Chapter 41

CHAPTER 41

Emma

E van entered the room with measured steps, his face shadowed with weariness. Emma’s eyes darted to him, wary yet searching, though she said nothing as he approached. Her head throbbed faintly, and she pressed herself back against the pillows as if bracing for impact.

“Emma,” he said softly, his voice breaking the silence. He hesitated, standing at the foot of her bed, before gesturing to the edge of the mattress. “May I sit?”

Her response was curt. “I would rather you didn’t.”

A faint shadow crossed his face, but he inclined his head. Pulling a chair closer to the bed, he seated himself. His fingers laced together tightly as though his very hands were struggling to hold back the weight of his words.

“I thank you,” he began, “for allowing me the chance to speak.”

Emma straightened slightly, though the motion made her wince. “I’ve agreed to hear you,” she replied, her tone frosty. “So tell me what you’ve come to say. Let us have it done with. Who is Rose?”

The name hung in the air like a specter. Evan’s lips parted, but no sound came. Instead, he wet them nervously and looked to the floor, his brows knitting. For a moment, Emma thought he would not answer. But when he spoke, his voice carried a weight she could not ignore.

“I should have told you long ago,” he said, his words deliberate, “but it was not my secret to tell. It was my mother’s secret. And Rose’s.”

Emma’s frown deepened. “Your mother’s secret?” she echoed, incredulous. “How could your secret mistress possibly have been your mother’s secret who has been dead for more than a decade?”

Evan shook his head, a hint of frustration slipping into his features. “You are mistaken,” he said firmly. “Rose is not—nor has she ever been—my mistress.” He paused, his voice softening. “She is my sister.”

Emma’s breath caught, her lips parting in astonishment. “Your sister?” she repeated, as though the words themselves were foreign.

“Yes,” he said. “Half-sister to be exact.”

Her mind reeled, the revelation at odds with everything she had believed. “How can that be?” she demanded. “The letter I read—it made it quite clear she was far more to you than a sister.”

“I know what it seemed to imply,” he admitted, his gaze earnest. “But it is not so. Our relationship has been fraught, yes, but only because of the circumstances of her birth—and the secrecy surrounding it. We have a deep love and understanding of one another and she has rather lofty ideas of who I should be. She thinks I have the potential to be someone grand, as she says and we had somewhat of a falling out when I told her of my intentions to marry you after… well, after you broke up my wedding to Ophelia.”

Emma shook her head slowly, confusion and disbelief warring within her. “You cannot expect me to believe this. You were an only child. That is well known.”

Evan leaned forward, his voice tinged with a quiet urgency. “It is true that my parents had only one child together,” he said. “But my mother had another child. A love child. Rose was born of her clandestine relationship with Mr. Hatfield—the stable master.”

“The stable master?” Emma repeated, the pieces beginning to fall into place. Her heart beat faster, realization dawning with painful clarity. That was who Hatfield had meant when he’d asked Evan to speak to ‘her’. Evan had said they were on better terms now – she’d assumed he meant her, Emma, but he’d spoken of Rose.

“He was here because of her?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “He is seeking a connection to Rose but she is reluctant. That is why he came. Rose is seventeen now. She is young, but her life has been shadowed by the choices made before her birth.”

Emma’s lips trembled as her mind tried to make sense of all of this. “Your mother had a child with the stable master? I can hardly believe it.”

Evan’s jaw tightened. “You must understand. My father was a cruel man. He tormented my mother—verbally, physically. He sought only to control her, to make her his obedient wife. He ensured she had nobody to talk to, no friends. I am sure you heard he would send away all young servants from the estate.”

“Mrs. Havisham told me,” she admitted.

“Mr. Hatfield was older than her, older than my father thus he saw him as no competition. He became her refuge. At first, just to go riding but later it became more. He loved her. Truly, deeply loved her. But by then, she was bound to my father. Their love was doomed.”

“How do you know this?” Emma asked, unsure what to believe.

“He told me. And …she did in her own way. She kept diaries and when she died, I found them. That is how I found out about Rose – although I suspected already.”

“And your father?” Emma asked, her voice softening despite herself. “Did he know? And what do you mean by you suspected?”

“I will tell you everything, allow me one question at a time. My father was a jealous sort, I think he suspected despite the age difference, but by then he had little time for my mother anyhow and often left for weeks at a time,” Evan said. “Mr. Hatfield told me – and my mother’s diary confirmed it – that she was with child when I was ten years old. I remember it, seeing her grow large with child – then one day, she was slim again and there was no child. I was told it had died and was instructed never to speak of the matter again.”

“What happened?” Emma asked, now captivated by the tale.

“When she discovered she was with child, she and Mr. Hatfield conspired to pass the baby off as my father’s. They thought they could fool him.”

Emma listened, her throat tightening as he continued.

“My father grew suspicious when the timeline of her pregnancy did not align. He and my mother rarely shared a bed anymore in those days but she was able to convince him for a time – until she was far advanced. She planned to say the child was born early but when Rose was born...” He trailed off, his eyes clouding. “She bore the distinctive features of Mr. Hatfield—pale skin, dimples in her cheeks and chin. My mother knew she could never convince him that Rose was his. He would have made her life—and Rose’s—unbearable.”

“What did she do?” Emma asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“She lied,” Evan said. “She told the midwife to claim the baby had died. The same lie I was told. It worked because my father was out of town at the time so when he came back, he was told the child was stillborn and already buried. In truth, Mr. Hatfield took Rose and placed her with friends in town. She was raised as the child of a merchant, far from my father’s reach.”

Emma’s heart ached at the thought. “And your mother? Did she ever see her again?”

“Rarely,” Evan said. “Once or twice, from a distance, in the park. But they could never speak. My mother never recovered from the loss. She grew despondent, and she passed away a few years later. Mr. Hatfield left the estate soon after the child was born because my mother would not see him, it was too painful he thought. And her diary confirmed that as well.”

The room was silent save for the faint crackle of the fire. Emma looked at Evan, her mind heavy with the weight of his confession.

“And you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Evan’s voice cracked as he replied. “Because it was not my story to tell. Rose’s existence has always been shrouded in secrecy. I wanted to protect her, to protect my mother’s memory. But in doing so, I failed you. And for that, I am deeply sorry.”

Emma looked away, her emotions swirling. The anger, the betrayal—it had all shifted. She could not reconcile the pain she had carried with the truth now laid bare. Yet, in the depths of her confusion, one question lingered.

“How do you know her then, if she was taken away?” she asked suddenly, the words trembling on her lips.

“When my mother died, I found her diaries and I sought out Mr. Hatfield who helped me see Rose. She was only five then and didn’t understand who I was but with time she did, and we became close.”

The sincerity in his tone was undeniable. Emma closed her eyes, overwhelmed.

For the first time since his arrival, a glimmer of understanding began to take root within her. Emma watched him carefully as the weight of her question settled between them. The silence that followed was thick, stretching uncomfortably. She could feel her heart hammering against her ribcage, each beat sharp and insistent.

“Knowing Rose existed saved me,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

Evan’s lips tightened into a thin line, and his eyes flickered with something she could not name.

“I was…” He paused, searching for words. “I was lost, Emma. Completely untethered. He thought that if I knew Rose existed, if I knew there was still some part of my mother in this world, it might… anchor me.”

Her heart ached, though she scarcely knew for whom.

“And then you found her?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“I did,” Evan replied, his gaze distant, as though the memory played before him. “I remember the first time I saw her. It was uncanny—like looking into a mirror of my younger self. We look so alike that no one who knows us both could doubt the truth.” He hesitated, his expression clouding. “But I couldn’t tell her then. She was too young, too innocent to understand.”

Emma felt a sharp pang of pity for the child Rose had been, living in blissful ignorance of the storm of revelations looming over her. “When did she find out?”

“As she grew older, I began to explain, little by little,” Evan said. “Eventually, she pieced it together. But it wasn’t easy. For either of us.”

Emma’s chest tightened. Her own life had been riddled with complexities, but this—this was something else entirely. “Do you see her often?” she asked hesitantly.

Evan’s lips twitched into a rueful smile. “As best we can. But it hasn’t been simple. Only a handful of people know the truth— myself, Mr. Hatfield, and her adoptive parents are among them, and Jonathan. No one else. Not the ton , not the servants, not anyone. Rose cherishes her freedom too much to risk it. She is among my dearest friends, but I cannot tell anyone about her. So, I hide her. I meet her when I can, but it is always disguised as some sort of charitable outing, as if I am her benefactor. She hates it. As do I.”

Emma frowned. “But now that your father is gone,” she ventured, “surely you could bring her into your life more openly. She’s your sister, Evan. Your family.”

“She is,” Evan said, his voice firm but tinged with resignation. “But society wouldn’t see it that way. They would tear her apart, Emma. And they would tear my mother’s memory apart with her. Do you think they would forgive her for having a child outside of marriage? For seeking comfort where she could find it?” He shook his head. “No. They would call her immoral. And they wouldn’t stop there. My mother endured enough in life. I won’t let her reputation suffer in death as well.”

Emma swallowed hard, the fierce conviction in his voice shaking her to her core. “What about Rose?” she asked. “Does she agree with you?”

He nodded slowly. “We’ve talked about it many times. Rose is practical. Pragmatic. In that, she is much like you. She knows that living quietly, without scrutiny, is a privilege she can’t afford to lose. She’s happy enough with the life she has. The alternative would destroy her.”

Emma’s thoughts swirled as she tried to reconcile the truths he was telling her. “The letters,” she said, her voice tentative. “Why did you keep them there, in my chamber? And if you see one another, why do you write?”

Evan nodded. “Yes. We must write. Meeting often isn’t safe. You saw us in Hyde Park and assumed the worst. You recall? The woman you saw before I was due to marry Ophelia?” His tone was weary, not accusatory. “It wasn’t an affair, Emma. It was Rose.”

A flush crept up Emma’s neck as the memory of her jealous suspicions flooded back. “That was her?” she asked, almost disbelieving.

“It was,” he confirmed. “I couldn’t tell you then of course. But I should have. Not that it would have changed anything.”

“She … Rose didn’t want you to marry me did she?”

He shook his head. “No, she was in favor of my marriage to Ophelia because she saw her story as an echo of our mother’s love for her father. I told her I would never let Ophelia marry someone awful out of obligation. That I’d keep her from it. And I still intend to, though that is a matter we must discuss another time. But as for you? No. She felt it was wrong of me to demand it, and in hindsight she was right. It was my temper getting away from me.”

She looked away, shame prickling her skin. She wanted to apologize, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she asked, “Why was Mr. Hatfield here? Has he never had a relationship with her?”

Evan hesitated, and she saw a flicker of frustration cross his features. “Not really. He met her a number of times but she never knew who he was. Now that she is grown, he wishes to know her better but she is reluctant. She worries her adoptive parents will be upset, though they were once friends with Mr. Hatfield.”

Emma stared at him, her heart aching with the weight of all he had revealed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked softly.

His gaze met hers, steady and remorseful. “Because I’ve never been good at trust, Emma. And because Rose asked me not to tell anyone, especially not you if I was not sure that you would understand. But you’re right—I should have. Especially after it was so clear to me that you would, indeed, understand.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Evan took another breath.

“I have done so much wrong, Emma,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, though it held steady. “I have been foolish, thoughtless… I see that now. But never, never doubt that I care for you more than I have ever cared for anyone in my life. Even before I knew what it was to love you, I was drawn to you, compelled to seek your company, to hear your thoughts.” His throat tightened as he fought the wave of emotion threatening to silence him.

Emma tilted her head slightly, her expression guarded, yet her lips parted as if to speak. She didn’t. He took her silence as permission to go on.

“I cannot change my past, nor undo the mistakes I’ve made. But I would do anything—anything—to make amends, to prove myself worthy of you.” He reached out then, his hand trembling slightly as it hovered between them, uncertain. “If you can forgive me—if you can find it in your heart to try—then I will spend every moment of my life striving to earn your trust again.”

Emma looked at him, her breath visibly quickened. Slowly, as if caught between logic and impulse, she placed her hand in his.

“Evan,” she murmured, her voice both brittle and beautiful in its vulnerability. “You hurt me—terribly. But I believe you when you say it was not your intention. And if I’ve learned anything about myself, it’s that I… I do not wish to let this go. To let us go.” Her voice quavered on the last word, but she stood resolute.

He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes, though he blinked them away swiftly. “Emma,” he breathed, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it gently, reverently. “You do not know what this means to me.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The world seemed to retreat, leaving only the two of them in a cocoon of tentative yet profound understanding. Then, as her gaze softened and a faint blush crept up her neck, Emma spoke again.

“You mentioned something before,” she began tentatively, “about Ophelia. How you wouldn’t let her marry someone awful. What did you mean by that?”

Evan paused, the question pulling him from his reverie. With a soft sigh, he released her hand, though he stayed close, meeting her eyes with sincerity. “It has to do with your revelation,” he said simply.

“My revelation?”

“Yes,” he replied. “After you spoke of Jonathan and Brigitte, I realized something. Jonathan admitted his love for her, but he was convinced they could never be together because of their stations. He believed their circumstances insurmountable. That led me to consider another arrangement—one that might serve all involved.”

Emma frowned slightly, her brow furrowing as her intrigue deepened. “What arrangement?”

Evan folded his arms loosely, not out of defensiveness, but to steel himself for her reaction. “Jonathan cannot marry Brigitte openly,” he began, “but he might agree to marry someone in similar straits. Someone like… Ophelia.”

“Ophelia?” Emma echoed, incredulity clear in her tone.

He nodded. “Hear me out. Jonathan could marry Ophelia, giving her the protection of his name. In turn, it would grant Ophelia the freedom to be with Massimo discreetly, just as Jonathan could remain tied to Brigitte in his heart, if not in name.”

Her jaw dropped slightly as realization dawned. “You… you arranged all of this?”

“Not without consultation,” Evan clarified. “I spoke to both Jonathan and Ophelia about the prospect, and neither dismissed the idea. Jonathan, I believe, is keen on the idea. He truly cares for Brigitte. And as for Ophelia, she sees this as the most reasonable path for her to find happiness with Massimo without her reputation—or the family’s—falling into disrepair. Of course, we will have to create a little scandal – after all Ophelia is meant to marry the Duke of Stearns. We will have to spread rumors about her and Jonathan first, so it is believable.”

Emma regarded him, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, her features softened. “You did this,” she said, her voice tinged with wonder, “for them? For their happiness?”

“Of course I did,” he replied without hesitation. “I have seen too much suffering in this life—people forced apart by circumstance, denied their chance at joy because of the rules of society.” He smiled ruefully. “Perhaps it is not much. Perhaps it is but a small rebellion against the injustices we all endure. But if I can help those dear to me find happiness… I will.”

Emma’s throat tightened, her heart swelling. She leaned closer to him, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she smiled. A real, unguarded smile that warmed him to his core.

“You are a remarkable man, Evan,” she murmured. “And I… I am glad that circumstances brought us together, though they were not always kind.”

He laughed lightly, the sound soft but sincere. “You make it sound as though I were swept up in fortune’s winds rather than my own flaws.”

Emma shook her head. “No. It is clear to me now that everything that happened—all of it—was leading us here. To this moment.”

His breath hitched, and he took her hands again, clasping them firmly. “And I shall treasure this moment until my dying breath.”

Emma stood on her toes, her lips brushing his in a kiss sweet yet charged with all the emotion neither could put into words. It was a promise, a beginning.

When they finally broke apart, Emma regarded him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “So,” she said teasingly, “when does this great scheme of yours come to fruition?”

Evan chuckled, relief and contentment blooming in his chest. “Soon,” he said simply. “But first, we need to get you back on your feet. For you, my dear, are an integral part not just of my plan but of my life. If you wish it.”

“I do, Evan. I do. I love you and I cannot wait to spend my life with you out in the open, and without secrets.”

And for the first time, they stood as equals—not divided by secrets or misunderstandings, but united by the love that had grown, fragile at first, then steadfast. Their story was just beginning, but they both knew, without a doubt, that it would be extraordinary.