“Evie will know she was loved. That both her parents loved her enough to sacrifice everything for her safety and happiness.” Iris’s thumb brushed away a tear he hadn’t realized had fallen. “That’s what matters. That’s what Adele would want.”
Owen leaned into her touch. He drew strength from her steady presence. How had he ever convinced himself that facing difficulties alone was preferable to this? Her comfort didn’t diminish his grief, but it made it bearable.
“I need to arrange the burial,” he said eventually. “Something proper but discreet. And I need to ensure the records are sealed, so Evie’s future remains protected.”
“We’ll arrange it. Together.” She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “And Owen? When Evie’s old enough to ask about her mother, we’ll tell her the truth. That Adele loved her so much that she gave her a better life, even though it broke her heart to leave her.”
“And Nicholas?”
“That he would have been a wonderful father. That he loved Adele completely and would have cherished them both if fate had allowed it.” Her voice grew firm with conviction. “She comes from love, even if that love was brief.”
For the first time since Cranston’s arrival, Owen felt something other than crushing guilt. Purpose, perhaps. Or simply the comfort of knowing that he wouldn’t face this burden alone.
They arranged Adele’s burial the following day. It was a simple ceremony at a quiet churchyard outside London. Owen stood beside the modest headstone with Iris at his side, while a priest spoke words of comfort over a woman he’d never known. The inscription was simple:Adele Martel. Beloved mother. She gave all for love.
As they walked away from the fresh grave, Owen felt the weight of his failures beginning to transform into something else. Not absolution but understanding. Adele’s story hadn’t ended in that squalid boarding house. It lived on in Evie’s laughter, in the family they’d built, and in the love that surrounded the daughter she’d sought to protect.
“Thank you,” he said quietly as their carriage took them home.
“For what?”
“For helping me see past my guilt. For reminding me that love sometimes requires letting go.”
Iris’s hand found his in the dim light. “That’s what families do. They help each other see clearly when grief makes everything cloudy.”
Family. Yes, that was what they were. Not because of blood or law or even the child that connected them, but because they’dchosen each other. Day after day, moment by moment, they’d chosen to build something beautiful from the most unlikely foundation.
And perhaps that was what Nicholas and Adele would have wanted, most of all. Not perfect protection from sorrow, but the assurance that their daughter would know what it meant to be truly loved.
CHAPTER 29
“I’m afraid there’s been a rather significant development regarding your daughter, Your Grace.”
Iris looked up from her correspondence to find Peters standing in the doorway to the morning room. His usually composed expression was troubled. Behind him stood a thin man in sober black clothing, holding a leather satchel with the careful reverence of someone accustomed to handling important documents.
“Development?” Iris set down her quill, though her hand trembled slightly. Since Adele’s burial, she’d been dreading unexpected visitors. “What kind of development?”
“Mr. Holt claims to represent the child’s family in France. He says he has documents.”
A shiver of panic raced up Iris’s spine.
Family. In France.
This was the very possibility she’d been trying not to imagine since learning of Adele’s death.
“Show him in, please.”
Mr. Holt was a man of perhaps fifty years, with the pale complexion of someone who spent his days bent over legal documents. He bowed low upon entering. His movements were careful and measured.
“Your Grace, I apologize for arriving without an appointment, but the matter is urgent.” His English carried only the faintest trace of an accent. “I represent the Martel family, from Lyon, regarding the child you’ve taken into your household.”
“I see.” Iris remained seated, though every instinct urged her to flee. “And what concern is that of the Martel family?”
“The child is their blood, Your Grace. Their responsibility—and their right.” Holt opened his satchel with practiced ease. “I have a letter from the late Adele Martel, written shortly before her death. In it, she states that she wishes for her daughter to be raised by her cousin Marie in Lyon. Marie has been searching for the child ever since she learned of Adele’s situation.”
He pulled out a folded sheet of paper. The seal was already broken. The ink was still bold, and the handwriting was neat and precise.
“I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding,” Owen said as he entered the room. His voice carried ducal authority. “We have no knowledge of any French relatives. Our daughter was born to us at Carridan Hall.”
