Page 46 of Duke of Emeralds
What sort of mother left her child like this? And in such weather?
“There is no use, Your Grace,” Mrs. Smith said. “She has not uttered a single word. Not her name, not a sound.”
Hester’s gaze remained on the girl for a moment before her thoughts moved to Noah.
He was another child who had been left behind. But while Noah had been entirely withdrawn, this little girl seemed utterly aware. Watchful. As though assessing the rules of this new world she’d been dropped into.
Without a word, the child released her grip on the satchel and unfastened the flap. From inside, she pulled out a folded piece of parchment, already damp at the corners.
She held it out to Hester with a trembling hand. Her brows drawn, she accepted the note and unfolded it.
Lushton,
Here is the burden you left me with. I can no longer bear it. You must look after your daughter now.
Hester stared at the words.
Daughter? Lushton’s?
She looked up at the child again, her vision swimming. The ground seemed to tilt ever so slightly beneath her feet.
CHAPTER 22
Hester should have fainted. Surely, any respectable duchess would have. Instead, she stood there and stared at the slip of parchment in her hand, reading the line again and again as if the words might shift under pressure and rearrange themselves into a kinder reality.
Here is the burden you left me with. I can no longer bear it. You must look after your daughter now.
Her fingers trembled so violently, she thought the note might tear in half. The child’s eyes—unnaturally clear blue, so at odds with the mud on her cheeks and the clumps in her hair—remained fixed on Hester, unwavering, not with the wild terror of Noah at the orphanage but something steadier, hungrier.
She shoved the letter into her sleeve, summoning all the authority she could muster. “Mrs. Smith. Slater. Take the child inside immediately. She’ll catch her death of cold.”
Her own voice sounded shrill to her ears, as if she’d lost control of it. She tried again, softer, for the child’s sake. “Come. Let us get you warm, and fed. You’ll have dry clothes and a bath this instant.”
Mrs. Smith’s face registered a flicker of surprise before she swept into action. “Mr. Slater, can you instruct the kitchen to prepare food? I will see to the girl myself.” The butler nodded crisply and vanished up the staircase, the child’s satchel clutched in his bony hand.
Mrs. Smith placed a gentle hand on the child’s shoulder. “Come, then.”
The girl’s eyes lingered on Hester for another moment before she allowed herself to be led away. Hester stared after her.
Only when the front hall was empty did Hester realize she was shaking. She held her palms together, the fingers interlocked tight enough to leave little crescent moons in her skin.
What had just happened? Was this some sort of prank? A mistake? Some scheme from a distant relative desperate to rid themselves of an inconvenient child and aiming for the charity of the newly wed Lushton household?
Your daughter now.
Hester’s chest tightened, and she shook her head. The girl had called no name, given no sign of recognition. But the note’saccusation rang like a bell. Was it possible? Had Thomas—? No, she would not finish the thought. Not yet.
She found herself drifting through the castle, the soles of her slippers making no sound at all, as if she was a ghost in her own home. Only when she collided softly with a settee did she realize she’d wandered to the green drawing room.
At one end, an easel stood covered with a muslin sheet. Brushes, sorted by size, lined a wooden case beside it. Thomas’ “office,” as he called it. He’d spent hours here the week before, sometimes alone, sometimes with her perched at the window reading or pretending to embroider while stealing glances at him.
She circled the easel with her hands at her sides and reached for the cloth, but she pulled back before her fingertips touched it then swallowed against the pulse that thudded at her throat.
She could not remember Thomas mentioning a daughter. Not even a rumor. The notion felt both possible and impossible at once, like discovering a hidden staircase in a familiar home.
Does he even know? Or…She stopped. A sudden, hot wave of anger crested in her chest, overtopping all the other feelings.If he did, and he kept it from me—But she refused to finish the thought. She could not believe he would do such a thing, not after all their talk of rules and honesty and drawing clear boundaries around their arrangement. But then, if it was a secret, wasn’t that precisely the point?
Hester’s hand hovered over the easel again. If she lifted the cloth, would she see evidence of the child—her portrait, perhaps, hidden away in oil and canvas, waiting for the right moment to be revealed? Or would she find the landscape he’d said he was working on and nothing more? Her hand shook, and she let it fall.
