“I would hope that you understand that no one can know of this.Noone.”
“No one,” she agreed. “Why didn’t you deny it, Mr. Brendan? If no one must know, would it not be simpler to deny it?”
He laughed darkly. “And have you print something in your gazette? Draw more attention to me? You left me no choice.”
“No, I—I didn’t intend—”
He held up a hand to keep her from speaking. “It doesn’t matter what you intended. It’s done.” He sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair, revealing that bit of white to her again, before his hair fell back into place. He noticed her studying him. “Do I have your word?”
“Yes. Of course,” she said.
He looked skeptical.
“I give you my word, Mr. Brendan.”
He gave her a curt nod. “I hope your butler spoke true. He said you would not betray me, and by all appearances, you’ve not betrayed him.”
“I wouldnever,” she said breathlessly, with conviction. She still couldn’t quite grasp that she’d stumbled onto his secret. She had so many questions but had to proceed carefully. She stood up and went to the sideboard, poured two snifters of brandy, and returned, handing one to him.
He took the glass and looked at the bronze liquid. “I’ve long believed I’d be discovered. But I never imagined it like this.”
“Will you tell me?” Hollis asked.
Mr. Brendan sighed twice. He swirled the brandy in the snifter as he gauged her. She wondered if she looked trustworthy to him, or if he thought her a villainess now.
Mr. Brendan suddenly put the glass to his lips and tossed back the brandy. He coughed, put aside the snifter, and began. “I didn’t know the truth of who I was until I was seventeen years old.” He rubbed his face with his hands.
And then he told her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
What a dilemma it must be for a certain diminutive lady from a good Lake District home to have married the heir to a great Northumberland fortune and discover she is in love with the younger brother. We suspect the heir will find his brother a clergy position somewhere far, far away.
Ladies, a Christmas tree will brighten the decor of every home. Colorful ribbons and paper ornaments should be added to the tree. Some recommend that candied breads and fruits be placed in the boughs to give the scent of the season.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
ITWASAMAZINGto Marek how the words streamed out of him. As if they’d been locked in his chest for a very long time, dreaming of being set free, then escaped in a rush the moment he opened the door. Every word that slipped from his mouth felt heavy with the emotion of having carried his burden for so long.
It was also amazing to him, once the words were freed, how much lighter his soul felt for having shared his extraordinary story. He had never allowed himself to do it before this. Why hadn’t he? He’d become close with the pastor of his parish. Paul came round Sunday evenings from time to time to have a glass of port and look in on Marek’s spirit. They talked about worldly things, about spiritual things, about why Marek did not attend services at the small church. Marek had not been tempted to reveal his secret to a man he considered a friend. It had seemed like an impossibly heavy burden to put on him. It had seemed dangerous, too, like setting free a lion that would ravage you.
Neither had he shared it with the one woman he supposed he’d loved in his own way. He still wasn’t certain what love was to him in this body with this unique view of the world. But he’d been fond of Mariska—more than fond, he believed. He’d contemplated telling her the truth about himself. And yet, there was something about Mariska, a facet to her that made him wonder if she was entirely trustworthy. He had a feeling that a secret like his would be too great for her to keep to herself and she would be compelled to share it, for love or money.
He couldn’t say why he chose Mrs. Honeycutt, either. She was the only one who’d ever guessed the truth. She was the only who had ever looked at him closely enough to notice the things that she had about him. Even Mariska had never commented on the patch of white in his hair.
It was entirely possible that it was because of Donovan, too—that Mrs. Honeycutt had kept the man’s secret, had even harbored him.
Maybe he was a fool, but the moment Marek started to speak it was too late—he could no longer contain the truth.
He told her he was raised by two people he thought were his aunt and uncle on the Tophian Sea in a remote part of Wesloria. From the time he could remember, he was told that his parents had died of cholera. Marek accepted this explanation, just as he accepted that he was deaf because of an accident—a bad fall and blow to his head when he was only two years old. “My childhood was idyllic,” he said.
He told her about his life growing up on the sea, of the days spent on a fishing boat with his uncle, bringing in the catch. Of the tutoring his aunt insisted upon, the wide range of subjects in which he was educated, her determination that he learn several languages. It was odd, he admitted, that a common lad in a common house was tutored in this way...but he didn’t question it. His aunt and uncle wanted the best for him. If he’d known at the time a substantial portion of the income his uncle brought in went to his education, he’d have given it little thought.
He told her he never aspired to anything more than to captain a fishing vessel, like his uncle. “My dreams, my hopes were all rather ordinary. I was happy,” he said. “I enjoyed my life. I never had reason to believe it should be anything other than what it was...until I was seventeen years old.”
That was when his aunt had become gravely ill. She was dying of a cancer. Days before she succumbed to it, she called him to her deathbed and told him something that changed his life forever.
“That’s when she told you who you were?” Mrs. Honeycutt asked, wide-eyed.
