The Virgin in the Rake’s Bed by Ava MacAdams
Chapter Thirty
When speculation becomes fact, it takes on a new character – perhaps more shocking than when it was merely a possibility – and such was the case of the words Ian’s mother had just spoken. Rickard had accused Ian of being illegitimate, and it seemed now he was right in his assertions, though where he had discovered such facts remained a mystery. To hear his mother speak those words had taken Ian by surprise, even though he knew in his heart they were true.
“Then my father is not my father, at least not in inheritance,” he whispered, as much to himself as to them.
“No, Ian, he is not. But that does not mean he did not spend every day of his life from the moment you were born acting as any father should – beyond what any father should, I have never forgotten that, and though my faults are many, I have never admired another man more than I did you father,” she replied.
Ian wanted to believe her words, he wanted to believe she might have changed, but their past relationship had been so filled with lies and absence, that even in the tone of her regret, Ian could summon little by way of sympathy. His mother had spent her life lying, and be that a fault roused by passions beyond her control – for love, as he knew, could be a powerful force – it could not excuse the terrible difficulty in which she now placed him.
“I will always think of my father as my father. I have no love for the Duke of Sinclair. Quite the opposite, in fact. He is a man of contemptible morals, and you will be well aware that you are not the only woman he has taken to his bed,” Ian cried, unable to contain his anger any longer.
“Ian, please, the truth is known now. We cannot change the past, but in the present, we have the power to change the future. Do not let the sun go down on anger,” Catherine whispered, her hand placed gently on his.
Ian sighed, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands. Catherine was right, of course. He did not want to be angry with his mother. She had her many faults, but she also had her virtues, and he could not fault her kindness in years gone by, even if her demeanor spoke of something different. She had always been a guarded woman, her emotions kept strictly to herself, but he knew how much it had hurt her when he had cut all ties, her letters begging him to make contact enough to even now stir his heart strings.
“I regret my actions, but I do not regret you, Ian. Your father – the Baron – declared you his own, and no one can take away your true inheritance. He knew the truth, and whilst I am not proud of it, I am grateful to him for all he did for us both. Your father loved you, and I love you, Ian. I want only to be reconciled. It is all I desire. Please, Ian, I have endured the loss of one child through tragic circumstance. Do not continue to leave me bereft of both my children,” she said, looking at him longingly.
Ian sighed. He had tried to be angry – he had been angry for many years – but now the sight of his mother, alone and with only Redfield and her garden for company stirred a sense of forgiveness in him, and he gave her a weak smile. She had mourned his brother alone, for Ian himself had summoned little by way of sorrow for the death of the man who had taken so much from him. But for his mother, it was different, and he could see now the pain he had so long dismissed, a pain of loss which now he could in part give remedy.
“It is a lot to take in, though I knew in my heart it was the truth. But what is the proof you speak of? If the duke denies it then… oh, there is such scandal attached,” he cried, and his mother rose to her feet.
“I have the proof, I shall show you it,” she said, and hurried from the room.
“My darling, it is all so tragic,” Catherine said, throwing her arms around Ian as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Better to confront it than to be ever wondering,” he replied, and she sat back and took his hands in hers.
“But how did Rickard come to know this? How did my father know it? And what do they expect to do with such knowledge?” she asked, and Ian shook his head.
“I do not know,” he replied.
“But surely the duke’s reputation is at stake if this is revealed,” Catherine remarked, and Ian nodded
At first, he had thought of this misfortune as being only a tragedy for himself. But if Catherine’s father and brother were to reveal the truth about the Duke of Sinclair’s illicit liaisons, then surely it would reflect badly on him, too – scandalously, in fact.
“It most certainly is, and he will surely not wish such knowledge to be made public. It is all a terrible mess, but I will be forever grateful to you, Catherine, for standing by me,” he said.
There had been doubts in his mind at first. He had not known whether to break his rules for Catherine or not. His decision had seemed rash, but now there could be no doubt he had made the right one. He loved her, and though already their love was being tested, he was certain it would be proved.
“You are my husband, and you are the one who has saved me from a far more terrible state than rumor and gossip. Had it not been for you, I would even now be married to the Earl of Westwood, and that is too terrible a fate to comprehend. No, we shall weather the storm, but I wonder if the others will, too,” she said, just as Ian’s mother returned to the room.
She was carrying with her a large box, and she placed it carefully on the table, standing back and looking at it with some trepidation. “I have not opened this box in twenty years,” she said, the layer of dust on the top evidence of the truth of her words.
“What is in it?” Ian asked, and his mother looked at him and sighed.
“Letters, Ian, letters from all those men whom I allowed to overtake my passions in place of your father. It is a vain thing to have kept them. But try as I might, I could not let go of those feelings I once possessed. Some of those men were good and kind, but others were like the Duke of Sinclair, men who were interested in nothing but their own carnal pleasures,” she replied.
Ian was uncomfortable discussing such matters with his mother, but he needed to know the truth, and now she opened the box, searching amongst stacks of letters tied up with red bows. “And this will prove my lineage?” he asked, and she nodded.
“I wrote to him at once when I discovered I was with child. He was dismissive of my plight, though he sent a pitiable sum of money by way of a bounty for my silence,” she said, placing one of the piles on the table.
Ian did not know the Duke of Sinclair well – more by reputation than association, for Nicholas was loath to speak of him in more than passing terms – but from what he did know, the thought of association with such a man did nothing to cheer his mood. The Duke of Sinclair was known as a womanizer, and if it were true that he and Ian’s mother were once romantically involved, then sadly she could not claim to be the only woman with whom the duke had broken his marriage vows. Ian did not like to think of it, and instead, he pushed such thoughts aside, wishing only to establish the facts.
“And why did you keep that silence?” Ian asked, curious at last to know the truth, as much as it pained him to do so.
“For the sake of your father. I was not about to reveal the affair, even if the Duke of Sinclair did nothing to warrant my silence. You will see from our correspondence he had no care for me, nor any interest in you when you were born. Our final letters were exchanged in the days after you were born, and he as much as told me he wished nothing further to do with either me or you,” she said, handing Ian one of the letters.
It was written in a large, curling script, one which Ian recognized in style as being similar to Nicholas Lowood, the Marquess of Somerset, the legitimate son of the Duke of Sinclair, a man now confirmed as his half-brother. The letters were curt and dismissive, their tone smug and superior. The duke admitted his responsibility for the child, though offered little by way of support. He had no interest in being a father to a “little runt,” and closed his final correspondence by indicating that an enclosed sum was sufficient to ensure Ian’s mother’s silence.
“He is a cruel and wicked man,” Ian whispered, tossing aside the final letter.
“As cruel and ruthless in his business dealings as he is in his romantic leanings,” his mother replied.
“I do not know what you saw in him, mother. The man is nothing but a rake, and I do not think he has changed, either,” Ian said, as Catherine reached out to read the letters for herself.
“I asked nothing of him, save acceptance,” his mother said, and again she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“But these letters prove it,” Ian said, pointing to the box.
“But he probably has a dozen illegitimate sons. My folly was to think I was different, that he loved me, rather than merely desired me as another conquest. I was foolish, and I have paid the price for it. But it is not him I wish for, Ian, it is you. All these years I have longed for reconciliation, and for a chance to prove to you that I am not the woman I once was. People think me a formidable figure, cruel and heartless for the pain I caused your father. But it is not true. I have feelings, too, Ian, and I have mourned your loss every day since last we parted,” she said, and now she wept.
Ian glanced at Catherine, and she nodded, urging Ian forward. “Mother… do not cry, there can be reconciliation,” he said, and his mother looked up, her face transformed into a smile.
“There can?” she asked, and he nodded.
Ian was willing to forgive his mother her transgressions. In the years gone by, he had built a picture of her, one which was easy to despise. She had been the adulterous woman, the one who had so destroyed his father, abandoned him, and sought out her own pleasures. Perhaps there was some truth in that – once – but before he saw only a woman mired by regrets, one who had suffered in the hands of men she had fallen in love with, and now lived with the detriment of her long past misdemeanors.
“I was not sure what to expect when I came here, but what I have found is surprising,” he replied, glancing at Catherine, who smiled.
Ian had spent too long in bitterness, against his mother, against Cassandra, against anyone who would challenge him. He had built barriers against others and made it so no one could come close to him. In all of this, he had wanted only to protect himself from the hurt he had known at the hands of women. But things were different now. He had found Catherine, and she had proved to him that the fairer sex deserved another chance. In his love for Catherine, he knew there could be no betrayal, and so finding it in his heart to forgive his mother – to forgive Cassandra, even – seemed a little easier.
“You have found a woman who has waited for this moment half a lifetime. When I awoke this morning, I did not expect this to be the happy day of reconciliation,” she exclaimed, and Ian smiled.
“Neither did I, mother,” he replied.
He had wanted to come to Ashcourt Park in a stern and willful manner, to demand the answers he sought, and leave before his mother could offer her pleadings. But instead, he had found the time past for bitterness, a bitterness he could no longer hold on to. He had become so consumed with his rules, his ponderings on the past, his own bitterness, and yet now, faced with the woman who had brought him into the world, he could find nothing to hold against her.
“This is a happy day, indeed. The happiest of days,” she exclaimed, and she sprang forward to embrace him.
“Mother, really…” he said, but she clung to him, weeping with joy.
“Oh, Ian, you do not know how happy you make me,” she exclaimed, and Catherine, too, was smiling.
“Well done,” she whispered.
“But there is still more to know, mother, and the past cannot be entirely forgotten so readily. Do not think this is the end. There is still much you must prove,” Ian said, for he would never entirely forget the pain she had caused him.
His mother nodded, but there could be no doubt that the weight was lifted from her countenance, and now she embraced Catherine, too, telling her how glad she was that Ian had at last found a woman who loved him as he would love her. “I knew Cassandra was not right for you,” she said, and Ian smiled.
“And why did you not say something at the time?” he asked, and his mother shook her head.
“Am I to force my opinions on you? No, I had to let you make your own decisions, but I am sorry for the pain she caused you. I know you loved her,” she said.
“Let us leave all that in the past now, mother,” he said, and his mother nodded.
“And here is to the future, and what will come next,” she said, raising her teacup in a toast.
