“Kenneth Foxton.” I slump to the floor, still looking through the words in utter disbelief. “And not only that, but she was pregnant with his child.”
I look up at Blake, completely bewildered, and then go straight for the still closed journal that I pulled the letter from. There must be more—something to give this credence. Although, as my fingers flip the pages and I begin to see the entries for the same time period, I doubt I need any more proof of the facts. She had an affair with a Foxton, and the child she carried, to full term, was his, not her husband’s.
“Right, what does that mean, though?”
I look back up at him, confused and refusing to think about the real possibility that if that child came down through our ancestry as a Broderick, if my great-great-grandfatheraccepted it, or even didn’t know about it, then the blood in my veins, the same blood that we all use as some grounding of who and what we are, isn’t Broderick blood at all.
I jump to my feet, clutching the journal and picking up the other two around it to look at dates. The years aren't right. Some are missing, and I end up looking frantically for the one after these under my arms. “Where is it?”
“What?” Blake asks.
“The next one. I need the year after these, 1888, 1889. Where’s 1890?”
It doesn't appear in my manic search, and, frankly, at the moment, I don't have time. “I'll come and look for it later. I have to find Landon.”
Swift feet take me out of the attic, dust and debris kicking up in my wake, as Blake follows and keeps trying to ask me questions. I don’t know how to answer them, though, and not only that, I don’t even know how to deal with the information in my own head. And what if this Davis line is actually the correct one? What does that even mean?
I slide to a stop as we get to the great hall, looking for someone. No one’s anywhere to be seen, so I keep hurrying until I reach the drawing room.
“Do you know where Landon is?” I ask Betty, as we walk in. She looks up from her dusting and brushes her hair into place.
“He came in a few hours ago, Miss Ivy. I’m not sure where he is now, though. Sorry.”
“Okay. And have you seen Neve at all?”
“No.” She gets back to dusting. “I’m sorry, I’m of no help at all. I could get some tea if you’d both like?”
Tea is not what I want.
I drag out my phone and call Neve again. It goes straight to voicemail, as it has done for the last few times I’ve tried. I’m beginning to think she’s avoiding me. Or this situation. And I’m not even considering the fact that she already knows more than we do. Or that she's finally managed to get herself into some trouble she can't get out of. I mean, she’s a whizz on the computer and always knows things we don’t and if ... The beep of the voicemail kicks in. “I hope you’re close to here by now,” I say, turning from the room. “It’s important, Neve. And now I need your brainpower to work this through.”
I end the call and huff, not sure what to do with the information until everyone gets here. I don’t even know where Landon is to put this to him first.
“Why don’t you just think this through and wait, Ivy,” Blake says, catching hold of my arm. “You’ve got whatever info you were after now. All you need to do is explain it when they are all in a room together.”
I fall into his arms, still vibrating with confusion, and yet adoring the sense of ease he seems to create for me. It doesn’t make the fact that we’re not who we thought we are go away, though. Nor does it make me feel any more comfortable about this whole situation. I look up at him, as he lifts my chin, needing something from him to help make this more palatable. A Foxton—I could be a Foxton. As could my father and the generations before him. Zero fucking Broderick blood in my body at all.
And this place we’re in? I look around at the periphery of architecture and grandeur. Does it even belong to us?
Tears leak from my eyes at the thought, as Blake frowns at me. I don’t know why. It’s ridiculous. It doesn’t matter what blood is inside me. I’m still me, and they’re all still them, but now we’re not who we thought we were, and I don’t have the first idea what that’s going to mean to us.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s making you so upset?”
“Everything was a lie.”
“No, not everything. Just one thing a long time ago. Maybe. An old letter is hardly solid evidence.”
I nod a little and suck up the tears, trying to see that response as acceptable. He’s right. Not everything at all, just the bloodline—maybe. And regardless, we’re still all family, and it shouldn’t mean anything other than simple facts of DNA. Sort of does, though, doesn’t it? Because, from the confused thoughts already circulating around my brain, it could mean that all of this around us, all this wealth and privilege, was never meant for us in the first place. It was meant for the true Broderick heir, who might well be labelled as a Davis rather than Broderick.
“Oh, bloody hell,” I snap, shaking myself upright out of Blake’s hold. “I need to tell Landon at least. Maybe he’ll have a clue what we’re supposed to do with this info.”
I hurry off at speed, convinced a lawyer should be the first point of call in this situation. He might even think we shouldn’t tell everyone else until we get some actual DNA evidence rather than an old journal and some love letter that could even be a forgery for all we know. And even if it is true, as long as the will from Great-Great-Grandfather Broderick left everything to his son, and his son and so on, then surely everything around us is still as it should be, regardless of DNA.
“Ivy, wait,” Blake says.
My head spins back to look at him following me. “Why?”
“Will you just slow down?”
