“Anytime.”
She drove away, sorry she had to leave. The Barretts had so enfolded Eve into their lives that she forgot, at times, that they weren’t her real family. But today she felt the uncomfortable tug between the woman she truly was and the woman she had become. Between the woman who belonged in the woods and the one who threw elaborate birthday parties at the country club. Eve wiped away tears as she drove, wishing for Robbie’s sake, for her own sake, that she had never chosen to become Audrey Barrett.
WELLINGFORD HALL
Tildy baked a birthday cake for Bobby when he turned four. Mrs. Smith stuck candles on top of it and the servants gathered around to sing “Happy Birthday to You.” Audrey remembered her own birthday parties on Wellingford’s lawn with white tablecloths and silver serving dishes and children she didn’t know. She had stood off to the side and watched them play, too shy to join them. But Alfie would always come and take her hand and pull her into the festivities.
“Make a wish, Bobby,” Audrey told him. “Then blow out the candles.” He did as he was told. Audrey wondered what he wished for. She had given up on wishes the day Robert died.
When they’d all eaten their fill, Audrey asked Tildy to put a piece of cake on a plate for her father, and she carried it to him in his study. “Father?” she said, knocking on his door. “I brought you a piece of cake. It’s Bobby’s birthday today.” He didn’t reply. She slowly opened the door and went in, steeling herself. He had returned to Wellingford Hall shortly after Eve disappeared four years ago, and had become increasingly reclusive ever since, holing up in his study, day after day, year after year until it had become a hoarder’s lair. He seldom left the room, eating here, sleeping here, and refusing to allow the servants inside to clean. Audrey skirted around mounds of trash and piles of newspapers and approached his desk, where he sat staring at an empty Scotch bottle. “I thought you might like some cake, Father. Tildy made it for Bobby’s birthday.”
“I’m selling the manor house,” he said without looking at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Pack your things and get out. Tell the servants they’re through working here. I’m selling Wellingford Hall and moving back to the north country where I belong.” He slurred his words. He was drunk.
“You don’t really mean that, Father—”
He cut her off with a shout. “It’s done! I’ve already signed with an estate agent! I never want to see this cursed place again!” His words knocked the wind from her. She needed to sit down, but rubbish covered every chair except the one he sat on.
“What about your grandson? Wellingford Hall is his inheritance. You can’t sell his family home.”
“What grandson?” he said with a growl. “I don’t have a grandson.”
A well of pity opened in Audrey’s heart. Losing Mother and then Alfie had been too much for him. His grief and long confinement in this room had caused his mind to slip. She tried to speak slowly, to help him understand. “Yes, you do, Father. My son, Bobby, is your heir. Robert Clarkson Barrett, remember?”
He turned to look at her, eyes glittering. “I know who you mean, Audrey. I haven’t lost my mind. But that boy is not my heir.”
Audrey stared at him, certain he was merely confused. “Of course he is. Bobby is my son. I’m your daughter—”
“No, you’re not!” His shout roared through the room. “You’re not my daughter!”
His words slammed into Audrey as if he had knocked her against a wall. Father wore a sick smile on his face as he stared at her.
“Didn’t your mother, the great Lady Rosamunde, ever tell you the truth?” he asked. “You aren’t mine, Audrey. I never did learn who sired you, but it wasn’t me. You’re the product of one of her many dalliances. An unfortunate accident. She probably didn’t know who your real father was, either.”
Audrey wanted to run from the room to escape his words, but she couldn’t move, galvanized by his hatred and her utter shock. All she could think was No wonder you never loved me.
“I’m done with all of this,” Father said, gesturing to the ravaged room. “I’ve lived my entire life for nothing. Nothing! I’m going to sell this monstrosity and be done with it.”
Desperation dropped Audrey to her knees. “Please don’t do this to us! What about me? What about my son?”
“Go find a rich, gullible fool to live off like your mother did.”
Audrey couldn’t believe he would be so cruel. “You wouldn’t really leave us destitute, would you?”
His expression softened, but only for a moment. “Your mother had a trust fund from her grandfather. I have no idea how much is left in it, but maybe there’s a quid or two.”
Audrey rose to her feet on trembling legs. She no longer pitied this wreck of a man. She hated him. He was leaving her and her son homeless and alone. Where would they go? What would they do? She ran upstairs to the room that was no longer her room, struggling to comprehend that her father wasn’t her father. The home she loved wasn’t her home. The shock of it nearly paralyzed her. And the shame. Audrey longed to dissolve into tears and sob her heart out, the way she had as a child before Eve comforted her with strawberries. The way she’d fallen apart after Robert died. Eve said she had to go on living for her son’s sake, and she’d been right. Audrey couldn’t break down now, either.
She wished she knew what had become of Eve. Eve had always given her courage when she’d needed it—and she needed it now. But she had no idea where she was. She hadn’t written to Audrey as she’d promised. None of the servants had heard from her, either. Why had Audrey ever allowed her best friend to walk away? Why hadn’t she begged Eve to stay? Audrey had been so disappointed in Eve for having an illegitimate baby, when all along, Audrey was an illegitimate child herself.
She couldn’t dwell on that right now. She had to come up with a plan. If Eve could struggle through her own pain and shock after the V-1 rocket attack in order to save Audrey’s life, then she would set aside her own anguish and outrage in order to provide for her son. Father had mentioned Mother’s trust fund, so she would begin there. She would contact her uncle in London.
Audrey composed herself, waiting for her hands to stop trembling, her weak knees to strengthen. Then she hurried downstairs to the sitting room and riffled through her desk for her address book. How long had it been since her uncle last telephoned? Audrey couldn’t recall. He had long grown tired of inviting her to London and hearing her refusals. She had become as much of a recluse as her father.
She found the telephone number and went into the front hall to make the call. “Hello, this is Audrey Clarkson, your niece,” she said when her aunt came on the line. “There’s something I need to discuss with Uncle Roger, and I wondered if it would be convenient for me to drive up to London to see him this weekend.”
“Let me check our calendar, dear . . .”
Audrey twisted the telephone cord around her finger. “It’s rather urgent,” she added.
“Right, then. Why don’t you come on Friday afternoon and join us for dinner? Sylvia will be here with her family, but I’m sure we can make room for you, too.” Audrey wrote down directions to the town house, barely remembering it from years ago. She would leave Bobby with the nurse for the weekend and drive up to London alone. She wondered if her uncle knew that Alfred Clarkson wasn’t her father. Should she tell him? Might he know who her real father was? She closed her eyes as she hung up the phone, wishing she could awaken from this nightmare.