by Fanny Finch
"My dearest relative," the letter began, mocking Agnes's own gentle, tender outreach so coldly. Agnes put the letter down. Once again she contemplated burning it. Nothing good could come from reading it.
But she did.
"My dearest relative,
I hope this letter finds you exactly where you were last, if not a little worse.
It seems that my last correspondence troubled you some, did it not? You felt the need to reach out and ask us all for our own words. Did you think anyone else would tell you otherwise? Did you believe there could be any other reason why you are all so despised?
I admire your hopefulness, but no, there is nothing else. What I said is the truth. Your mother is alive and well, having abandoned your father, an earl, to raise you on his own.
Some have suggested that you may not be the earl's daughter, that your mother may have been a less than scrupulous lady. I am not sure if I believe that myself, but bear in mind that much of our family does believe it.
You are not welcome here. You are not owed an explanation, or support, or a single word from anyone in this family. Whether you are the earl's daughter or not, you are not one of us.
Let us be."
Agnes did not even feel that single tear escaping her eye. There was nothing. If it was this one word against her, then it was probably true.
***
The next morning, another letter arrived. It was not in the same handwriting. In fact, she recognized the handwriting as her aunt from Brittany. The lady had rejected her and refused to help her, of course. But she had been the last to do so and, even though Agnes had never met her in person, this aunt had been nothing but kind to her her whole life.
Perhaps Agnes's words had reached her aunt and stirred something in her heart. Perhaps, even if she would not, or could not, help Agnes after her father's death, she could explain what had become of Agnes's mother.
She could.
Because she was Agnes's mother.
Reading the letter again, Agnes could scarcely believe it.
"My dearest Agnes
I am so sorry to have troubled you for so long, and I agree with you in that it is time for you to know the truth.
Your father probably told you that your mother died when you were an infant. The truth is, she is alive. I am not your father's sister, but his wife. I am your mother.
I was born, not to a noble, but to a simple doctor and his wife. He did his very best to elevate his class and was knighted before passing away, leaving no other family for me but my own mother. She made sure that I was wed to your father, the earl, before she too passed away.
I did not love your father.
I felt some great affection and gratitude for him, and I was always faithful to him, but I did not love him. Every day as his wife would have been torment, had I not known that it could have been so much worse.
When I fell pregnant, I realized how trapped I was, that this was the life I was doomed to lead. I considered ending myself, but your father and the local pastor persuaded me to live, said that I would love my child and that you would give further meaning to my life.
After having you I was taken over by a deep melancholy. I did not love you.
Birth is pain. Nursing is pain. Waking all night to the sound of screams is pain. Everything I was expected to do for you hurt me, inside and out. I could bear it no longer and told your father that I needed to leave.
Although I did not love him, he did love me. He loved me enough to let me go.
Your father purchased a small cottage in Brittany and sent me to it, where I could live in peace for the rest of my days. He would come and visit me regularly, ensuring I was happy, well cared for, and that I remained faithful to him.
I had no interest in any man. So I gladly lived there, cared for by his servants, faithful to him forever.
He first claimed I had died and then, when his family uncovered the truth, he confessed I was there for some sort of treatment and said I was to return to join you someday.
The treatment aspect is true. The sunlight and fresh air of this country bring me joy and lift the sorrow that had consumed my heart.
Alas, however, I had no intention of returning. I still do not.
You are not a child to me. You are not MY child. I cannot see you like that. I know I bore you and birthed you, but what you are to me is just another person who made my life tortuous.
I know that I should not blame you for how your father's family treated me, but perhaps if you had never existed, I could have grown to love him. If you had never been born at least I would still be in England, safe and sound, and still have family to care for me.
You robbed me of all that with your mere existence. How am I supposed to love you for that, Agnes? How am I supposed to feel anything but loathing for the child which robbed me of all that I knew, all that I enjoyed?
In some ways, I am grateful as well, of course. I am grateful that thanks to you I am here, safely away from your family.
But I do not love you. I do not want you.
I wish you no ill will. One of my few remaining friends in the country has told me you now work for a duke. You should woo him and see if you cannot secure yourself a little more status once again.
I hope life works out for you. But I never want to hear from you directly again, so long as you live.
Yours one last time,
Your Mother."
Her mother. Her own mother had reached out to her. Reached out and slapped her away in one smooth motion. Her mother did not love her, did not care for her, did not want her.
Agnes wanted to write back. She wanted to call this woman a thousand and one things. She wanted to weep and demand revenge and accuse her of all her wrongs. But to what end? It could not change the past, it could not make her mother reappear when she was a toddler and care for her with the same love that other mothers showered on their children.
It could not win the woman over. She had already said she did not wish to hear from Agnes again. All that Agnes would receive in return would be silence or rage.
It would not become a meaningful relationship. They were divided, now and forever. Both believed themselves wronged by the other and, in a sense, both had been. Agnes could not forgive her mother, and her mother would not forgive her.
This letter was the only contact she had had with the woman who ruined her life. In nearly nineteen years, this was all she had for a mother. A letter asking not to be contacted again.
It was for the best not to contact her, though. All Agnes could think of saying were vile, horrible things. Things worse than her anonymous poison pen relative had said to her. Things worse than she had ever thought or felt, let alone said, to anyone in her entire life.
And nobody else had written to her. The only two people who cared about her enough to write to her were one who wanted to torment her and one who wanted to stop hearing from her.
So be it. She did not need any of them anyway.
Chapter 20
She could not let it go. It consumed her. The more she thought about it, the more she sympathized with her father's family.
They had all been raised as dignified nobles, to abide by society's rules, uphold them, and set themselves as examples to lead others. Accepting the daughter of a mere doctor, even if he had been knighted, would have caused them more than enough concern.
And what followed... it would have been scandalous. A grave shame to them all. A weighty secret for the whole family to carry to the grave.
They had rejected Agnes, not out of their own hatred, but out of a need to finally sever ties with the woman who had brought too much shame to them all. Of course, Agnes could not have been allowed to inherit the earldom. How could they permit such a stain on their family name to persist, to take over as head of the family?
Agnes was unsure what to do, what to say to any of these people. Her whole life was a farce. She finally understood them. She finally realized why her father and his family had done all t
hey had. The family wanted her gone. Her father wanted to protect her.
It was not personal. It was not about her as an individual. That did not matter. It was about what she represented.
Awaking early one morning with an urge to do something about it, however small, she composed a letter to her whole family, apologizing for the burden she had been to them, and copied it out twenty times over, to send out.
"My dearest relative,
I have now heard back from my mother, and I know that she is indeed alive and well. I know all that she did, and the grave shame she has brought onto my father's side of the family, onto your side of the family.
I understand very well now why nobody wishes to speak with me, to see me, or to help me. I understand that no matter what I say or do, that WHAT I am matters more than WHO I am. Therefore, I forgive you all, and I bid you farewell.
Yours sincerely,
Agnes Hubbard."
Then, she wanted to write one to her so-called "mother", the woman she had always known as her aunt in Brittany. She could not leave matters as they were. But she could not accept the apology if that letter could even be considered an apology. Her mother had rejected her and accused her of ruining her mother and father's lives. Were Agnes a softer, weaker woman, she might have taken this to heart. But she was not.
She knew full well that people had children every day, throughout the world, and few had the troubles her parents had endured. They were looking for someone or something to blame for their problems, and they had chosen her. But her mother never loved her father, and her father never respected her mother. How could they have ever succeeded as a couple when all that tied them together were the burdens of finances and progeny?
Agnes looked at the blank sheet of paper before her. Her mother had asked not to be written to. At her feet lay tens of crumpled pages, ink and paper wasted, where she had attempted to defy that request. She wanted to have the last word. She wanted to tell her mother what she thought of her. She wanted to draw a line under the entire situation.
The sound of the door opening startled her, and she unceremoniously dropped all the paper into her drawer and closed it, trying to move hastily, without appearing too hasty. She turned to the door. It was the duke. Of course it was. Every other servant in the house believed themselves inferior to Agnes and would not walk into her quarters without knocking. The duke, although he was a man, seemed to not realize that one could not simply march into a lady's room uninvited. He held Georgia close to himself, and she still seemed tired, as she was rubbing her eyes.
"Good morning, sir," she said, standing and curtsying.
"Doing some writing?" he asked. "It seems you have forgotten what time it is."
"I beg your pardon, sir?" she asked.
"I was wondering why you had not come to awaken Georgia," he said, clutching the girl close.
It dawned on Agnes. Hours had passed since she began writing those letters. And now she was late to awaken Georgia. So late, in fact, that the duke himself had done it instead.
He must have seen the dismay on her face, as he laughed good-naturedly. "It is no great trouble. She was simply refusing to let the maid dress her and asking for you. I was actually a little worried that perhaps you were ill. I am pleased to see that you were merely distracted."
Agnes hung her head a little in shame. "I am so sorry, Your Grace. I received some post which I needed to attend to immediately. I suppose my duties slipped my mind. It shall not happen again."
"It is no trouble at all," he replied. "If you have a matter you must attend to urgently, then you must. I would simply rather be warned when you shall be unable to perform your duties so that someone else can be found to perform them for you."
Agnes nodded. "I shall make sure to do so in the future, sir."
"Now, what was it that was so important as to forget all about time itself?" he asked. "Anything much fun? I hope nothing bad."
"Just some family business," Agnes replied. "A little too private, I think, sir."
"Is it now?" As he asked, she wished she had not said anything to him. That raised eyebrow was enough to tell her. "I thought you said that all your family despised you?"
"They do," Agnes said, averting her gaze. "But that does not mean that I do not have to deal with them from time to time."
The silence was overbearing. She was not sure if he was attempting to intimidate her into revealing her secrets, or simply puzzled that she was not willing or able to talk to him about these matters which, to him, were not all that sensitive.
"Mama get dress," Georgia said before yawning. "Get dress."
"Oh," Agnes said softly. "I am not your mother, Georgie."
Georgia stared at her a moment. "Mama. Get dress."
Agnes looked up to the duke. He shook his head. "She calls anyone who takes on a maternal role her 'mama'. I would appreciate if you would tolerate it. I believe she knows you are not, but it soothes her pain."
Agnes blushed and smiled gently at the girl, feeling her heart break a little for the child. "I shall return to my duties immediately," she insisted, reaching out to take the tired child in her arms.
The duke did not hand her over. "Agnes, please. I am worried about you. I want to at least know that there is no risk to you, on a physical, emotional, or personal level."
"The first I can guarantee, sir," Agnes replied.
She felt his free hand sweep under her chin, tilting her head so she looked into his eyes. "Promise me that you have no reason to believe you will come to any harm, of any kind."
"I cannot, sir," Agnes said, her voice coming out in a nervous whisper.
"Why not?" he asked.
She knew he was doing this because he cared. But he could not understand. He would never understand. She remained silent.
He drew a deep breath and sighed, releasing her chin and passing the girl to her. "Agnes, you do not need to tell me. But I would much prefer it."
Georgia wrapped her arms around Agnes's neck and nuzzled her gently, letting out a few slightly squeaky noises in excitement. She had grown to truly love Agnes, and to long for her company.
This would have been a good thing if Agnes were anyone else.
But, as it stood, every time, all she could think of was the possible harm that the girl could suffer if raised by someone as damaged as herself.
"Agnes, I care about you," the duke said under his breath. "I cannot bear to see you so upset, and it is tearing me apart."
He had used her first name. He always used her first name of late. She had noticed it creeping in with time, from the odd incident to becoming a more frequent problem. And now he always called her by her first name, as though she was his sister or his wife. He was so warm and loving and personal with her.
"I cannot tell you yet, sir," she replied. "Not until it is all over."
He sighed. "Very well. Simply promise me that you shall tell me eventually."
She smiled and nodded. "I shall tell Your Grace when the time is right."
"You promise?" he asked.
"I promise, sir," she replied.
His hand rested on her shoulder, caressing it in a smooth, fluid motion, attempting to reassure her. "I shall take care of you, Agnes. I shall protect you from anyone who wishes you harm. I shall ensure that you live well and free."
She wanted to hug him. She was so glad she was holding Georgia at the time, or she was not sure she could have resisted the urge to embrace him and hold him close to herself. Looking into his eyes, she wondered how long it would be before she ceased loving him, if ever.
He knew she was in pain. He had known since she had received that very first letter, even though he was almost certainly unaware of the letter itself. He had seen her temperament change, the pain in her eyes, her distraction. But he did not know how much it was eating away at her. And he definitely did not know the root cause.
She knew that her pain was tormenting him almost as much as it was tormenting her. She knew that he would not fee
l well until he had persuaded her to tell him about the source of her suffering, to give him at least a chance to relieve it.
After all, that was what men did. They took ladies' problems and they removed them, so that life could be enjoyable. All they wanted was to make the women in their lives happy.
How could she burden such a loving, powerful, handsome, good man with her own secrets, her own rotten past and troubles? It would not be fair on him.
It was not her place to tell him or his place to know. So she did not tell him. She wandered down the hall, got the girl fully dressed, and went to the library, where they set up the lesson for the day.