by Fanny Finch
Reading through the letter again and again, Agnes was not sure what to make of it. Was it a lie? A cruel joke? She wanted to destroy it. She stood up and walked over to the fireplace, gripping the letter so hard that it crumpled up to almost nothing.
The flames had gone out and, taking a poker, she knocked a log apart, adding a little coal, watched the yellow tongues licking upwards, releasing small sparks and tiny flames that broke free and rose almost into the chimney before they were extinguished.
She slowly reached forwards and cast the envelope into the fire, watching it curl and burn, blackening at the edges until it was all ash. She reached out to drop the letter in after it.
But a part of her stopped her hand from moving over the flame, her fingers from releasing that horrible piece of paper into the fire. She wanted to destroy it, of course. She wanted nothing more than to see it follow the envelope and turn to blackened ash.
After all, this was precisely what her father had wished to protect her from, precisely what she had managed to avoid her entire life. And, as the duke had said, it was possible, likely even, that none of it was true anyway. So why should she allow it to upset her, or to remain in her life? It was better off gone.
But she could not destroy it.
She might need it. It might be telling the truth. And, if it was, then she had to find out before damaging it.
Despite herself, she felt overwhelmed by a desire to know. She had to know what it was that she was dealing with. She had to know who had written the letter. She had to know if it really was telling the truth. She had to know who her mother was, and what the woman had done to offend so many people so very much.
She had to know what, exactly, her father had shielded her from for the duration of her entire life. Not knowing was not an option anymore. The letter had piqued her curiosity too much.
She walked over to her desk and, opening the top drawer, dropped it in. She regretted burning the envelope. Those horrible words, that nasty, unfamiliar handwriting was looking up at her, accusingly.
Pushing the drawer shut, she felt a sense of relief as soon as the horrible letter was out of sight. She could not imagine what might possess someone to write such a thing. After all, it did not illuminate her much, it only said her mother was alive, with no evidence. And it did not comfort her. It was not an effort at reaching out, it was too cruel, it was anonymous. It was not supposed to inspire fear in her, as the writer claimed not to want to ruin Agnes's life. It was not even for some gratification of sorts, as the writer would never see her open it.
It was written out of pure malice, nothing more and nothing less. It was written to upset her.
And it had nearly worked. She wanted to cry, but, save a couple of teardrops, crying had never come easy to her. She felt the pull and just stared at the closed drawer, feeling her eyes sting and her face growing red.
She knew these tears would not fall, so she sought her little decorative stone, kept cool by the shade inside her travel case, and applied it to her eyes to prevent puffiness or redness.
As she had taken the afternoon off, she tried to read a little until dinner time, but she could not focus. All she could think about was that wretched letter, and what she was going to do about it.
Heading back downstairs for dinner, she wondered if she ought to stay out of the way. The duke would certainly pick up on her emotional state and question her about it. And perhaps she would finally break down a little and shed a tear or two in front of him. Even though he had wept in front of her, she still felt uncomfortable at the prospect of him seeing her cry. It was natural to an emotional man like him. It was not natural to someone as stoic as herself.
At least if she stayed hidden in her room there was no risk of an unsightly, incredibly inappropriate meltdown.
But it was important for her to keep her head up, to act like a respectable young lady. If she was.
If she could ever be considered a respectable young lady.
The thought crossed her mind that, if the letter told the truth, her mother was not a respectable lady. She was not dead. She had abandoned her own child.
Although it was not as bad as being born out of wedlock or being born to a woman of ill repute, having a mother who had abandoned her was certainly a shameful thing. And it reflected on her own breeding, of course.
Everything she had been raised to believe about herself might be entirely false.
The duke did not seem to notice her pain at first, but when they made eye contact across the table, she knew that he knew. She was not sure what he knew. But he was at the very least aware of her pain.
Was it possible he was aware of the source of it? No, surely not. It was not his place to know such things. It was not right. And even if he had heard the rumors, he had already said he did not believe any of them to be true. So how could he know?
"What is troubling you, Agnes?" he finally asked. "You seem so mournful. It worries me to see you like that."
"I have simply received yet another hateful letter regarding my mother," she said, forcing a smile. "I am sure that it is nothing to worry about."
"Yet another?" he asked.
Agnes hesitated.
"Is it your first?" he asked.
Agnes shook her head. "No, I received quite a few after my father died." This was not the whole truth, of course. She had never received anything quite like this letter. She had never been told that her mother was alive and well.
The duke pursed his lips. "I am sorry to hear that. How did they find you? Do you think it is my fault?"
Agnes shook her head again. "They would have found me either way, I believe."
"And has it hurt you much? If you like I could try and find out who it was," he said.
"I will be fine," Agnes replied flatly. "I do not need any more trouble than is absolutely necessary. And what would it achieve if I were to track down whichever member of my family wrote it? If anything, it would probably please them to know they had got under my skin."
"Do you have the letter?" he asked, not acknowledging anything else she had said.
"I do not," she lied. "I burned it. There is no point holding onto such horrible things, is there?"
Of course, a lie was not a good thing. But what was she supposed to tell him? That her mother could be alive, could have abandoned her? That she, in some small part of herself, believed them?
Chapter 17
Agnes knew that the proper thing to do would be to deny and hide it all. That was what a lady did. A lady pretended there was nothing wrong at all. A lady pretended she was invulnerable, she was untouchable. A lady did not allow a simple, hateful letter, full of what were no doubt lies, to change her life.
Agnes knew that the proper thing to do would be to throw the letter on the fire, assume that it was entirely false, and carry on as she had been before, without having to worry about what people thought of her. After all, she had an entirely new life now.
But, even though she knew that if she did nothing, nothing would change, it did not feel correct to her. It felt like lying. She was not sure if it was lying to herself or lying to others, but it was far, far too much. She had told lies before, of course. Who had not? But those were little white lies, small things she could get away with, that were for someone else's benefit, for the sake of propriety, or which did not matter at all.
This was a big lie. An enormous one. A lie which could turn her whole sense of self upside down, which could change the place she stood in the world. She knew that, although it was technically in the past, this time it would make a difference.
That night she could not sleep at all. She was tossing and turning, getting up and pacing about her room, wondering what to do with herself. She was not who she thought she was. However much the duke said one could not change the past, however much he insisted that it was upbringing, and not blood, that made a person... she was not who she thought she was.
The longer she thought about it, the more she believed it. It made so mu
ch sense. It would explain why her father never wished to speak of her mother. It would explain why she never saw her mother's family, as though they did not acknowledge her. It would explain it all.
As the first rays of sunshine struck her face and she saw herself in the mirror, she recoiled a little. She looked absolutely dreadful, after just one night of poor sleep. It was probably the stress which had driven her this far, of course. Poor sleep alone did not leave a woman looking so bad. It was her own conscience that had driven that pallor, that ashiness into her skin.
It would be so terrible to continue fretting, to continue not knowing. She knew that as long as she did not know, she would not rest properly, she would not be happy, she could not be satisfied with life as she knew it. She would spend every night without sleeping until she began to seek the truth.
But it would be worse to face such a horrible truth. If that were the truth, that is. It may not be. There was a slim chance that she would uncover something which would completely relieve her conscience and allow her to feel better and rest well at night. There was a chance that she would uncover nothing at all, or nothing that reflected badly on her.
As it stood, she was more inclined to believe the claims than not. They simply made sense to her. It all added up. But if she investigated, she had a chance of finding out something better, something which would make her happy once again. If she investigated, perhaps she could be pardoned for her mother's sins.
This left her with a dilemma. She could hide, believe the claims, and carry on as before. Or she could attempt to prove them wrong. There was no option, like she had hoped, for carrying on as before, assuming she was a woman of noble birth who had been cruelly wronged. She had to choose between living in perpetual guilt and uncertainty or discovering the truth, however good or bad that truth might be. And that was a tough decision to make.
But, once again, that glimmer of hope reared its ugly head. If the claims about her mother were lies, then perhaps the hatred her family harbored for her was unfounded? Perhaps, if she got to the bottom of the matter and found no wrongdoing, she could prove to them that her mother had been a dignified lady?
She could be welcomed back into the folds of her family. She could demand the earldom that was rightfully hers to claim. She could finally become the lady her father had raised her to be.
But the glimmer of hope was also a terrible thing. Time and time again, that little glimmer had lied to her. How could she trust it this time? How could she give it another opportunity to disappoint her?
The glimmer of hope was nothing but a false beacon, repeatedly leading her to her ruin.
Which meant that her real options were not "live in perpetual self-doubt believing oneself a ruined woman or discover the truth", the real options were "live in perpetual self-doubt, or discover for certain that one is ruined".
Agnes feared that glimmer.
The fear consumed her. She made her way downstairs and helped Georgia get up, dressing her as a maid combed her soft hair gently. She tried to let herself get lost in the task, to stop thinking about her worries or, indeed, about anything at all, and to just focus on the now.
But it did not work. Seeing Georgia, so happy and relaxed, made her realize what a gap there was between them. This girl's mother had loved her. This girl had known her mother. It was so much more than she could say for herself. And besides that, this child, however spoilt, bratty, or otherwise frustrating she could be, was the sister of a duke.
Agnes no longer saw herself in the child. In fact, she saw a child who was so far above herself, she felt like a tiny ant. She realized that, in attempting to raise this girl to be a respectable, noble lady, she was moving far, far beyond her own station and her own abilities. She had not experienced a loving, caring mother. And it might be that maternal instinct was not even in her bloodline. In no way was she qualified to raise a child, much less to raise and educate a child from such a loving, caring, high-status family. She could at best fail the girl, and, worst-case scenario, could even teach her incorrectly. Agnes was not sure she could trust herself. She hardly knew herself, after all.
Breakfast was pure tension. Agnes could tell that the duke knew she was in pain. He always knew when her, or anyone else's, mood changed dramatically. And he wanted to know why.
It was at times like this when Agnes was not so happy with the duke's fine-tuned emotional senses. Some emotions were not meant to be read. Some emotions were not supposed to be understood or felt by others. They were private, and they were hers.
At least he understood this and did not ask her right away. Rather, he watched and waited. She was not sure what he was waiting for, but she suspected it was for her to explain her problem, or drop enough of a hint that he could ask her why she was unhappy without prying.
This made it more difficult again for Agnes. The right thing would be to tell him. After all, he knew, and that meant he knew she was hiding something from him. Even if he was not so sensitive, the moral thing was to not lie, and a lie by omission was still a lie.
The self-preserving thing would be to avoid the subject entirely. She felt like a fraud. She had spent so much time acting so high and mighty, but it seemed as though she was in the wrong. She might not be truly low born, but she was no better than the child of an adulteress, or a madwoman. In fact, she did not even know if her mother might be either, or both, of those things as well.
Looking up from her plate, Agnes realized that the duke was still watching her.
"If there is any matter which you wish to discuss," he said slowly, "then discuss it with me, Miss Hubbard. It pains me to see you like this."
She wanted to say she did not know what he meant. But she did. And she could not bring herself to be more deceitful towards him. She loved this man. She respected him. He had treated her with nothing but kindness. And she did not deserve any of it.
"I believe it is time for Georgia's first lesson," Agnes said with a forced smile. "I hope Your Grace is ready to watch again."
He almost glared as she entirely evaded his question and focused on something else. Of course he was angry. She was directly ignoring him. But when the options were to ignore him or to lie to him, then she would much rather ignore him. Neither option was moral, but this was the most moral one.
The tension only grew as the duke walked to the library, Agnes and Georgia following close behind. The girl was looking back and forth between her brother and her governess. She was as sensitive as her brother was, and she knew that both the most important adults in her life were gravely upset.
Her confusion and defiance only continued as Agnes brought out book after book for the child to work with. She wanted none of them.
Georgia was not responding to the lesson at all. She would either fall silent and turn her head away, rejecting Agnes's company or actively fight and resist, tearing pages from the book. The duke only watched, distress etched on his face. In part, Agnes knew the girl was only resisting because she herself was despondent. After all, she was so sensitive to others' emotions, she was just mirroring how Agnes herself felt inside.
But in part, Agnes also wondered if it was because the girl knew. She was not sure how this would be possible. After all, the girl was barely socially active with her own brother, how could she know a deep, dark, carefully protected secret from Agnes's own family?
Unless she did not. Unless she simply instinctively knew that Agnes was beneath her. That was why she had been so defiant and violent from the beginning. She knew that Agnes was a waste of human life.
As the lesson went from bad to worse, and the child descended into yet another violent tantrum, Agnes didn't even dare make eye contact with the duke, her master. What would he think of her if he knew she was the product of such a terrible woman?
Yes, he claimed that he believed people were products of their environment, not of their heritage. But would he still believe this if he knew all about Agnes's own background? Of course not. Even the least judgemental of people kn
ew that a shire horse was a stronger beast than a pony, and that a fox terrier could not be used as a mill dog.
And Agnes was not made for looking after children. Her mother had been incapable of this. She had not been raised by the woman, of course, but what if that weakness, that lack of maternal feelings, was natural to her? How could she be paid to care for a duke's baby sister when she was not naturally bred for this?
And yet she could not bring herself to spill a heartfelt confession to him. Not because she wanted or needed the job too badly. She did not. She could turn to friends, she could work for a lower-class family, or in a school. But there was still that small doubt.
If her mother was not, in fact, the terrible person she had been accused of being, then Agnes had nothing to fear. And if her mother was a good, noble lady, then Agnes could not bear to lose this job. She wanted to be in the duke's company as much as possible.