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Three weeks and there’d been no reply. Nothing. She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t expected her father to welcome her with open arms—but nothing. No response at all. It seemed incredible. And with each passing day she felt more resentful.
How could anyone do that? How could he have created a life and care so little about it?
From the time she’d been old enough to ask questions about who her father was, her mother had said he was a good man. A man who couldn’t be with them, however much he wanted to be.
His identity had always been a secret. But some part of Eloise had clung to the knowledge that he was a ‘good man’. He would have wanted her in his life…if only it had been possible. He would have loved her. Loved her mother. He was a ‘good man’.
Childish nonsense. He was a man who’d had too much of everything. A man who clearly rated people as worthy of notice or not worthy. A man who’d left a young girl to deal with the consequences of their affair alone and unsupported. A man who’d completely deleted the knowledge that he’d fathered a baby girl.
Her.
‘He’s been unwell.’
‘Unwell?’ Her eyes flicked up to his. She would swear his voice had become more menacing, beneath the suave veneer.
‘But perhaps you know that already? He’s been in hospital,’ Jem continued smoothly.
‘No. No…I didn’t…I didn’t know.’
Why would she have known that? She felt somehow that he blamed her. But for what?
‘He’s undergone heart surgery. A quadruple bypass.’
‘Oh.’ Eloise didn’t know what to say. Considering Viscount Pulborough was a man she didn’t know, had never met, it was strange to feel such an overwhelming reaction to the news of his operation.
‘But at seventy-three it’s taken its toll.’
She knew a moment of panic. He couldn’t die. Not now. If he did she would never have the chance to speak to him. Would never know why he’d abandoned them.
‘Could he die?’ she asked, taking an involuntary step forward.
Jem held his ground. ‘He had a stem cell bleed four years ago which made the procedure more risky than usual, but he came through the operation with only a small scare.’
‘Scare?’
‘His blood pressure shot up as he was coming round from the anaesthetic and they had to bring him round more slowly than they’d hoped. But he’s making excellent progress now.’
‘Th-that’s good.’
‘Yes, it is. The entire family has rallied round to support him.’
Eloise looked away, embarrassed. ‘Of course. I’m sure…I…’ She closed her eyes for a moment.
‘Part of that is keeping him free of stress and making sure nothing’s allowed to upset him.’
His words pooled in the silence. There was no possible way she could misconstrue what he was saying. From somewhere deep within her Eloise pulled out a quiet, ‘I see.’ And then, because she couldn’t help it, ‘You’re protecting him from me. He hasn’t seen my letter. Has he?’
‘No.’
No. No apology, just an unequivocal ‘no’. All these days, waiting for an answer that hadn’t come. All the worry and nervous energy. The sick fear. The feeling of utter rejection. The anger.
And Viscount Pulborough didn’t even know she’d written to him.
His precious ‘new’ family, his ‘real’ family, had closed ranks round him, lest he should be upset. Upset! It didn’t occur to them to think how she might be feeling.
Of course it didn’t. And if it had, they wouldn’t have cared. She was beneath notice. An irritation. Someone born the wrong side of the blanket who was refusing to stay there.
And then there was a new thought. Someone had read her letter. A feeling of coldness spread through her body. That someone had opened her letter. Read it. Dissected and discussed it.
It had been private. So difficult to write. She’d not imagined anyone reading the contents but her father.
She took a deep breath and met his eyes. ‘Did you read it?’
‘No.’
‘Then who?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘They had no right to do it. It was a private letter. Personal. It doesn’t concern anyone except…’ She hesitated, uncertain how to refer to him. My father. She couldn’t say that. The word ‘father’ stuck in her throat. ‘Viscount Pulborough and myself. Not you, not anyone else.’
‘Not even the Viscount’s wife?’
Eloise met his critical gaze. ‘No.’
She watched him check the retort he’d been about to make. A muscle pulsed at the side of his face. ‘Why now?’ he asked softly.
‘Pardon?’
Jem smiled politely, his eyes flinty blue. ‘I was wondering why now. Why make your claims now? Why not last year? Why this exact moment?’
Eloise drew a steadying breath. His words confused her. She didn’t understand what he was trying to say, but she could hear the underlying criticism.
And then it hit her. Like a sledgehammer powering through the air, it hit her.
He didn’t believe her.
The room around her felt hot, the air heavy with a mixture of cigarette smoke and perfume. Outside the open window the low hum of traffic and the occasional siren tore through the night sky.
Jem Norland didn’t believe she was his stepfather’s natural daughter. He was looking down his supercilious nose as though she was something he’d stepped in. It was none of his business, nothing to do with him but he dared…he dared…
She couldn’t even begin to put words to what she was feeling. Her anger was incandescent. How dared he question her? Her mother? Did he think her mother hadn’t known who’d fathered her baby?
He wanted to know why she’d made contact now. She’d tell him. She’d make him feel so small he’d want to crawl beneath the skirting board. ‘Because I’ve only just realised how much it matters.’
She saw the frown snap across his forehead.
‘When my mother died…There was a letter. Kept with her will.’ Eloise found it difficult to speak. Her anger choked her and her grief was still raw. Even now. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go on.
Images of that day. The policewomen who’d come to tell her. The long drive back home. The shock and the emptiness. And the sense of disbelief as she’d read the words her mother had written in her distinctive italic hand. A letter from the grave. The truth. At last.
They’d been words her mum had hoped to say—one day. No dark premonition had made her put them down on paper. It was her usual, thoughtful care for the daughter she loved that had made her write it down and tuck it inside her will. Just in case.
At first Eloise had been too busy to think clearly. There’d been a funeral to arrange—and pay for. A home to empty. Her life had changed in a single second and she’d ached for things to return to the way they’d been before—even though she’d known they couldn’t.
It was much later that the anger had set in. Six years later. When she’d collected her mother’s meagre possessions from storage. A whole lifetime contained in two crates. When she’d really thought about the council-owned flat they’d called home. When she’d done that first Internet search and had seen a picture of Coldwaltham Abbey.
Her father had let them struggle with nothing. Nothing.
And then she’d re-read her mother’s letter. Amazingly, there’d been no bitterness. Her mum had loved her father, had believed in him right up to the moment she’d tucked the letter inside her will. Probably until the day she’d died.
From that moment Eloise had felt a gnawing curiosity. That was why now. But how could a man like Jem Norland ever hope to understand even a tenth of what she was feeling? She wasn’t entirely sure she understood it herself.
Eloise took a deep breath and tried again. ‘My mother was involved in a head-on collision. Six years ago. A lorry…’ Her voice faltered, tears blocking her throat. ‘The driver fell asleep at the wheel. She d-died. Instantly.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Eloise sensed Jem move towards her. She stepped back, her hand raised to shield her. ‘It was a long time ago. You want to know why I waited until now?’ She didn’t wait for his answer, she continued relentlessly. ‘She never told me who my father was. It was a secret. She told no one. She put a letter—’
‘No one?’
The anger flickered back in her eyes. ‘She must have been a pushover for your stepfather. She just disappeared quietly. Went off to have her baby by herself. Never asked for anything. Never tried to make contact. Never…’ Her voice broke on a sob. ‘My mother was worth a million of him. It was his loss.’
CHAPTER TWO
SHE turned abruptly and pushed her way through the throng of silk and chiffon-clad women with their attendant dinner-jacketed swains, her heart pounding with an anger she’d never experienced before.
And sorrow. It had seeped into her bones. It permeated everything.
Her letter hadn’t even reached the man her mother had loved. It had been passed around strangers. Her mother’s secret had been shared with all the people she’d tried to keep it from.
Her own quiet, dignified request for answers, her need to understand what had happened, had been misconstrued. She felt violated and desperately hurt. Angry for herself—and for her mother.
Eloise found the ladies’ cloakroom by pure instinct. She could hardly see for the tears burning behind her eyes. She pushed open the door and stepped down into the marble opulence.
Thankfully it was empty. She stumbled forward and let the tap run cold for a second or two before splashing her face.
He didn’t believe her. She’d never expected that. She’d spent so much time imagining what kind of response her letter would receive. She’d never imagined for a single second it would be met with blatant disbelief and never reach the man she’d intended it for.
The door clicked open. Eloise glanced up at the two middle-aged women who paused in their conversation the minute they saw her. She forced herself to stand straight and calmly turned off the cold tap. She didn’t want their sympathy—or their questions.
As soon as they’d passed Eloise covered her eyes with her hand. She needed to go home. Decide what she was going to do now. Cry.
She needed to cry out the frustration and the anger. The sadness. The waste of it all.
Cassie wouldn’t like it but she couldn’t risk speaking to Jem Norland again. Why did he think her mother had lied? How dared he think that? She brushed away an angry tear.
The door at the end of the powder room clicked open. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ one of ladies who’d passed earlier asked.
Eloise spun round. ‘I’m fine. Sorry,’ she answered briskly. ‘I’m fine. Really.’ She made a show of checking her make-up in the lighted mirrors and adjusted the narrow straps of her evening gown before leaving the ladies’ room.
The babble of conversation immediately hit her as a wall of sound. The heat was stifling and the air was full of heavy perfume. Eloise pulled a tired hand across her forehead, easing out the tension, and crossed the room towards her employer.
‘You look dreadful,’ Cassie remarked as soon as she joined her.
Eloise let her breath out in a gentle, single stream. They were friends to a point, but Cassie wasn’t the kind of woman you could confide in.
In fact, since her mother’s death she’d discovered she really didn’t have any friends she trusted in that way. Not for the things that were truly important, the things that touched your soul and defined your personality.
‘It’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure,’ she lied. ‘I think I’ll go home, though.’
Cassie’s mouth thinned. She didn’t like it. Eloise knew the signs of irritation well. Her employer ate and slept her job and expected everyone else to do the same. Nothing in Cassie’s life was allowed to impinge on the really important business of running a magazine.
‘Now?’
‘I’ve got plenty of material.’ Eloise glanced down at her watch and added, ‘Which is more than can be said for Bernadette Ryland.’
Cassie’s painted mouth relaxed into a half smile and she spun round to take another view of the actress’s skimpy gown. ‘True. But there are one or two people I’d still like to speak to, if I can.’
Failure wasn’t in Cassie’s vocabulary. She would speak to everyone she intended to—and stay until it was done. It was why she was as successful as she was.
Eloise followed Cassie’s eyes as they searched out Monica Bennington, whose affair with a disgraced Member of Parliament had been headline news for the past week. A salacious story and Cassie wouldn’t leave without some take on it.
‘If you give me half an hour I’ll come with you. We’re all a bit jittery after Naomi’s mugging.’
Naomi’s recent attack had traumatised the entire office—but even that couldn’t persuade Eloise to wait. Cassie’s half an hour would become an hour, then maybe two. She had to leave now. Her temples had started to thud and she felt as if needles were being pushed into her eye sockets.
And she wanted to cry. Tough, sassy woman about town that she was—she wanted to cry like a baby. ‘I don’t want to rush you. I’ll call a cab.’
Cassie’s eyes flicked back to Monica. Eloise could see that she was torn as to what she should do. ‘Alone? You’re sure?’
‘Positive. I’ll be fine. It’s not very late. I could even catch the tube but I’d look a bit daft dressed like this. Probably not the best idea for a fashion guru.’
Cassie laughed, as Eloise had intended she should. Her hard face softened slightly and she rested her hand lightly on Eloise’s bare arm. ‘Get them to call you a taxi from Reception. Bring the receipt in tomorrow. Keep safe.’
Eloise smiled her thanks and turned away. Thank God. Escape. Her eyes fixed on the double doors with the determination of a drowning man trying to reach shore. She’d never left an evening like this so early before. Had never felt such an overwhelming urge to run away.
But then she’d never met Jem Norland before.
The sudden cold blast of air was a relief. Eloise had never fainted in her life but she’d felt perilously close to it back in the ballroom. She took in a couple of steadying breaths, grateful for the comparative quiet.
Her fingers struggled with the stiff clasp on her evening bag before she managed to retrieve the small white ticket she needed to reclaim her wrap. With a nervous glance over her shoulder, she hurried down the wide-stepped staircase.
‘Miss Lawton?’
She didn’t need to turn round to recognise the voice of Jem Norland. Her fingers hesitated on the smooth mahogany banister rail and she stopped. ‘Go away,’ she managed. ‘I don’t want to speak to you.’
She carried on down the stairs, gathering up the fine silk of her skirt to keep it out of the way of her heels.
