“You don’t really mean that, Father—”
He cut her off with a shout. “It’s done! I’ve already signed with an estate agent! I never want to see this cursed place again!” His words knocked the wind from her. She needed to sit down, but rubbish covered every chair except the one he sat on.
“What about your grandson? Wellingford Hall is his inheritance. You can’t sell his family home.”
“What grandson?” he said with a growl. “I don’t have a grandson.”
A well of pity opened in Audrey’s heart. Losing Mother and then Alfie had been too much for him. His grief and long confinement in this room had caused his mind to slip. She tried to speak slowly, to help him understand. “Yes, you do, Father. My son, Bobby, is your heir. Robert Clarkson Barrett, remember?”
He turned to look at her, eyes glittering. “I know who you mean, Audrey. I haven’t lost my mind. But that boy is not my heir.”
Audrey stared at him, certain he was merely confused. “Of course he is. Bobby is my son. I’m your daughter—”
“No, you’re not!” His shout roared through the room. “You’re not my daughter!”
His words slammed into Audrey as if he had knocked her against a wall. Father wore a sick smile on his face as he stared at her.
“Didn’t your mother, the great Lady Rosamunde, ever tell you the truth?” he asked. “You aren’t mine, Audrey. I never did learn who sired you, but it wasn’t me. You’re the product of one of her many dalliances. An unfortunate accident. She probably didn’t know who your real father was, either.”
Audrey wanted to run from the room to escape his words, but she couldn’t move, galvanized by his hatred and her utter shock. All she could think was No wonder you never loved me.
“I’m done with all of this,” Father said, gesturing to the ravaged room. “I’ve lived my entire life for nothing. Nothing! I’m going to sell this monstrosity and be done with it.”
Desperation dropped Audrey to her knees. “Please don’t do this to us! What about me? What about my son?”
“Go find a rich, gullible fool to live off like your mother did.”
Audrey couldn’t believe he would be so cruel. “You wouldn’t really leave us destitute, would you?”
His expression softened, but only for a moment. “Your mother had a trust fund from her grandfather. I have no idea how much is left in it, but maybe there’s a quid or two.”
Audrey rose to her feet on trembling legs. She no longer pitied this wreck of a man. She hated him. He was leaving her and her son homeless and alone. Where would they go? What would they do? She ran upstairs to the room that was no longer her room, struggling to comprehend that her father wasn’t her father. The home she loved wasn’t her home. The shock of it nearly paralyzed her. And the shame. Audrey longed to dissolve into tears and sob her heart out, the way she had as a child before Eve comforted her with strawberries. The way she’d fallen apart after Robert died. Eve said she had to go on living for her son’s sake, and she’d been right. Audrey couldn’t break down now, either.
She wished she knew what had become of Eve. Eve had always given her courage when she’d needed it—and she needed it now. But she had no idea where she was. She hadn’t written to Audrey as she’d promised. None of the servants had heard from her, either. Why had Audrey ever allowed her best friend to walk away? Why hadn’t she begged Eve to stay? Audrey had been so disappointed in Eve for having an illegitimate baby, when all along, Audrey was an illegitimate child herself.
She couldn’t dwell on that right now. She had to come up with a plan. If Eve could struggle through her own pain and shock after the V-1 rocket attack in order to save Audrey’s life, then she would set aside her own anguish and outrage in order to provide for her son. Father had mentioned Mother’s trust fund, so she would begin there. She would contact her uncle in London.
Audrey composed herself, waiting for her hands to stop trembling, her weak knees to strengthen. Then she hurried downstairs to the sitting room and riffled through her desk for her address book. How long had it been since her uncle last telephoned? Audrey couldn’t recall. He had long grown tired of inviting her to London and hearing her refusals. She had become as much of a recluse as her father.
She found the telephone number and went into the front hall to make the call. “Hello, this is Audrey Clarkson, your niece,” she said when her aunt came on the line. “There’s something I need to discuss with Uncle Roger, and I wondered if it would be convenient for me to drive up to London to see him this weekend.”