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August blew out a slow breath. It was no wonder she’d hidden away. A grown adult would have done the very same. But then, surely Mr. May had been there to help his daughter.

“’Ow did your father bear the news?” he asked carefully.

She eyed him sidelong. “I ne’er told ’im.”

August was more surprised by this fact than Mrs. May’s unfaithfulness. “Ne’er?”

“No. I couldn’t. I s’pect ’e be aware o’ Mother’s later betrayal, but to upend ’is world as mine was due to ’er words? I didn’t ’ave the ’eart.”

August could hardly believe his ears. “’Ow did ye manage?” he asked, his heart breaking at the thought of a child keeping such knowledge to herself simply to keep her father happy.

She was a better person than he could ever be.

“I didn’t manage much at all in the beginnin’,” she responded truthfully, staring out at the sea half-covered in mist. “For years, I despised me mother for tellin’ me. I retreated more and more into me books, convinced I was alone in the world without a family. As I grew older, I ’ad the thought to seek the men Mother ’ad been with, hopin’ to find a sense of identity, but…” She cringed. “She’d told me she didn’t remember the names o’ most men she’d been with.”

August’s stomach roiled. How had this beautiful woman blossomed as brightly as she did, being born into such tainted soil?

“A few years ago,” she continued, “round the time when ye first left the Mount, I think, I reached a breakin’ point, plummetin’ deeper into the darkness. I knew right then I ’ad a choice to make. I could either sink lower and ne’er feel joy or light again. Or I could rise up and choose to believe. So that be what I did. And do ye know what ’appened?” She looked up at him with a smile.

Wholly engrossed in her story, August shook his head, hanging onto her every word as the raindrops tapped against the stone surface they stood upon. “What?”

“I started to see what ’ad been before me eyes all along, the similarities me father and I shared—not only in looks and features, but in mannerisms and tendencies, too. And more than that…I saw what ’e did for me. ’E raised me, provided for me, loves me. And that speaks louder than blood e’er could.”

August stared down at her, rain dripping from the tip of her bonnet, her dignity and grace in the face of such turmoil not only inspiring, but astonishing.

Then something else happened he had not expected—he considered Mr. May in a new light. He considered Mr. May with compassion.

It was no wonder the man pushed so hard for Livvy to leave the Mount. He’d experienced pain of the acutest sort, having his wife not only not love him, but leave him for other men countless times.

There was no excuse for Mr. May’s behavior, nor his deception of his daughter, but…there was a reason.

“So there ye ’ave it,” Livvy said. “The tale o’ me distasteful mother and the pall she’s cast upon me life.” She turned to face him more directly. “I don’t relish tellin’ ye such things. Nor do I believe I be the illegitimate daugh’er of a wanderin’ woman. But then…I’ll ne’er know for certain, will I?” She shrugged. “At any rate, I thought ye ought to know the truth since, well, we’ve been honest with each other from the start, ’ave we not? I want that to continue ’cause I appreciate the trust ’tween us more than ye could e’er know.”

August could bear her words no longer. He turned away, the pain he felt leaving him unable to stand as he leaned against the railing.

She trusted him. She trusted him when she absolutely should not.

“Ye…ye be disappointed,” Livvy breathed out, misinterpreting his silence and his shift away from her. “That be fine. I can understand why.”

August turned to face her with a frown. “I ain’t disappointed.”

But she backed away from him. “No, it be fine, I assure ye.” Tears filled her eyes as she tried to smile. “I understand it can be a shock. ’Twas for me, too. Take the time ye need.”

He shook his head, but she didn’t allow him to say more, turning on her heel and walking swiftly across the balcony that had emptied during her revelation.

August winced, her footsteps clicking and resounding against the echoing fortress, water splashing up against her skirts from the puddles she strode across. “Livvy, wait,” he called out.

But she didn’t.

August couldn’t bear the thought of her thinking he was upset with her in any way. Swiftly, he jogged toward her, reaching out to grasp her arm softly with his hand. “Please, wait.”

She stopped, though she pulled away, flicking a few tears from her cheeks. “Ye don’t ’ave to explain, August. I understand.”

“No,” he said at once, grimacing at the pain he was already causing her. “Ye don’t understand.”

More tears spilled down her cheeks. “Please, don’t cry,” he said in near desperation. He reached forward, wiping them from her cheeks, though his wet hands did very little to dry her tears.

Was this a metaphor, a promise of what was to come—that he would be able to do nothing to ease her pain, only make matters worse?