“Mr. Hatfield was older than her, older than my father thus he saw him as no competition. He became her refuge. At first, just to go riding but later it became more. He loved her. Truly, deeply loved her. But by then, she was bound to my father. Their love was doomed.”
“How do you know this?” Emma asked, unsure what to believe.
“He told me. And …she did in her own way. She kept diaries and when she died, I found them. That is how I found out about Rose – although I suspected already.”
“And your father?” Emma asked, her voice softening despite herself. “Did he know? And what do you mean by you suspected?”
“I will tell you everything, allow me one question at a time. My father was a jealous sort, I think he suspected despite the age difference, but by then he had little time for my mother anyhow and often left for weeks at a time,” Evan said. “Mr. Hatfield told me – and my mother’s diary confirmed it – that she was with child when I was ten years old. I remember it, seeing her grow large with child – then one day, she was slim again and there was no child. I was told it had died and was instructed never to speak of the matter again.”
“What happened?” Emma asked, now captivated by the tale.
“When she discovered she was with child, she and Mr. Hatfield conspired to pass the baby off as my father’s. They thought they could fool him.”
Emma listened, her throat tightening as he continued.
“My father grew suspicious when the timeline of her pregnancy did not align. He and my mother rarely shared a bed anymore in those days but she was able to convince him for a time – until she was far advanced. She planned to say the child was born early but when Rose was born...” He trailed off, his eyes clouding. “She bore the distinctive features of Mr. Hatfield—pale skin, dimples in her cheeks and chin. My mother knew she could never convince him that Rose was his. He would have made her life—and Rose’s—unbearable.”
“What did she do?” Emma asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“She lied,” Evan said. “She told the midwife to claim the baby had died. The same lie I was told. It worked because my father was out of town at the time so when he came back, he was told the child was stillborn and already buried. In truth, Mr. Hatfield took Rose and placed her with friends in town. She was raised as the child of a merchant, far from my father’s reach.”
Emma’s heart ached at the thought. “And your mother? Did she ever see her again?”
“Rarely,” Evan said. “Once or twice, from a distance, in the park. But they could never speak. My mother never recovered from the loss. She grew despondent, and she passed away a few years later. Mr. Hatfield left the estate soon after the child was born because my mother would not see him, it was too painful he thought. And her diary confirmed that as well.”
The room was silent save for the faint crackle of the fire. Emma looked at Evan, her mind heavy with the weight of his confession.
“And you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Evan’s voice cracked as he replied. “Because it was not my story to tell. Rose’s existence has always been shrouded in secrecy. I wanted to protect her, to protect my mother’s memory. But in doing so, I failed you. And for that, I am deeply sorry.”
Emma looked away, her emotions swirling. The anger, the betrayal—it had all shifted. She could not reconcile the pain she had carried with the truth now laid bare. Yet, in the depths of her confusion, one question lingered.
“How do you know her then, if she was taken away?” she asked suddenly, the words trembling on her lips.
“When my mother died, I found her diaries and I sought out Mr. Hatfield who helped me see Rose. She was only five then and didn’t understand who I was but with time she did, and we became close.”
The sincerity in his tone was undeniable. Emma closed her eyes, overwhelmed.
For the first time since his arrival, a glimmer of understanding began to take root within her. Emma watched him carefully as the weight of her question settled between them. The silence that followed was thick, stretching uncomfortably. She could feel her heart hammering against her ribcage, each beat sharp and insistent.
“Knowing Rose existed saved me,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
Evan’s lips tightened into a thin line, and his eyes flickered with something she could not name.
“I was…” He paused, searching for words. “I was lost, Emma. Completely untethered. He thought that if I knew Rose existed, if I knew there was still some part of my mother in this world, it might… anchor me.”
Her heart ached, though she scarcely knew for whom.
“And then you found her?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“I did,” Evan replied, his gaze distant, as though the memory played before him. “I remember the first time I saw her. It was uncanny—like looking into a mirror of my younger self. We look so alike that no one who knows us both could doubt the truth.” He hesitated, his expression clouding. “But I couldn’t tell her then. She was too young, too innocent to understand.”
Emma felt a sharp pang of pity for the child Rose had been, living in blissful ignorance of the storm of revelations looming over her. “When did she find out?”
“As she grew older, I began to explain, little by little,” Evan said. “Eventually, she pieced it together. But it wasn’t easy. For either of us.”
