Page 66 of Her Scottish Duke
Charlotte spun on her heel and walked away.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Gerard pulled out the box that Mrs. Philips had rested on his desk.
“Thank ye,” he said to her, nodding gratefully.
“You’re welcome.” She looked uncertainly down at the box. “Let me know if there’s anything you need, Gerard.”
“Thank ye,” he said again.
He waited for the door to close behind her then drew the box toward the edge of the desk and sat down in the chair.
When he had arrived at his townhouse, this box of papers along with others was one of the things he had asked the staff to help him tidy away and store in the loft rooms. He had no wish to be faced with the papers and letters of his father, a man he had never known, and a man who had caused his mother much hurt.
After his thoughts the night before though as he had recalled the necklace that his mother had clung to in death, he felt a keenness to get these papers out and look at a side of his parents’ lives that up until now, he had been quite willing to try and brush under the carpet.
He began by sifting through the letters. There was a myriad of communication between his father and friends, including the lawyer who had told Gerard about his inheritance. Gerard was beginning to suspect Mrs. Philips had recovered the wrong box when at the bottom he found a bundle of letters that were tied up with a ribbon.
Slowly, he lifted the letters out, fiddling with the dark red ribbon that fastened the letters together. Each one was still in its envelope with the address written clearly on the front, still readable, even though the paper was yellowing with age.
Lifting the bundle closer to his eyes, Gerard read the address. It was sent to the Duke of Rodstone, his father, but the handwriting was one he recognized. It was rather large and blocky, even shaky around the edges. It was far from the educated or pristine handwriting Gerard had seen belonging to his father.
My mother’s writing…
She had not had many causes to write in her life, as far as Gerard had seen, but he had known she could write to some degree. When he was very young, before he had been sent to school, he’d asked her where she learned to read and write.
“A kind man taught me once.”
Gerard’s hands tightened around the bundle. He wondered if it was possible that his father was the one who had taught his mother to write.
He untied the ribbon, being delicate with it. Even when it didn’t want to yield for it had been fastened tight for so long, he persisted, determined not to tear it or fray the ribbon in any way. Eventually, it came away and he laid the ribbon down on the side of the desk, opening each letter one at a time to read their contents.
The first letter was from his mother to his father. Scraps and random sentences from the letter leapt out at him, the words powerful with plain emotion.
Do not look for us. I beg of you. I know you will do, I always knew you would, but we know this is for the best. You and I cannot marry. What would your parents say if we were to marry? What would the ton think of you?
The letter continued in much the same vein. Gerard put down the letter and picked up another, reading fast.
His name is Gerard. He is a beautiful boy. He was a rather large baby, and I am sure when he is older, he will grow into being a tall, strong man. I think I write to tell you about him out of weakness, so you know of our son, but please, do not take him from me. Do not come to find us and take him away.
You always said you’d marry someday and provide your heir. I pray your hopes come true one day. I really do. I always wanted you to be happy.
I can say with my hand on my heart now as I write this, that with Gerard in my arms, I am happier than I have ever been.
Gerard’s heart ached for missing his mother as he folded up this letter and laid it with the others. He opened a series of letters now, moving increasingly faster. Some of the letters were very similar, with his mother giving his father an update on how Gerard was progressing with his life.
It answered many questions that Gerard had had. He’d often wondered how it was that the late Duke of Rodstone knew where to find him, enough to put Gerard’s address in the will. It turned out that his mother was the one to give that information. Though she had been determined to keep Gerard, protecting him from the stigma of being illegitimate, she had a warm heart. That heart had made her quite determined to share with her love on regular occasions how their son was growing up.
One of the letters made Gerard’s eyes sting, though he fought the feeling.
He grows more and more like you. Sometimes, I think I see you in him, though he has my eyes and my spirit. He is like you in build, tall and strong, and the older he grows, he has developed your acumen, too. He has begun work as a clerk in a local merchant’s office. With the income, he has purchased us newlodgings in Edinburgh. I’m prouder of him than I can possibly say. I hope you are proud of him, too.
Gerard looked forlornly at the box, angered that though he could read his mother’s words, he could not read his father’s. He felt closer to his mother than ever before, as if he could pluck her heartache from out of the past and bring it to the present moment. Yet what had his father made of all of this? What of his words?
He opened another letter to see that this one was different to the rest. It hadn’t been sent by messenger, but simply bore his father’s name. It was plainly the oldest of the letters too with the edges of the pages curling strongly. He unfurled the letter, reading slowly.
My dearest love,
