. “Uncle Truman? Are you coming?”
