“With respect, Your Grace, that’s simply not possible.” Holt’s tone remained professionally courteous but firm. “I have documentation that proves otherwise.”
“What sort of documentation?” Iris stepped closer to Owen so that they presented a united front. “Our daughter’s birth was properly recorded. Any claims to the contrary are mistaken.”
“I understand your position, Your Grace, but I’m afraid the evidence is quite conclusive.” Holt extended the paper toward them. “This letter, written in Adele Martel’s own hand, specifically mentions the child she left in your care.”
Iris took it with fingers that felt colder than they should have been and scanned the lines. She caught only fragments, but the penmanship…
Her stomach tightened.
Without a word, she crossed the room to her writing desk, opened a small drawer, and pulled out the slip of paper that had come with Evie. She returned and placed it on the table beside the lawyer’s letter.
“I’d like to compare them,” she said quietly.
Owen walked to the desk. His voice was calm but clipped. “So would I.”
He moved to her side and stood close without touching. They stared down at the notes.
The match was unmistakable. Every curve and slant, every loopingL. Either Adele had written both, or someone had gone to great lengths to make it look that way.
“As you can see,” Holt said with satisfaction, “the authenticity is clear. Adele Martel was most specific in her instructions. The child belongs with her family.”
“Belongs?” Iris’s voice shook. “She’s not a piece of property to be claimed.”
“She is a child who should be raised by her blood relatives rather than strangers, however well-intentioned.” Holt’s tone remained professionally neutral. “Marie Martel is a widow with three children of her own. She has the experience and the familial connection that the child needs.”
Owen moved to stand behind Iris’s chair. His presence was solid and reassuring despite the circumstances. “This is rather sudden, Mr. Holt. Surely, you understand we need time to process such a significant development.”
“Of course. Though I must stress that delay serves no one’s interests. The child is young enough to adapt to newcircumstances without trauma, but that window will not remain open indefinitely.”
The casual dismissal of what such a separation might mean to Evie, to all of them, made Iris’s chest burn with fury.
Trauma? What could be more traumatic than being torn away from the only parents she’d ever known?
“We’ll need to verify these documents,” Owen said coolly. “Arrange proper transfer of guardianship. Such matters take time.”
“Naturally. I will remain in London for several days to facilitate the process.” Holt returned his papers to the satchel with brisk efficiency. “Though I hope you understand that Marie Martel is eager to welcome her cousin’s child home. The family has already made preparations.”
After he left, Iris and Owen sat in silence allowing the weight of his visit to settle around them like smoke. Through the windows, she could hear normal life continuing. Carriages passed in the street, birds sang in the garden, and other people carried on as if their world hadn’t just shifted beneath their feet.
“The handwriting matches,” she said finally.
“Yes.”
“So, either Adele wrote both, or someone has gone to extraordinary lengths to deceive us.”
“Yes.”
She looked at him carefully.
“What do you think?”
Owen was quiet for a long moment. He stared at the papers still spread on the table. “I think the timing is suspicious. Adele dies, and within days, a relative appears with convenient documentation. But I also think the evidence is compelling enough that we can’t simply dismiss it.”
“You want to give her up.”
“I want to do what’s right for her.”
“And you think what’s right is sending her away to strangers in France?”
