Her life since the age of eighteen had been one disappointment and disaster after another, culminating in last year’s ghastly suggestion that everything in her life so far had been based on a lie. For of course she had suspected—and still did—that perhaps her papa was not her real father. The Marquess of Hitching! The very name could turn her cold to the very core. Yet she had still dared to hope this morning that the future might yet hold something for her. The dashing of that hope had caused her to hit the rock bottom of despair.
Again.
It was beginning to feel like an almost familiar place to be. But perhaps hitting this new low had something to be said for it, she thought now, this morning, after she had awoken and realized in some surprise that she had slept for several hours. At least now there was no further down to go. And at least she would not have to fear coming face-to-face with the Earl of Berwick again, not for a long while, anyway. The maid who had brought up her pitcher of hot water when she rang for it was able to assure her that his lordship had already left Manville, taking his curricle and his baggage coach and his valet with him.
And so, because she had little choice in the matter anyway, Chloe went downstairs. She deliberately counted off all her many blessings as she made her way to the breakfast parlor despite a total lack of appetite. There was much for which to be grateful, not least of which was the fact that she was not an employee at Manville Court but a guest, and Her Grace was invariably kind to her. She had the freedom to wander where she would, the park about the house being extensive and beautifully landscaped. And summer was coming. Everything looked better in the sunshine and heat. Oh, yes, there were many blessings. There were thousands of women who would give a right arm for her life.
Her thoughts touched upon her father, who had been very upset before she left home and even more so when she did leave, but she shied away from those particular memories. She had had to leave. She had needed to put some distance between them while she sorted out a few things in her mind, though she could not quite name what those things were. Either she believed him or she did not.
Why was she here if she believed him?
Four days after the Earl of Berwick had returned to London, Chloe went for a longer-than-usual walk. The weather seemed to have turned a corner from the chill of late spring to the warmth of approaching summer, and the sun was shining. The duchess had gone visiting but had said with a twinkling smile at luncheon that she did not expect Chloe to accompany her, since Mrs. Booth had grown very deaf and would surely be happier with the company of just one very old friend.
Chloe walked across the east lawn, taking care to give the old oak tree a wide berth, until she came to the river and the humpbacked stone bridge that led across to the meadow, which was an integral part of the park though it was made to look half wild rather than cultivated. It looked very inviting in the sunshine, its waving grass liberally dotted with daisies and buttercups and clover. Even from this side of the river she could see butterflies fluttering among them. But she was not in the mood today for sunshine or gaiety. Perhaps some other day . . .
She followed the path along the near bank instead and was soon in the deep shade of the trees that grew in a dense band on both sides of the river. The water was dark green here until it quickened its pace into small eddies with white bubbles of foam as it approached the downward slope to the west and the rapids and the series of falls that would take it plunging into the large natural lake below. She slowed her steps and reveled in the smells of water and greenery, in the sights of the myriad shades of green and the occasional shaft of sunlight, in the sounds of rushing water and shrill birdsong.
She picked her way carefully on the natural stepping stones of the rough path, though fortunately they were dry and posed no real danger. And then she was down and came out into full sunlight on the bank of the lake. Shade and the sound of the falls fell away behind her.
She was still determinedly counting her blessings. How very fortunate she was to have this park to walk in whenever she chose to step beyond the confines of the house, and how fortunate to have the house itself to live in for as long as she wished. She did not know how long she would stay. Surely eventually she would return home. She knew her papa had always loved her as dearly as he loved Graham and Lucy, who were undoubtedly his. She knew that the gossip and her questions had caused him a great deal of distress. She did not know if he had told her the truth. Perhaps she never would. And perhaps it did not matter. She loved him anyway. She knew that, at least.
But if she only knew without any doubt what the truth was . . .
It was dreadful indeed—only someone who had experienced what she was going through could possibly understand—to discover at the age of twenty-six that one’s very identity was in question, that one’s father, one’s beloved papa, might not be one’s real father at all. One of her reasons for leaving London in a great hurry last spring had been her horror at the possibility that she might run into the Marquess of Hitching somewhere and somehow feel a connection to him. It had been worse than horror, in fact. It had been mindless panic. If there was one person in this world she never wanted to meet or even glimpse in passing, it was the man who had known her mother nine months before her birth.
She shook off the unwelcome, plaguing thoughts yet again and tried very hard to rejoice in the peaceful beauty of her surroundings. She stooped to pick up a few flat stones and leaned back against the slender trunk of a willow tree that bowed its branches over the water on either side, enclosing her in what seemed like her own private world. The water was blue here and sparkled in the sunshine. The fronds of the willow were very green. The air was loud with birdsong.