Page 116 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

“If that is all, then none of it matters to me.”

“It should.”

“It does not.” She came nearer. He heard the small whisper of fabric as she moved. “And I do not think it matters to you either. Not truly.”

“You presume to know me very well.”

“I am trying to.”

That disarmed him more completely than softness would have.

He shook his head. “No. That is not the real reason.”

“Then tell me.”

He could hear the restraint in her. She did not beg. She did not soothe him with easy absolution. She waited, and somehow waiting demanded more than pleading would have.

“It began when Aurora mentioned her mother,” he said.

“I thought it might have.”

“She wrote to me.” The words came rougher than he intended. “My sister. She wrote and asked for help.”

Poppy made no sound.

“I did not believe her.”

He had never said it so plainly. The sentence had existed in him for months, but inside, it had been surrounded by excuses. Distance. Uncertainty. Old grievances. The confusion of the letter itself. All the reasons a man might mistake desperation for manipulation if believing the truth required him to act.

Spoken aloud, it was bare and ugly.

“What did she ask?” Poppy said.

“For assistance. Protection. Money, perhaps. The letter was not clear enough for me to trust it.” His mouth hardened. “That is what I told myself.”

“And later?”

“Later, it would not leave me. I kept thinking of her handwriting. There were places where the pen had torn the paper.” He swallowed. “Months passed. I decided I would go to her. Not because I believed her. Not even then. I went because I wanted the thought to stop.”

Poppy’s voice was low. “And when you arrived?”

“She was dead.”

The house seemed to contract around the word.

“Her daughters were gone,” he continued. “No one could tell me where. There were too many stories, and none of them were certain. I spent months searching. Months after I should have answered the first letter.”

He felt Poppy’s presence before him now. Close enough that if he lifted his hand, he might touch her sleeve. He did not.

“I failed them,” he said. “My own blood. My sister asked for help, and I weighed her plea against my inconvenience. I let suspicion stand where loyalty should have risen.”

“You found the girls.”

“Too late.”

“You brought them home.”

“After strangers had decided their fate. After they had been sent away. After Aurora had learned to stutter over words no child should have to say.” His voice lowered. “And there you were. Caring for them. Protecting them. You had no duty to them, no certainty of reward, nothing to gain. You loved them because they needed someone. You married me because they needed you still.”