Page 55 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
“He died a little over five years ago,” Mary began, her voice taking on the distant quality of someone revisiting painful memories. “Quite suddenly, without any warning at all. He had been a little ill, but it did not seem serious. The doctors said it was nothing to worry about, and we believed he was on the path to recovery. And then one day he was there – planning improvements to the estate, teaching Graham about managing the tenants, discussing Isobel's education – and the next morning I woke to find him cold beside me in our bed.”
Joan watched the older woman's face, seeing the grief still etched clearly in every line on her fair skin.
“The shock of it nearly destroyed me completely,” Mary continued, her voice growing thicker with emotion. “I had been so dependent on him, you see. He had been my anchor, my guide in life. Without him, I felt as though I was drowning in an ocean of responsibilities I didn't understand and grief I couldn't escape.”
Mary paused, staring into the dying fire as though she could see her past in the glowing coals.
“In the chaos that followed his death,” she said slowly, “I'm afraid I lost myself entirely for a time. I was so consumed by my own overwhelming pain, so focused on keeping Isobel from falling apart completely – she had just become a woman at the age of twenty, you see, but the way she was devastated by the loss of her father… It made her seem like she was just a child who needed her mother – that I left Graham to fend for himself when he needed guidance more than ever.”
Joan felt her chest tighten with sympathy as she began to understand the source of the distance she had sensed between Graham and his mother.
“He might’ve been old enough, but he was inexperienced in handling the weight of life. More importantly, he was also mourning,” Mary's voice grew thick with regret, “But he stepped up without a single complaint to take care of all of us. He managed the estate, handled the finances, made decisions that should have been mine to make, all while dealing with his own grief over losing the father he adored.”
Mary's hands twisted in her lap, and Joan could see the way guilt had eaten away at her over the years.
“By the time I emerged from my grief enough to truly see him again,” Mary continued, “He had become this completely self–sufficient man I barely recognized. Strong, capable, independent, but distant from me in ways that broke what was left of my shattered heart. The sweet boy who used to come to me with his troubles and dreams had become a man who handled everything alone.”
Joan felt tears prick her eyes as she recalled the Graham she had mentioned at the inn years ago, the gentle way he had confided in her about his loss and the expectations now put upon him, wondering how he had managed to carry such enormous burdens while his mother retreated into her own sorrow.
“Grief changes us all in different ways,” Joan said gently, understanding all too well how loss could reshape a person's entire world.
“Aye, it does,” Mary agreed, her accent growing thicker with the weight of emotions consuming her. “But I let my grief steal precious years with my son. Years of closeness and connection that I can never reclaim, no matter how much I might wish otherwise.”
Mary turned to meet Joan's eyes directly, and Joan could see the sincerity burning in her gaze like a flame.
“Fergus made Graham promise him something before he died,” Mary said quietly. “Made him swear on his honor to find real love in his life. Not just duty or convenience or social advantage, but genuine, deep, abiding love – the kind that makes life worth living.”
Joan felt her stomach twist with guilt that was almost nauseating in its intensity. If only Mary knew the truth – that Graham had married her not from love but from obligation, to provide for his daughter and offer Joan protection from her desperate circumstances.
“When I heard that he had married so suddenly, without any of his family present,” Mary continued, “I assumed the worst. I thought perhaps he had been trapped somehow, or had made an impulsive decision based on convenience rather than affection. But I was wrong – so terribly, completely wrong.”
Joan struggled to find words that would be truthful without revealing the painful reality of their situation. “Graham is a wonderful husband and an even better father,” she said carefully, the words absolutely true even if the foundation of their marriage was not what Mary hoped. “Something he learned from his father, I'm certain.”
She took a deep breath, feeling compelled to add, despite her doubts, “This might not be my place to say, but Graham is such a spectacular man – so honorable and kind and devoted to those he cares for. I feel absolutely certain his father would be proud beyond measure. . I know…. That it seemed as though I was a mere widow who was lucky enough to find a man who would care deeply enough for her and her child. But truthfully… that is not the case. I have never been married — not before I met Graham. And Sophia is his daughter. She really is. I really hope that you will not longer worry about us or our circumstances”
“I appreciate you being so forthcoming about this. It means a lot that you would trust me with the truth. And I am sure his father is proud of him,” Mary said softly, her voice warm with maternal love and genuine admiration. “As am I. And I am immensely grateful that he has found such a lovely family to share his life with. You and Sophia have brought such light to his eyes – I can see it even in the short time I've been here.”
After Mary left, her parting embrace warm with newfound affection and acceptance, Joan remained by the dying fire long into the night. Her mother-in-law's words echoed in her mind like a refrain that would not be silenced. Mary believed Graham had found love, believed their marriage was the fulfillment of his father's dying wish for his son's happiness.
But Joan knew better. She knew Graham had only proposed their union in a bid to have his daughter close. The knowledge sat in her chest like a weight of lead, growing heavier with each passing moment.
The guilt she felt was like a physical ache, a constant reminder that she was living a lie, allowing Graham's family to believe in a love story that existed only in their hopeful imaginations. What would they think if they knew the truth? How would their warm acceptance change if they understood that she was not the answer to Graham's prayers but merely a complication he had chosen to manage with characteristic honor?
As she finally sought her bed, the questions followed her into uneasy sleep, creating dreams filled with disappointment and the fear that someday the truth would emerge and destroy the fragile peace they had built together.
The next several days passed in a whirlwind of activity that transformed the usually ordered household into something resembling a spontaneous festival. Joan and Sophia found themselves swept up in the warm embrace of Graham's Scottishrelatives, and with each passing moment spent in their presence, Joan felt more of her initial nervousness melting.
Mary's earlier coldness had completely disappeared, replaced by the kind of genuine grandmotherly warmth that Joan had only dreamed of during her lonely childhood. The older woman seemed determined to make up for her initial reception, spending hours with Sophia in the sun room, teaching her simple Gaelic words that made the little girl giggle with delight at their musical sound. Mary would point to objects around the room – “craobh” for tree, “blàth” for flower, “graidh” for love – and Sophia would repeat them back with the fearless confidence, her pronunciation improving with each attempt.
“Your daughter has a natural ear for languages,” Mary told Joan two days after her arrival on a warm afternoon as they watched Sophia carefully practicing her letters while incorporating her new vocabulary. “She reminds me so much of Graham at that age – so eager to learn, so determined to get everything exactly right.”
Joan felt her heart swell with pride as she watched her daughter's serious concentration, the way Sophia's small tongue poked out slightly as she focused on forming each letter perfectly. The connection to Graham's childhood, the sense of family continuity, was something Joan had never expected to treasure so deeply.
Isobel proved to be everything Joan had hoped for in a sister – warm, funny, and refreshingly candid in a way that went beyond social pretense. She had an infectious laugh that seemed tobubble up from some inexhaustible well of joy, and a talent for providing comfort to those around her in a way that was both natural and irresistible.
In Isobel's presence, Joan found herself more relaxed than she had been with anyone in years, able to laugh freely and speak her mind without constantly monitoring every word for potential misinterpretation.
“You know,” Isobel said one morning as they sat together in the garden, watching Sophia chase butterflies between the rose bushes, “I've never seen my brother so content. There's a peace about him now that was never there before, even when we were children.”
