They paused near the sundial at the top of the lawn, Bastian steadying himself on the plinth. The gardens at Somerstead were preparing for spring, crocuses emerging, hedgerows budding with green. It would be a bright, warm season. And Alexander intended to spend most of his time with his wife and friends. Politics could wait until after the summer.
They heard the footsteps before they saw him. Carlisle emerged from the manor, his coat unbuttoned, a letter in one hand. He looked between them, eyes lingering a moment on Bastian, before settling on Alexander, as he crossed the terrace and joined them on the grounds.
“Ah. I’d feared I would miss you,” he said to Alexander with a tight smile.
“Just in time,” Bastian replied, tapping his cane. “I believe I’m meant to rest indoors soon—preferably before someone demands another interview or clubs one of us over the head again.”
He bowed with pretend gravity and excused himself, leaving Alexander and Carlisle alone in the gardens. Carlisle looked down at the letter in his hand as they walked toward the shade of a tree.
“I have something to say to you,” he said.
"You’ve been circling like a hawk all morning.”
“Yes. I never was much good at goodbye speeches. And this will be goodbye, for a time. You know I am headed to London to join The Royal Society on the first motions of their trip to The Levant. They have expedited their departure. Something about the shifting weather—who knows?” He gazed off into the distance. “I’ve tried to write down the words twice, and both times I almost ended up in verse.”
They stood facing one another beneath the bare branches of an old oak. A breeze rustled the early spring leaves.
“It’s about your father,” Carlisle said.
Alexander looked down from the branches.
“Has Margaret said nothing to you?” Carlisle looked surprised. “She and I shared... a perplexing conversation on the way to The Stone Lion.”
“I suspected as much. But she admitted nothing to that effect herself.”
“She must care for you more than any woman has ever cared for any man. To reveal a secret in hopes of gaining affection and trust is one matter. It is another entirely to preserve the dignity and peace of the one she loves by keeping such a secret for herself...”
“Now that was almost in verse. What are you attempting to say, Carlisle?”
His uncle drew in a shaky breath.
“I know what you’ve been told. About your father, my brother, and the affair he entertained with Celeste Rousseau, the opera singer. Your mother bore the brunt of society’s judgment, raising you single-handedly for years, until your father’s health diminished, and he sought you out to secure the future of his line. But... the truth is quite different.”
Alexander was silent for a moment before he asked, “Different how?”
“First, you must know—the existence of a sister,yoursister, was not a fabrication of Ripley’s. She lived many years before your birth and was christened Isadore. But she did not survive her second year. Everything more you learned of her was a lie.”
Alexander had been right, but there was no joy in the revelation. There had been a child. But she had long been dead. A sister he could never hope to meet. He felt tears burn behind his eyes and quickly turned from his uncle, composing himself.
“How do you know this?” he asked.
Carlisle stepped toward him. Alexander turned. The letter was outstretched.
“Take this.”
“No.” Alexander shook his head, taking a step back. “Tell me yourself.”
Carlisle let his hand hang at his side. His jaw worked silently.
“Isadore was my daughter. The man who loved Celeste Rousseau was not Theodore Somerton. It was me.”
Alexander turned abruptly, could not think straight, and rubbed his temple, whichburned.
“What?” he whispered.
“My brother was no philanderer. He was faithful to his wife until the day she died. I was never so honorable. My work was my life. And your mother... Love her though I did, she could not compete. I was young, impassioned—and I have regretted with my every breath that I did not make a wife of Celeste while I could. I thought there would always be more time for us, but there was not. When Theodore’s illness became apparent, he made clear that I would assume the duchy in his wake. I refused, had no interest in relinquishing my way of life. A duke could not have an opera singer for a lover. A duke could not travelthe world. So, I suggested, in a moment of desperation, that my bastard son should become heir instead of me. Our stories collided, and my greatest transgressions soon became his in the eyes of theton.”
The words struck him harder than a blow. Alexander stared at Carlisle in incredulity.
