A price he was still paying, for the children’s sake.
“Why did you go away to war?” she asked abruptly.
His frown deepened. He rested a hand on the bookshelf behind him. His fingers curled into a fist. “Because my mother died and I was too angry with my father to remain in the same house with him.”
Julia moved closer. “Angry about what?”
“He was a pious, miserable old hypocrite. He saved the best of himself for the pulpit, and the worst for my mother and me. He didn’t know what kindness was. When my mother became ill . . . he made her last months a misery.”
“Were you close with her?”
“I loved her,” he said. “I tried to make her comfortable—brushing her hair and sponging her brow, but—”
Julia gave him a startled look. “That was your mother? I thought—”
His brows knit. “What?”
She shook her head, realizing her mistake. “I thought it was Dolly whose hair you brushed when she was ill. On our wedding night you said that you loved her. But . . . you weren’t talking about her at all, were you? You were talking about your mother.”
Julia felt the urge to sit down. It was all too overwhelming, this recalibration of everything she’d believed until now. It shifted by the second, making her realize how much she’d misunderstood about him.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned her,” he said. “Certainly not on our first night together. But I wanted to confide in you, even then. I wanted you to know me for who I truly was.”
“It hasn’t all been a lie, surely.”
“No. Not all of it. Only my name and the truth about my past—what there was of it.” He grimaced. “My mother was ill for nearly a year. Our house took on the air of a sickroom, not too dissimilar from your parents’ house. The curtains were always drawn and the fires stoked, even in the summer. The village doctor said it was likely cancer. He recommended she be taken to London for an operation, but my father refused. There was no swaying him. It caused an irreparable breach between us. After the funeral, I stored away my personal belongings—my collection of novels and a few mementos of my childhood—and joined the army. It was done less out of a desire to fight than a desire to punish my father.”
“The newspaper report said he’d died as well.”
“He did. I received word of it not long after I left. He took a chill while out walking and was gone in a fortnight. Rather ironic, really.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “All that loss—”
“Don’t be. It’s ancient history now. If I think about it at all, it’s only because occasionally something happens that I wish I could share with my mother.” A regretful smile ghosted over his lips. “I would have liked her to have met you.”
“Do you suppose she would have approved of me?”
“She would have adored you,” he said. “She was a gentle lady, with a romantic spirit. It was she who first encouraged me to write when I was a lad.”
Julia edged closer to him. “Did you intend to give it up? Your writing, I mean? When you went away to war?”
“I didn’t think about my writing at all. Not for a long time. When I finally returned to it . . .” His expression sobered. “You asked me why the style of my novels changed. It’s because I changed. I had to become someone else. I understood then that there was nothing thrilling about falsified deaths and secret identities. There was only loneliness. And I had enough of that to contend with in my new life. I had no desire to write about it.”
She was near enough now to touch him, her shoulder brushing the bookshelf as they stood face-to-face. “I wish I had known you before,” she said. “The real you.”
“You do know the real me,” he replied gruffly. He took a step toward her. “Promise you won’t leave me.”
Her pulse quickened. “I told you I wouldn’t.”
“Yet you insist upon returning to London.” He loomed over her. “I could forbid you going.”
She stood her ground. “You could,” she acknowledged. “But you won’t.”
He stared down at her with palpable frustration.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said. “I intend to stay in London for however long it takes to resolve things.”
“And then?”
“And then . . . we’ll see.”
Thirty-Six
Julia didn’t know where Mr. Finchley’s offices were. She’d only ever encountered him at his home in Half Moon Street. So, the morning after arriving back in London, Half Moon Street is precisely where she went.
Anne had offered to accompany her on her errand. Julia had politely declined. The less Anne knew about Julia’s true reasons for returning to London the better. Thus far, Julia had only confided her intention to regain control of her funds. It was enough to explain her visit to a solicitor.
The Finchleys’ housekeeper showed her into a small room off the entrance hall. It was furnished with a mahogany desk and a pair of carved chairs with seats covered in green morocco leather.
Julia remained standing, smoothing her carriage dress as she waited. She wasn’t obliged to wait long.
Within minutes, Mrs. Finchley appeared, accompanied by her husband.
“Mrs. Blunt,” she said, smiling. She was clad in a fashionable cambric morning dress, her magnificent auburn hair caught up in a plaited roll at her nape. “This is indeed a surprise.”
“Mrs. Blunt.” Mr. Finchley bowed. Like his wife, he was informally dressed, wearing a loose-fitting sack coat and trousers of light gray cloth.
Julia greeted them both, smiling woodenly as they traded pleasantries. All the while, she was conscious of Mr. Finchley’s attention. His eyes were remarkably keen behind his spectacles. She had the impression he’d been expecting her.
“Forgive me,” she said at last. “This isn’t a social call. It’s about a legal matter. I’m afraid I didn’t know where to find your offices.”
“Not at all,” Mr. Finchley said. “These days I’m at home more than I’m at my office.”
“You can blame me for that.” Mrs. Finchley exchanged a private smile with her husband before withdrawing. “Shall I send in tea?”
“Oh no,” Julia said. “I won’t be staying long.”
Mrs. Finchley seemed to understand. Professing herself to be available if either of them should have need of her, she exited the room in a rustle of fabric.