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But he could not leave it at this. “If you are not my mother,” he demanded of her retreating form, “then who is?”
She didn’t bother to even look over her shoulder. “Who do you think? That dubious honor belongs to Miss Willa Brandon, of course. Your father’s whore.”
Chapter 22
Quincy dismounted his horse and looked up at Swallowhill’s weathered façade. Miss Willa Brandon. She had lived here, had died here. And all along she had been his mother?
He’d felt from the moment the duchess had spoken the words that she had not been lying. There had been a certainty in her voice, a fury at what she had been forced to endure, that had given an unmistakable ring of truth to her words.
How it must have pained her, to be confronted with proof of her husband’s infidelity each day. And while he could pity her for it, he could not forgive her for what she had done to him. He had been an innocent, a child thrust into this world without a say in any of it. No, the fault in all of this lay with his father, and his father alone.
All this time, he’d thought his father above reproach. Which made the truth that much harder to stomach. The man he’d revered, the person he’d looked up to as what a good person should be, had been a mere figment of his imagination.
An ache started up in his chest, and he pressed a fist to it as if he could ease it by sheer will. But he knew nothing would take away this pain, the last gasping breath of that young boy who’d so idolized his father.
Had he visited that woman here, bedded down with her while his family remained in London? Or had he sent Miss Brandon here after getting her with child, to waste away her days in isolation from the world?
He thought of Clara, how she had been seduced, then sent away to birth her child. Had it been the same for Miss Brandon, sent away from everything she had no doubt loved? And why had she given Quincy up to be raised by another woman? Surely he would have been a damn sight better off with her, no matter the scandal that would have come with it, than he had been with the duchess.
He opened the door and stalked inside. The small hall was just as it had been on his last two visits. Yet he saw it with new eyes, knowing what that woman who’d lived here was to him. Taking the stairs two at a time, he quickly reached that same bedroom he’d found Clara in on their visit. The furniture was covered in their sheets, rising up like specters, his doubts and fears and regrets taking corporeal form around him. He passed them all by, instead striding to the out-of-place piece that had seemed to leave Clara so shaken, the one she had hastily covered up before exiting the room. With a flick of his wrist he pulled the fabric back to reveal a small cradle.
He sucked in his breath. His eyes traveled over the finely carved rosewood. Had he been birthed here, in this very room? Had he been laid in that cradle, perhaps rocked, sung to sleep?
The longing that flared up stunned him. For what? For a mother who might have loved him? No, he would not think of Miss Willa Brandon in such kind terms. She had never loved him. If she had, she would not have given him up.
Even so, he could not help reaching out and tracing the delicate carvings on the headboard. Small flowers, vines intertwined—it was a thing of beauty. Care had been put into the creation of it.
But why was it here? From all accounts she had stayed at Swallowhill several years after he was born. Why not throw it out, or relegate it to the attic, or any one of a number of different options? Why keep it close by, where she could see it day in and day out? Perhaps she’d only given him up because she’d felt she had no choice. Perhaps she’d grieved for him, as Clara had grieved for her lost son.
He shook his head sharply, furious at himself for even considering such a charitable thought toward that woman. She was nothing like Clara.
Clara. Damn, but he ached for her. He’d left before he could tell her he still loved her, that he still wanted to marry her, no matter what was in her past. He gazed down at the cradle, weariness washing over him, his anger fading as quickly as it had come. There was no sense in wondering whether Miss Brandon had wanted to keep him or not; no matter how he tortured himself over it, he would never learn the truth.
Throwing the cover over the cradle, he determinedly turned his back on it and strode from the room and from the house. He would not return here. In a few days’ time it would be Lord Fletcher’s, and then he might never think of it again.
As if he had spirited him into being, he spied the man himself, pulling his horse up in the front drive. “Your Grace,” he called cheerfully, dismounting and striding toward Quincy. “I didn’t expect to see you here this afternoon, not with the festivities going on at Danesford.”
Damnation, he’d had no idea the man was planning on visiting the place. Burying his anger and grief as best he could, he nodded. “I was just leaving, actually. Are you here to take stock of what needs to be done?”
“That I am,” the man said. “Though it may be more extensive than I first surmised.”
“Don’t think you shall get out of purchasing the place that easy,” Quincy quipped, forcing a grin that felt stiff on his cheeks.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m quite eager to see it through. And,” he said, with a wink, “I assume you’re more than ready to get rid of the place and be on your way. All those fabulous destinations to seeand all.”
“That I am,” Quincy agreed with feeling. In fact, his desire to see the place out of his hands had increased exponentially since learning of his true parentage.
Had it been just over an hour ago that he had learned the truth? It seemed an eternity. He was ready to leave this place, to return to Danesford.
To see Clara again and tell her, now that his mind was not reeling, how much he adored her.
“Splendid,” Fletcher said. “And we are still set to meet the day after Lady Phoebe’s wedding to sign the agreement?”
“That we are.” He touched the brim of his hat, eager to be off. “I’ll leave you to your survey, then.”
“I thank you,” Fletcher said. The man’s chuckle followed Quincy as he turned away. “The sooner I can get to demolishing this place the happier I’ll be.”
Quincy stopped cold, his boots kicking up dirt. With a quick pivot he was back before Fletcher. “What do you mean,demolishing?”
