Rory let the words sink in, wondering if she’d heard them correctly. She’d always thought of her parents’ marriage as a kind of devil’s bargain, with both parties being compensated in some nebulous way in exchange for enduring a loveless union. Had she been wrong? Was it possible that her mother had actually been in love when she married Geoffrey Grant?
“But that was years ago. Are you saying that after everything, all the arguing, all the women . . . Are you saying you were in love with him once?”
Camilla managed a smile, her eyes suddenly shiny with tears. “I was in love with him always, Aurora. Always and always.”
Rory shook her head as she digested this bit of news. How had she not seen this love that was suddenly written all over her mother’s face?
You have no idea what I’ve lost.
Her mother had uttered the words once in a heated moment. They hadn’t made sense then, but they did now. As a child, Camilla had been cast aside by her mother, then later, as a woman, she’d been cast aside by the man she loved. Again and again, while her friends looked on and felt sorry for her.
“I’m sorry you felt like you had to carry that around by yourself all these years, that you didn’t think you could share it with me.”
She shrugged. “I was ashamed, I suppose.”
“Ashamed? Of what?”
“Of being unlovable,” Camilla said, blinking the tears from her lashes. She reached for her handbag and fished out a tissue, dabbing at her eyes. “And I’m the mother. You’re supposed to lean on me, not the other way around. I’m glad you finally know about the adoption, though. I was always worried that it would come out in some terrible way. Some health thing would rear its head, and they’d need my family’s medical history, and I wouldn’t know what to tell them.” Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “How did you find out?”
“By accident.” Rory glanced at the framed photo in her hand. Without meaning to, they seemed to have circled back to the original topic. “How much do you know about your birth parents?”
Camilla shook her head slowly. “Only that I was a war baby and that my mother gave me up because she wasn’t married. It wasn’t uncommon back then. So many boys were killed, leaving sweethearts and babies behind. My father finally told me, not long before he died. My mother—Gwendolyn—had lost three babies and was ashamed of being childless when all her friends had houses full of children, so he quietly arranged for the adoption. I was her consolation prize.”
“Did he ever mention the name of your biological mother?”
“Oh, no. Adoptions were very hush-hush in those days, especially when the mother was unmarried. Things are much more open now, but back then, the whole subject was taboo. My mother was adamant that no one know I wasn’t really theirs. They went abroad for a year—on her doctor’s advice, or so the story went—and lo and behold, they came back blooming and healthy, with a daughter in tow. If anyone suspected, they never let on. But of course, they wouldn’t dare if they wanted to stay in the Lowells’ good graces. And everyone did.”
“And your father? I mean, your birth father.”
“No one ever mentioned him, but I always assumed he’d been killed in the war.” She pressed her fingers to her lips, shook her head, as if to apologize for her display of emotion. “I loved George Lowell dearly. He was a kind and loving man, but he wasn’t strong. At least not when it came to my mother. He wasn’t able to . . . protect me from her. When he died, I remember thinking he’d finally found a way to be free of her. I couldn’t begrudge him that, but it left me at her mercy. That’s when I started daydreaming about my real father. I used to imagine what he looked like. Tall and handsome, like a knight in a fairy story. A hero to his dying breath. I used to wonder if he knew I’d been born and if he ever thought of me. I needed so much to believe he did.”
The words seemed to hum in the silence that stretched between them. Rory dropped down next to Camilla, the photograph in its silver frame balanced on her knees. Her features, but Anson’s, too, and Thia’s, and Camilla’s. But Soline was there, too, in the heart-shaped face and high cheekbones, the long neck and pointed chin. The blending of bloodlines—so obvious now that she knew the truth.
She pressed the photograph into Camilla’s hands, meeting her puzzled gaze squarely. “This started with you asking me what I was doing with this old photo. I told you I’d just come back from San Francisco. And now I need to tell you the rest.”