Somehow, Ophelia had truly believed that once he rallied, her father would have expanded on his brief confession and told her more.
“Your…the marchioness did not give birth to you. Forgive me for keeping it so long.”
Those had been his thin, whispery words, and how she had stared at him in utter bewilderment. “But you are my papa?”
“Yes.”
Her sudden, breathtaking anguish had wrestled with her shock. Not my mother…
She had tried to force her confused thoughts to order, for her parents had celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary recently. They had been married before she was born, so how could someone other than the marchioness have been her mother at birth? Those questions had spilled from her as she clasped his hands, and his only other response had been that she was the child of his mistress.
“She did not want me?” Ophelia had whispered, feeling little emotion because the absurdity of his story simply could not be true. It was the ramblings of a man in pain and confused by the tincture of laudanum.
Perhaps he had been muddled from the drug, but her father had murmured, “I did not give her a choice. I took you even though she cried and begged me not to.”
Then with a relieved sigh, as if a great burden had been lifted from his heart, her father had fallen into a deep slumber.
I took you even though she cried and begged me not to.
Everything she thought she knew about her father’s honor, her mother’s kindness, the love and happiness their family had been blessed with, shattered that day.
Ophelia had enjoyed her life and the bounteous fortune of being a marquess’s daughter. She was doted on, given her heart’s desires by her mother and father. But it had all been at the cost of someone else’s torment, someone her father had used and left crumbled in the ashes of her pain.
She could not imagine having a child who was simply snatched away by the father, never to be seen again. Why had he done it? Ophelia struggled to reconcile that they had stolen her from her mother’s arms when she was a squalling infant, without any consequences. But who would that lady be compared to her father? He was powerful. To be a mistress meant her Sally Martin would have little or no connections to the ton or wealth. She’d have no standing to resist or complain about a wealthy marquess.
Ophelia was haunted by so many questions.
Was Sally Martin still alive? How had she coped with having her babe ripped from her arms by her protector? Had she mourned and eventually picked up the pieces? Had she found another protector? Had she died from a broken heart? Who was she? Did she still smile…and also sing? Or had her song died when the marquess broke her heart so irrefutably? Did she still play the pianoforte with the same zest and passion Ophelia did?
With shaking fingers, she wiped the tears from her face and silently asked herself questions she had been afraid to ponder.
Are we alike in any other ways?
Her heart wrenched underneath her breastbone. Ophelia recalled a time in her young life her mother had found her presence unbearable. The marchioness had never hugged or played or read to her as Papa did, though how Ophelia had craved her mama’s affections. Ophelia remembered how she would hide and watch her mother in her boudoir, wishing she could go to her and bask in her warmth and perfume.
Her mother had hated whenever she sang and danced in the long hallways of their country home, and the pain of knowing her mother rejected her had almost killed something inside of her. Her papa had tried to comfort Ophelia by telling her that she and her mama were simply different creatures. That one day her mama would start to hug and kiss her, too. She had not believed it, but then it had all changed when she had been found after several days missing.
“I understand it now, Mama,” she whispered as she padded down the hallway to her bedchamber. “I was not yours, and a daily reminder of your husband’s infidelity.” But it does not matter, because you love me now.
That reassurance did not diffuse the wild grief and sense of loss that had settled upon her heart. Entering her room, she flung herself onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling. A wry chuckle escaped her. Only last month, she had teasingly said to her mother that they had nothing in common. Her mother was so delicate and proper, while her parents often remarked that Ophelia owned an uninhibited temperament that must be carefully disguised.
The marchioness had laughed along with her teasing, but there had been a touch of sadness in her eyes Ophelia had not then understood. But she had always felt herself different than her mother, who was charming, gentle, and wise beyond her years. Ophelia hardly thought herself much different than other ladies of the ton, even though Ophelia admitted she had little appreciation for inane chatter and malicious gossips, uncaring to make her existence be about the next ball or the latest on dit.
That was the reason it had been so easy and refreshing to be friends with several ladies who stood on the fringes of polite society and were mockingly called wallflowers—ladies who, despite being well-bred, were generally considered oddities. Even in that regard, she was not a perfect fit for their coterie. Ophelia was aware that as the Marquess of Shelton’s daughter, she was never given a snub and was invited to all the society events that her friends were not. She was a wallflower by association, and no one in society dared refer to her thusly even as she embraced being one of the sinful wallflowers.
Pushing from the bed, she rushed over to the dressing table and sat before it, staring at her reflection in the mirror. “It does not matter who Sally Martin is. I am Lady Ophelia, daughter to the Marquess and Marchioness of Shelton.”
Saying the words aloud did nothing to calm the terrible aching sensations burning deep inside her chest that felt too petrifying. Leaning forward, she pressed the flat of her palm against the glass. “Nothing has changed. Nothing. I am Lady Ophelia…nothing has changed.”
To her distress, looking through the mirror, she noted the redness of her eyes and how incredibly pale her skin appeared. She closed her eyes, hating that she seemed so vulnerable and that it showed for everyone to see. Her papa had always complimented her strength, and she too had always relied on her fortitude.
Now is not the time to crumble. “And what is there to be afraid of, Ophelia?”
It was a question she could not answer, but she was most certain that she had to find Sally Martin.
Ophelia did not understand why that certainty blossomed through her, only that she would follow through. Still, she hesitated, torn by conflicting needs. Her family’s wealth and reputation had secured her position in Society, and it was up to Ophelia to maintain it by never stepping out of line and disappointing her parents’ efforts.
Her father expected her to obey his wishes, for she always did. Always. Even though she often teased them with her air of rebellion and spontaneity, Ophelia reined in her temperament when dealing with her parents’ expectations. They loved her, and she loved them. Never did she want to disappoint or hurt them, and never had there been an instance where she flagrantly disavowed their wishes.