Chapter
5

After a sleepless night, Nolan rose before dawn and made his way to the main house. Dr. Hutton had insisted Nolan try to get some rest, saying he would need his strength for the vigil to come, promising to send for him if his mother’s condition worsened. After all the shocking discoveries that day, Nolan should have realized that sleep would be impossible. His thoughts had chased round and round his brain until he thought he’d go crazy. If not for the few stolen moments with Hannah, he might have.

The hours of soul-searching, however, had made one thing perfectly clear—no matter what lies his mother had told, no matter what truths she had withheld, it could never outweigh all she’d done for him. From the moment of his birth, her sole purpose had been to give him the best life possible. Whatever her reasons for keeping the knowledge of his paternity a secret, she must have believed it to be in his best interest. He owed her his loyalty and his love. And he would do everything in his power to give her comfort in her time of need.

Yet, deep down, his whole being balked at the knowledge that his mother’s days were numbered and that only a miracle could restore her to health. Would God deem them worthy of bestowing such favor? Though Nolan had been raised with his mother’s staunch faith, his own belief now faltered like a seed that had never taken root.

Fatigue weighted each step as he trudged up the staircase and entered the room. His mother lay unmoving under the quilt. Her lips, still tinged blue, stood out against the paleness of her face.

Dr. Hutton dozed on a wooden chair by the bed. At the sound of the door, he opened his eyes.

“How is she?” Nolan whispered.

The physician rose and adjusted the glasses on his nose. “I’m afraid her fever has worsened. And she’s having greater difficulty breathing.”

Nolan’s throat tightened. It seemed a miracle was not to be. “If you’d like to get some food, I can stay with her now.”

“Thank you. I’ll be in the kitchen if she . . . if anything changes.” Dr. Hutton buttoned his waistcoat and quietly left the room.

Nolan took a seat beside the bed and lifted his mother’s hand. The fingers lay cold and limp against his. “Please, Lord, help her get better. Don’t take her, now that I finally have the chance to give her the life she deserves.” He bowed his head and fought to stem the sorrow that rushed through him. There would be time for grieving later. Right now, he needed to remain strong.

At a movement in the bed, Nolan raised his head.

His mother’s body shook, and the air rattled in her lungs as she attempted to draw breath.

“Nolan?”

“I’m here, Mum.”

Staring right at him, her eyes shone with an unnatural light. “Forgive me, son.” The words rasped from her throat.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Mum. You did what you thought was best.”

She clutched his arm with a look of desperation. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Promise you’ll let go of your anger. Don’t blame God for taking me. His will is beyond our understanding, but perfect in its execution. Don’t let this shake your faith.”

Nolan held back a bitter reply. How could she speak of faith when their prayers went unanswered?

She took another tortured breath. “No matter what the earl does, put the past behind you. Trust what the Lord has in store for you.”

His body shook with the enormity of emotions racing through him. How could she ask that of him when he was about to lose her? But he had no choice. He had to let her go in peace. “I’ll try my best, Mum. For you.”

A smile of almost perfect serenity spread over her face, the lines of tension easing. “I love you, son. You were my greatest blessing. From the moment I held you, you were mine.”

“I love you too.” His voice cracked, and his strength crumbled. He clutched her hand hard as though by the sheer force of his will, he could keep her here with him.

He sat holding her hand for what felt like hours, listening to her breathing grow more and more shallow. His own lungs cramped in sympathy. He drew in long breaths, as though he could somehow help her draw air.

At last, a final shudder wracked her body. She became very still, her chest no longer moving, as though her soul had shed its skin.

With a strangled cry, Nolan dropped to his knees, burying his face against her side. He draped his arm over her frail form and wept.

He didn’t even hear the doctor enter. When he raised his head, the man had his stethoscope out and was listening to his mother’s chest.

Dr. Hutton closed his eyes and slowly removed the instrument. “I’m sorry, son. She’s gone.”

Nolan wiped his face with his sleeve and rose. His gaze bounced from the dark drapery to the bare nightstand to the stark gray walls. The bleakness of the space matched the state of his soul. Nothing would ever be the same with his beloved mother gone from him.

Lines of fatigue framed Dr. Hutton’s mouth as he stepped away from the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I wish I could have done more.” He closed his leather bag and straightened.

“You did your best.” Nolan’s voice didn’t even sound like his own.

The dank air of the room was suffocating. He had to get out of the illness-infested space and into the clean air. He bent to kiss his mother’s cheek one last time, let his fingers linger on her hair, then strode from the room. With each step, the numbness receded and the pain intensified, until his lungs felt like they would collapse. Partway down the hall, he came upon Reverend Black scurrying toward him, Bible clutched in one hand.

“You’re too late. She’s gone,” Nolan growled and pushed on past. The raw, empty grief made it impossible to care about being rude.

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” The minister’s words echoed off the stone walls, mocking him.

His mother was dead.

Nolan’s gut twisted in painful spasms. He needed air. He needed . . . Hannah.

In a blind state, he tore down the servant staircase and burst into the kitchen. Like a drowning man, he searched the room until he spied Hannah at the far end of the table, kneading dough on a flour-covered surface. He grasped the edge of the table and paused to drag air into his lungs.

“What on earth?” Mrs. Bridges rose from her seat in the corner. As her eyes met his, her wooden spoon clattered to the floor, and she let out a harsh cry.

Hannah’s head whipped up. She wiped her hands on a rag at the sink. “Is she . . . ?”

His breathing still ragged, Nolan could only nod.

Mrs. Bridges lowered her bulky frame to a kitchen chair and held a tattered handkerchief to her nose. “God rest her soul,” she murmured.

In two strides, Hannah was at his side. Seeming to sense his fragile state, she took him by the hand and led him out the back door to the yard. In a daze, he followed her. Out of sight of the main house, she stopped under a tree and wrapped her arms around him.

“I am so sorry, Nolan. Your mother was a fine woman. I admired her a great deal.”

Hannah’s soft words of comfort unleashed a torrent of emotion that rose through his chest and congealed in his throat. He clutched Hannah to him. Hot tears spilled from under his closed lids as his grief poured out. Hannah was his haven—the safe place where he could reveal every truth of his soul. Nothing would embarrass or confound her.

When at last the tears ceased to flow, he mopped his face with his sleeve and looked down at her.

“Thank you” was all he could manage.

She nodded and wiped her own face. “Come back to the kitchen, and I’ll make you some tea.”

Like his mother, Hannah believed a cup of tea could cure anything.

“Just for a few minutes. Then I have to make arrangements for the funeral.”

As they crossed the lawn, Nolan let out a shuddering breath. He would need to inform Lord Stainsby of his mother’s passing. Nolan hadn’t seen or spoken to the man since he’d practically thrown him out of his mother’s room. He had no idea what the earl was thinking after learning that Nolan was his son. Did he believe the claim, or would he dispute it, convinced that Nolan would only be out for the wealth and status a title would bring?

Yet what if his lordship did acknowledge him publicly as his son? Did Nolan even want that? How would he handle the changes that would accompany such a status?

Nolan pushed these new worries to the back of his mind. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other right now. He’d let the events play out as they would and make decisions as he went.

Edward stood, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the simple wooden cross rising from a patch of grass in the poor section of the St. John cemetery. The words Mary Breckinridge had been carved into the wood, as well as the years of her birth and death. The irony of making this trip now, twenty-one years later, to his first wife’s rural village struck Edward hard, weighing him down with long-forgotten guilt. The village was only a day’s ride away. Why hadn’t he tried harder to find her all those years ago?

Forgive me, Mary.

His heart twisted at the whisper of the cherished name that still resonated in his soul.

How he had loved her—with the passion of youth and the dangerous thrill of the forbidden. If only he’d been brave enough to fight for their love, to suffer the consequences of his father’s wrath, perhaps they could have been happy.

He’d made so many mistakes back then. First by allowing his passion to overtake them and being careless enough to get her with child. Then, once he made the situation right by marrying her, not putting her and their unborn child first. He’d let his fear of his father outweigh his good sense.

And unbeknownst to him, his father had bullied Mary, his threats the real reason she’d run off. Would she have died in childbirth if Edward had been with her? If he’d been able to procure the best medical care his wealth and position could afford?

That question would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Now, all these years later, it seemed inconceivable that their child hadn’t perished with her. That Edward, in fact, had a grown son. Whispers of doubt curled around this heart. Before he dared trust Elizabeth Price’s claim, before he dared hope it might be true, he needed proof.

Only then could he allow himself to believe he had a son—a tangible connection to his one true love.

Only then could he allow himself to believe he had an heir—one who would surely prove more fitting than Orville.

The wind whipped Edward’s greatcoat tight against his legs and stung his eyes until tears formed. Movement behind him caught his attention. Edward turned to see the vicar coming down the path from the road toward the small stone church. The elderly man tipped his hat at him and continued inside.

Edward pulled his own hat more firmly onto his head lest the wind seize it, then made his way to the building and climbed the rickety few steps. Inside, the warped wooden boards groaned beneath his feet as he walked up the main aisle to where the clergyman stood lighting a pair of tapered candles.

“Reverend Daniels?”

The man blew out the match and set it in a small container of sand on the floor below the iron candelabra. “Aye. I’m Reverend Daniels. Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” The comforting smell of burning sulfur filled the air as the candles flickered to life. “I’m looking for some information about a family who used to live here.” Belatedly, Edward removed his hat and tucked it under one arm. “Have you lived in the area long, sir?”

“I’ve been the vicar here for thirty-four years.” Reverend Daniels gave him a curious look, fingering his trim gray beard. A shaft of light from the arched side windows danced off his wire spectacles. “What exactly would you like to know?”

“The girl, Mary Breckinridge, buried at the back of the cemetery—did you know her?” Edward willed his face to remain immobile, to reveal none of the emotions warring beneath the surface.

“Ah, yes. Young Mary. Sad story that. Died giving birth to a son.”

Edward’s heart pumped harder. “Do you know what happened to the child? I understood he perished with the mother.”

“No. I baptized the boy myself right here in this church. Mary’s sister Lizzie took him to raise as her own. A very brave thing, considering she was a struggling widow herself.”

Edward stiffened, his jaw tight. Elizabeth Price’s story appeared to be true. The ramifications waged war in his chest. He clenched and unclenched the fingers of his left hand. “What happened to them? Do they still live nearby?”

“Last I heard, Lizzie couldn’t keep up her late husband’s farm and moved away to take a position as a lady’s maid. Never heard where she went from there.” The vicar moved over to lean on the first pew, his knees cracking loudly in the silence. “I imagine the boy would be about twenty by now.”

“I’d like to see the baptism register for that time period.”

Reverend Daniels gave Edward a long look. “Are you some relation to the boy?”

“I might be. Which is why I need to see the official record.” The scrap of paper in Mrs. Price’s Bible hadn’t meant a whit to him. It could have been forged by anyone.

“And your name, sir?”

“Edward Fairchild.” He declined to give his title. Simpler that way.

A flicker of something akin to recognition flashed in the clergyman’s eyes. He pursed his lips and nodded. “I see. You’d best come with me then, and we’ll see what we can find.”

Edward released the breath he’d been holding as he followed the older man through a side door and down a narrow hall to a back room. Reverend Daniels took out an iron key, fit it into the lock, and opened the door. They entered an office with a scuffed wooden desk and walls of books.

The vicar shuffled to the far side of the room, picked out a large leather volume, and set it on the desk. Adjusting the spectacles on his nose, he flipped several pages until he found the one he wanted. “If memory serves, the birth took place in the fall of either 1862 or 1863.”

“It was ’62.” Edward could never forget the year. It was etched into his memory along with his sorrow.

The man ran his finger down the page. “Ah, Breckinridge. Here it is.”

Edward leaned over the desk for a better view, barely able to make out the script. “What does it say?” He shoved his shaking hands into his coat pocket.

“A son born November 18, 1862. Christened Nolan Edward on November 25. Mother: Mary Breckinridge. Father: Edward Stuart Fairchild.” The vicar peered over his spectacles, his stare scraping at Edward’s nerve endings.

“Is there any way this information could be false?”

“None. I entered this record myself. If it would help, I could write a statement swearing to its veracity.”

“That might be prudent. Thank you.”

As the clergyman went to the drawer to retrieve a pen and paper, Edward released a long breath.

Faced with irrefutable proof, he could no longer deny the truth.

Nolan Price was indeed his son.