I’m sure you’ve also found the second box. It contains several very important documents that only recently came into my possession. Pierre sent them, believing you should know the truth of your birth. I don’t know how he came to have them, but he was a good friend of your father’s. I can only conclude your father wanted you to have them and asked Pierre to assist in that endeavor.
I beg you to forgive me for not telling you. I was selfish and didn’t want to lose you. Live well, Emeline. You’ve been an exquisite gift, and I have loved you.
Aunt Jeneva
Great fat tears fell in earnest now, cascading down Emeline’s cheeks, and she fumbled for her handkerchief. She pressed the small square to her mouth. Shoulders quaking, she buried her face in Prince’s neck, weeping for the aunt who’d never told her she loved her until she did so in a letter after her death. Several minutes ticked past until she wrestled her grief under control. Giving a final shuddery sob, she sat up and dabbed her face with her sodden hankie.
Aunt Jeneva’s letter hadn’t only intensified her curiosity, but magnified her dread, too.
“I have a brother.” A not-so-nice brother, according to her aunt.
Emeline eyed the stack of letters tied together by a faded green ribbon. She’d reached to untie the silk tie, but the metal box beckoned. Shifting her position, she gingerly lifted the lid. An ordinary looking packet wrapped in brown leather lay inside.
Once more, Prince had spread out on the coverlet and succumbed to sleep.
She undid the string holding the rectangle tight and unfurled the leather. The scent of leather, ink, and parchment wafted upward. The first parchment named Tron Parish where a marriage record between Madeleine LeClaire and Antoine Gagneux could be located.
Emeline sucked in a ragged breath, nearly dropping the parchment as she reread the flourishing script.
Oh, my God and all the angels.
Her parents had been married. She wasn’t illegitimate.
She knew exactly where Christ’s Kirk at the Tron was. That’s where she and Aunt Jeneva attended Sunday services. Could it be true? Could the very same parish she’d been in so many times contain the record of her parents’ marriage?
Why, then, hadn’t her father ever acknowledged her?
She wrinkled her forehead, more confused than ever.
Was this why Aunt Jeneva had asked for her forgiveness? For keeping this monumental secret? At one time, Emeline would’ve been furious at Aunt Jeneva for this deception. Now, after everything that had occurred, she couldn’t bring herself to be angry at her aunt.
Brows pulled together, Emeline unfurled the next document. It contained the name of a solicitor in France who had a copy of Monsieur Antoine Gagneux’s Last Will and Testament. According to the scribbled note, as Gagneux’s only legitimate heir, she’d been named the sole beneficiary of his substantial estate.
Her lungs stalled as she absorbed the last line.
Och, now that is certainly reason for someone—likely my brother—to want me disposed of.
Heart pounding and her head reeling from what she’d learned, she picked up one of the two letters between her thumb and forefinger. She didn’t recognize the scrawling penmanship, yet she knew with absolute certainty her father had written it.
Inhaling a bracing breath, she broke the wax seal. A seal that exactly matched the emblem on the ring and the etching on the satinwood box. Additional proof of her heritage.
While she mightn’t be able to muster anger for her aunt’s deception, molten anger and frustration simmered beneath the surface for the cowardly man who’d sired her.
It further raised her ire that she should care. That this man she didn’t know could cause such an unwelcome and unfamiliar reaction.
Didn’t this letter prove he knew of her existence?
Yet not once in over four and twenty years had he made a single effort to contact her.
Why?
Jaw clamped to still the weird chattering of her teeth, Emeline read the letter. Exhaling her breath in a whoosh, she flopped back onto her pillows in disbelief.
She’d never have guessed the truth. Never.
Her father had loved her mother. They’d secretly married in Scotland, because his family didn’t approve of a disgraced comte’s impoverished daughter for their son. Vowing to return, he’d left Mama with Aunt Jeneva and ventured home to tell his family the joyous news.
He hadn’t kept his promise.
He’d never returned. The unconscionable bounder.
Evidently, Antoine Gagneux had led a very privileged life and had wrongly assumed as the cherished only son, his family would come around and accept Mama as his wife.
However, threatened with disinheritance and banishment, he’d committed bigamy and conceded to an arranged marriage to a duke’s daughter. He’d sired two children with her: Jean Claude, two and twenty, and Jeannette, eighteen.
I have a sister, too.
Was she of the same caliber as their brother?
Sadness twisted Emeline’s belly. Her whole life she’d longed to know something of her father, and such overwhelming disappointment flooded her to learn he was a poltroon of the worst sort.
He’d been aware of Emeline’s birth through his lifelong friend, Pierre. Weakling that he was, however, Gagneux hadn’t the courage to contact her. Dear cowardly Papa hadna the valor of a turnip or a cabbage, it seems. Besides, indulged and selfish, he’d suspected how infuriated Jean Claude would be to discover the truth.
How could Jean Claude not be furious? He’d expected to inherit.
So, these many years, Emeline’s father had kept his despicable secret.
“What a bounder,” she grumbled, causing Prince’s tail to thump once. “Ye like that, do ye?”
Bounder. Cur. Blackguard. Coward. She was sorely pressed to summon a single positive moniker for her sire.
Haunted by his abandonment of Mama and her, he’d vowed to make it right and changed his will when his wife had died five years ago. By providing proof he’d been married before he exchanged vows in France, he’d relegated his other children to the status of bastards.
That had to have been awful for them. Unless—
Perhaps, it wasn’t public knowledge yet. Could that be why she’d been targeted?
More befuddled and bewildered than she’d ever been, she shook her head. Not only wasn’t she illegitimate, she was an heiress. She couldn’t find a great deal of compassion for a man who was so feeble in character, he deserted his wife and committed bigamy.
All because he hadn’t loved Mama more than his wealth and position.
Scant doubt remained who had the most to gain if she were dead. She remembered the second letter. Without rising, she stretched to clasp the crisp paper addressed to her. A distinctly feminine hand met her wary perusal.
The missive was short, but incredibly sweet. Jeannette was thrilled to learn she had an older sister and hoped they could meet soon. She apologized for their father’s dishonorable behavior and prayed one day Emeline could forgive him. She also hoped Emeline knew she didn’t begrudge her the inheritance. The flourishing inscription read:
Your adoring sister,
Jeannette
It was difficult to believe the sincerity of the letter given the rotten nature of their father and brother, but Jeannette had written of her own accord. If she were as angry and spite-filled as Jean Claude, wouldn’t she have ignored Emeline? Perhaps, even conspired with their brother?