Page 58 of The Virgin in the Rake's Bed
“I will tell you anything you wish to know. But how I wish you had come sooner; I have wanted to see you so very badly. When Redfield told me you were, I thought it must be some sort of mistake. But here you are, and you seem… different, somehow,” she said.
“I am different, mother. Many years have passed since last we were in one another’s company, and now I have met Catherine I am fortunate in my happiness, but there is still a weight which hangs over me, a sword of Damocles which even now hangs precariously over me. The threat is even greater than once it was, and I must know the truth,” he said, and his mother blushed.
“Please, Ian, not in front of your wife. I know what you are going to ask…” she began, but Ian held his hand up to silence her.
“What is to be said will be said in front of Catherine. She is my wife, and we are to have no secrets from one another, none at all,” he replied, and his mother nodded.
“Then ask what is on your heart, for it is clear we cannot continue in civility until the truth is known,” she replied.
Ian glanced at Catherine, and she held out her hand to him, giving what she hoped would be a reassuring smile. “It is for the best,” she said, and Ian nodded.
“For what it is worth, mother, I never wanted to hate you. To despise one’s own mother is quite abhorrent, but what choice did I have? You treated my father in the most appalling manner and…” he began, but his words faltered at the sight of the tears flowing down his mother’s cheeks.
“I could not help my disposition, Ian. I loved your father, but… I had other lovers, too. But I only fell in love with your father, though your father was not the easiest of men to live with. I needed more than his occasional affections. He loved me, I have no doubt he did, but he rarely showed it, and that is what I found so hard to bear. In those other men, I found a touch which was passionate and intense, and for which I craved,” she said, and Ian seemed to falter, his face flushed with embarrassment.
It was hardly a matter for polite conversation, though it was a conversation which could now no longer be avoided for the sake of English reserve.
“But there is a question Ian must know the answer to, and I, too, Lady Westwick,” Catherine said, knowing she must say something to save Ian’s awkwardness at this confrontation.
“The reason you have come here?” his mother asked, and Catherine nodded.
“A question has been raised concerning Ian’s father, his natural father, and the truth must be known to avoid or lessen a scandal,” she said, but Ian put his hand on hers to stop her.
“It is all right, Catherine. I will speak,” he said, drawing a deep breath.
“I will tell you what you want to know, Ian. I am sorry these questions have kept us apart for so long,” his mother replied.
“I must know the truth, mother. I must know who my real father is. There is malicious rumor spread and because Catherine’s father and brother are so set against our marriage, they have taken it on themselves to discover anything they can use against me. The truth of my lineage is disputed, and now, even on the morning after our wedding, we were confronted by Catherine’s brother with claims which turned my stomach ill,” he said.
His mother pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at the tears in her eyes. She was filled with regret, and Catherine wanted only to put her arms around her and comfort her. “How sorry I am you have endured such a thing and only for love,” she said, shaking her head.
“They claim the Duke of Sinclair, George Lowood is my father, and if it is so then…” Ian began, but his mother gave a start.
“That man… oh, I can hardly bear to hear his name. The lies he told, the things he said, all of it is painful to me,” she exclaimed, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.
“But what is it that he did? Is he…” Ian asked, and his mother nodded.
“I have no doubt he will deny it, but I have proof of it, Ian, your true father is the Duke of Sinclair, and I am only sorry it has taken so long for it to be known,” she replied, as Catherine and Ian looked at one another in wide-eyed astonishment.
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 – hehadbeen 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.
