Chapter 18

Isaac slept later than usual and was surprised when Tamsin wasn't in his bed. He quickly dressed and made his way downstairs only to learn she'd left early to visit Mrs. Bowman. He tried not to feel disappointed, especially when he'd done a fair job of leaving her alone since they'd arrived at Wood End.

He ate breakfast at his desk and worked for a couple of hours, though he paused often to think of Tamsin and how everything had changed yesterday. He didn't have a single regret.

Glancing toward the portrait of his mother, he paused. Did he not regret keeping secrets from his wife?

He wished he could tell her that he had a child somewhere out there in the world. A boy he could never call son and whose very existence made Isaac feel as though he had utterly failed. Nothing he ever did could make up for the fact that he'd abandoned the boy and his mother. She'd had to start over as a mother somewhere new and foreign to her. Because it had been the "right" thing to do.

That was his biggest regret and would be until his dying day.

Shaking his head, he refocused on work. But it was only a short while before his mind was once again occupied with his wife. What was she doing with Mrs. Bowman today? Would she also meet with Aunt Sophia and Seales's wife about the harvest celebration? He wanted to know what she was doing every moment, so that he could determine when she was available to him. He wanted to look forward to when they would next be together.

He was turning into a lovesick swain. His friends would tease him. Or would they? No one made light of Wellesbourne's love for his wife.

Love?

Isaac froze. Where had that word come from?

A knock on the door startled him. Aunt Sophia swept into the study, her dark red skirts swirling about her ankles. Her eyes were alight with excitement. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but I am too eager to speak with you."

Isaac sat back in his chair. "Is all well?"

"Oh, yes, quite. I've found something you will want to see. I've been going through some trunks that have been stored on the uppermost floor." A brief grimace passed over her features. "I'd avoided that for some time—I just couldn't face seeing some of the things from the past, particularly items that belonged to Geoffrey."

At the mention of his cousin, Isaac's gaze flicked to the portrait of him that hung on the wall. It had been painted when Geoffrey was twenty, some ten years ago. He had the same thick brows as Isaac as well as his jawline, but Geoffrey's nose was sharper, his lips a bit fuller.

"It's always pleased me that you left his portrait there," Aunt Sophia said softly, now looking at the painting of her son.

While Isaac truly hadn't rearranged anything since he'd become the baron, in this case, he'd wanted Geoffrey's portrait there. It reminded Isaac that nothing in life was certain and that he had benefited greatly from another's tragedy. He only hoped he could preserve the legacy that was meant to be his cousin's.

Aunt Sophia looked back to Isaac. "I wish you and Geoffrey had grown up together, that you had been able to know him well."

"I would have liked that too." When Isaac contemplated that, he envisioned Geoffrey as the brother he didn't have. And when he did that, he invariably thought of his actual brother—whom he'd also lost. That led to him thinking of how many people around him had died, and he couldn't help feeling alone.

But he wasn't alone. Aunt Sophia was right in front of him, and he had Tamsin. His heart swelled, and again he had the uncharacteristic sensation of hope. And anticipation for the future.

"As I was saying," Aunt Sophia went on. "I was going through these old things, and I found a trunk that I'd completely forgotten about. The new rector in Dunster sent it after your father died. It's filled with things from the rectory."

"What kinds of things?" Isaac had no desire for anything of his father's.

"I didn't go through it entirely, but trust me when I say that you will want to see the contents for yourself." She gave him a warm, encouraging smile. "There are books and letters and a myriad other things."

Isaac still wasn't convinced, but he would look since his aunt was so enthusiastic. "Thank you for telling me."

"I've had it brought to your apartment so you can look through it at your leisure. I imagine Tamsin will be interested in the contents too."

He would not be able to ignore it, then. Going through it with Tamsin, however, seemed not only manageable, but perhaps it would even be nice.

"Is that a smile?" Aunt Sophia asked. "You don't do that very often, though I've seen more hints of them since you wed. You could not have chosen a better wife for yourself. She is the sunshine to your clouds."

When Isaac didn't respond, she continued. "I don't mean to say you are covered in darkness or the harbinger of a storm, but you have always been somewhat melancholy, owing to your father," she added with a purse of her lips.

"You seemed to know him well—well enough, anyway—despite him living so far away and never visiting."

"Your uncle had plenty of stories from when they were young. They had a difficult time of things with their father—your grandfather. He was incredibly demanding, and he set his expectations for each son at an early age. Your father was always expected to enter the clergy, and as such, he was subjected to a different manner of education and even discipline. I always thought he married your mother because she was also a light to his darkness, much like Tamsin is for you."

Isaac had never heard any of this before, though he knew from his grandparents that they believed their daughter to be a bright and wonderful person. "I didn't realize you knew my mother well at all."

"I didn't," Aunt Sophia said with a wistful smile. "But I met her a few times, and her personality was immediately engaging. She was the kind of person who put you at ease and made you feel as if you'd been acquainted for years."

It was bittersweet to hear such things. He was grateful for the knowledge, but also sad that he would never know her himself.

"Thank you for telling me that," he said softly.

"You must ask me anything you like. About anything at all." She clasped her hands together at her waist. "I am glad to see you are finally breaking free of the past. Between your family and what happened at Oxford, you have suffered greatly."

The languid happiness that had been swirling inside Isaac crystallized into something hard and stiff. He slowly stood. "What do you know about Oxford?" His voice was low, guarded. The wall he'd constructed and that had recently begun to crumble around him rose swiftly back into place.

"You mustn't think it's common knowledge," she said. "I helped your uncle with the young woman and her delicate situation. He was not prepared to manage that on his own."

His aunt had known about Mary all this time.

"I didn't realize you knew. Why didn't you ever say anything?"

She gave him a sympathetic look. "Because I know how difficult it was for you to be parted from her. Shefford told us you wanted to marry her, but that you understood why you could not."

"Actually, I'm not sure I ever understood, but I have always done what I was told, what was expected of me." The regret that was constantly with him sharpened for a moment.

Aunt Sophia grimaced, her hands squeezing together. "But you surely know that all turned out well for your son. That has to make it a little easier?"

Why did she not mention Mary? "I had thought everything worked out well for him and his mother, that they were living somewhere in security, that she'd likely married and they'd both had a family this past decade." Anxiety pricked Isaac's skin.

"Oh dear." Aunt Sophia blanched. "I suppose you didn't know, but Mary didn't survive the birth. Your son was adopted by a wealthy family in Northumberland. He will never have known hardship or want. And he has been loved."

Mary had died.

All this time, Isaac had envisioned the family he'd lost carrying on without him. But Mary hadn't survived childbirth. Like his mother, she'd given her life bringing another into the world.

"The boy lived?" Isaac whispered.

"Yes," Aunt Sophia answered quickly. "I was there. He was a strapping lad from the moment he drew breath."

She'd been there.

Isaac met her gaze frantically. "Why did no one tell me this?"

"When all this happened, you were distraught, or so my husband told me. Perhaps I should have been more involved with you personally." She looked at him with regret. "You could have used a mother's guidance. I left it to your uncle to speak with you while I was focused on ensuring your son was adopted. I'm sorry."

"And Mary?" he asked in a broken whisper. "Did she know that he lived?"

Aunt Sophia's features softened. "Yes, she held him and told him she loved him. But there was too much blood, the midwife said, and she died."

Isaac needed to be alone. He started toward the door, his body numb so that he barely felt as though he was moving.

His aunt touched his arm as he passed her. "She went peacefully, and she knew her son would be loved. I made sure she knew that."

He turned his head toward her, fearing that his expression was dark and frightening, but unable to change it. "What of me? What did you tell her about me?"

Aunt Sophia blinked. "Nothing. We didn't speak of you."

Had Mary remembered that he loved her, that he'd promised he would always love her, no matter what? Or did she only recall that he'd let her go, that he'd said he couldn't marry her, that it was beyond his control?

Turning on his heel, Isaac stalked from the study.

At least his son was being raised in a family. With love. It was more than Isaac had ever had.

* * *

Tamsin's bed still wasn't fixed. She would have slept in there, but instead, she was in the baron's room waiting for Isaac. He hadn't come to dinner, and she hadn't gone to his study to look for him. The conversation she needed to have with him would wait until he joined her.

Ifhe joined her. It was quite late.

She sat in one of the chairs near the hearth where a warm fire burned. It was a chilly night; it seemed autumn was upon them.

Anxious, Tamsin stood and walked toward the door to the sitting room, which stood open. She saw the trunk beside the seating area. Sophia had explained to her at dinner that it contained items from the rectory where Isaac had grown up. They'd been sent her after his father's death and stored upstairs, forgotten until Sophia had found them again earlier today.

Had Isaac found something upsetting inside? She hadn't opened it and wouldn't unless he invited her to. She worried his absence was due to the contents.

But she was still upset with him. She needed to know the identity of Mary, this woman he loved. That didn't mean she didn't care about him, didn't love him. And the sting of it was excruciating. Loving him and knowing he loved someone else was unbearable.

Glancing at the clock on the mantel, Tamsin saw it was after midnight. Perhaps she should just go to sleep. Except she wasn't sure she could. She'd managed to keep her agitation from Sophia, but Tamsin couldn't hide it from herself.

The outer door of the sitting room clicked open. Tamsin froze, and her pulse began to pound. She could hear the vibration in her ears.

Isaac stepped inside and closed the door. Turning, his gaze met hers, and he stopped short.

Tamsin walked into the sitting room. "I wasn't sure you were coming."

"You didn't need to wait up," he mumbled, dipping his head slightly and looking away from her. Toward the trunk.

"Was there something in the trunk that upset you?" she asked, moving slowly toward it.

His gaze snapped up to hers, but only briefly. "I haven't opened it."

Tamsin stopped. "Oh." Then what was the problem? She could see he was upset. Had he realized he'd spoken about Mary in his sleep?

She straightened her spine and summoned her courage. "I need to ask you about something. Rather, someone." She paused, waiting for him to look at her. When he did not, she continued, her frustration growing. "Who is Mary?"

His gaze shot to hers like a bolt of lightning. And the storm in his eyes was just as fierce. "How do you know about her?" His voice was low and dark, as tempestuous as his expression.

"You mentioned her in your sleep. Twice." She didn't want to ask about him loving her. Perhaps when he told her who Mary was, there would be a perfectly logical reason for why he loved her—and Tamsin wouldn't feel as though her life was over. That sounded so dramatic, but really, how was she to spend it with a man who loved someone else?

"She's no one." He raked his hand through his hair, tousling it.

She'd never seen him do that before. There was something very odd about him this evening. His mood went beyond serious or brooding. When he scowled or glowered, it was never upsetting, and she wasn't concerned for his welfare. Tonight, there was an air of something very dark—despair perhaps—about him.

"Is your bed fixed?" he asked, glancing toward her room.

"No, and I don't know why. I'll make sure it is first thing tomorrow."

He started to turn. "I need to go."

She hurried toward him and touched his arm, but quickly withdrew her hand. "I want to know who Mary is. You said you loved her."

He swung his head back toward her but didn't look at her. "You don't want to know about her. Just forget about it."

"I can't. Isaac, please tell me the truth. You owe me that, I think. Does she bring you joy?"

Now he met her gaze, and his eyes were seething with emotion. "She did, once, but now she's dead." He sounded so anguished, so ravaged that Tamsin couldn't help but move toward him.

"I'm sorry."

His lip curled. "I told you there were things in my past that would drive you away. I never wanted to taint you with them. You will regret marrying me."

Tamsin gave him an encouraging smile. "I could never do that." She reached for him, but he evaded her touch.

"But I am precisely the rogue you didn't want. I behaved abominably. Worse than Bane."

Exhaling, she fixed a serene expression on her face, though her insides were in utter turmoil. "You're going to have to tell me because I don't believe you."

"Stop being so bloody pleasant and positive!" He'd never raised his voice like that. "This is not something you can smile or cheer away." Now he advanced on her—just one step, but his features had gone completely dark. "I took up a liaison with my laundress at Oxford and got her with child. Her name was Mary, and she died giving birth to our son."

Tamsin lifted her hand to her mouth, but not before she gasped, her jaw hanging open. She didn't move; her feet were rooted to the floor. He had a son?

Taking deep breaths to try to calm her racing heart, Tamsin thought over what he'd said, both now and in his sleep. "You said you loved her."

"I did." He shifted his attention from her to some spot on the wall behind her. "She made me happier than I had ever been, but I lost control. I behaved inappropriately, and she paid the price—the ultimate price, it turns out." His voice did break then, and he clasped a hand over his mouth.

Tamsin watched as he fought to keep his emotions inside. She went to his side and touched his shoulder. "It's all right," she whispered.

He turned his face toward her, his eyes wide and wild. "How can you say that? I abandoned my family, and the mother of my son is dead. Nothing about that is right."

"I know you aren't a bad person," she said, hating the tumult he was enduring. "I can't imagine you abandoning the woman you loved."

"But I did. Because they told me to—Shefford, my uncle, my father. They said I couldn't marry a laundress, that she would be taken care of. My uncle said he would settle her in a town far away from Oxford and London and here. She would be a widow with a baby, and it was likely she would have married and had a happy family. Only, none of that happened."

She realized Mary had died, but what of his son? "Where is your son now?" she asked tentatively. Perhaps he didn't know, and she should not have asked.

"He was adopted. Aunt Sophia just told me tonight." He closed his eyes briefly, his face etched in sorrow. "I wanted to marry her—Mary. I wanted us to be a family."

"I know what it's like to want a family of your own," she said quietly. "But you were young. How would you have provided for them?"

"That is what Shefford argued. He involved my uncle, hoping he would take care of Mary and the babe, which he did. But my uncle said if I married her, I would likely not be admitted to the Inns of Court. The life I wanted would not be available to me."

"You did the only thing you could," Tamsin said. "You listened to your family and friend, and you made sure Mary and the babe were cared for. You are not a bad person."

The curl of his lip said he didn't agree. "If I had never surrendered to my baser needs, to my pathetic search for something joyous, Mary would still be alive. Nothing will ever alleviate my guilt. How can you want to be with me after knowing this?"

Her heart nearly broke at the idea of a young Isaac feeling love for the first time and being told that he couldn't have that love. It was no wonder that he struggled to find joy. When he'd finally had some, it had been stripped away.

It wasn't hard to see why he'd been so tormented by this. He'd lost the woman he loved, a son, and a family he'd never had. She could understand that so clearly, having been abandoned by her own mother.

"I want to be with you because you are a good man who made a mistake. That does not make you a rogue or a bad person. When I think of all the ways this has haunted you and the things you've denied yourself as some sort of penance…" She shook her head. "You are not a bad person. On the contrary, you are a wonderfully feeling and caring man."

He looked at her in complete anguish. "I don't understand how you can say that now that you know the truth. I abandoned Mary and my son, just as you were abandoned by your mother."

Oh no, he couldn't think that. "They are not at all the same," she said heavily. "You were persuaded to do something that was supposedly best for her, your son, and for you. You didn't have a family and then decide it wasn't good enough." Long-buried emotion rose in Tamsin. She'd almost forgotten how she'd felt when her mother had gone. Tamsin had thought she was lacking in some way, that her mother wanted a different daughter perhaps.

Isaac blinked. He looked as if he might say something, but did not.

"You have a chance now, Isaac," she said, summoning an almost smile. "You have me. We are a family. We can have children. And we can have love."

He shook his head, slowly at first, then with more force. "I don't deserve that. I turned my back on my family. Mary died alone."

Tamsin's heart fully broke then. "But I deserve that. I deserve a family." All this time, she'd kept her head up and looked for joy instead of wallowing in sadness and loss. "I love you, Isaac. Let me make you happy. Let us be happy together."

He stared at her, a battle waging behind his eyes. "It's not possible," he rasped. Then he turned and stalked toward the door. "You need to leave me alone." He pulled the door open.

"I will, but just for tonight. I am fighting for you, Isaac," she called after him. But he was already gone.

Tamsin sank to the floor and surrendered to all the dark emotions she typically kept at bay. Tears streamed down her face. For the girl whose mother had left and for the boy who'd made an unimaginable choice. And, lastly, for the man who thought he didn't deserve to be loved.