The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (34 page)

“It is such a happiness when good people get together.”

—
JANE AUSTEN,
EMMA

“O
h, this was such a good idea. I’m so glad we thought of it.” Damaris was having the loveliest honeymoon. Because Abby was planning a special first family Christmas at Davenham Hall, she and Freddy had decided to spend a little time exploring the England Damaris’s mother had told her about. Then, after Christmas, he was taking her to Venice for what he called a
proper
honeymoon.

She hadn’t believed such happiness was possible, but she was bursting with it now, aglow with it, ending each day weak with lovemaking and with laughter, waking each morning with anticipation of what the day would bring. And with a kiss. And one kiss led to another and then . . . more lovemaking.

She was awash with love and happiness. She leaned against her husband, her arm entwined through his. Life could get no better.

The phaeton—Freddy had given her her own phaeton and pair as a wedding present—came to a crossroads, and Damaris gave a small cry of excitement and clutched his arm. “There it is, Freddy, that’s it. Mama’s village.”

It was the prettiest little village, a cluster of thatched, whitewashed houses set around the village green and with a stream flowing through it under a pretty stone bridge.

She felt a little teary. She’d heard so much about this place, the site of her mother’s childhood and girlhood before she’d married Papa. She wondered if she could find the house Mama had grown up in. All she knew was that it was on the outskirts of the village, on a hill overlooking a small lake, a handsome redbrick house that her grandfather had built. His hopes for a large family had come to naught; Mama had been an only child. And all Damaris’s relatives were long dead. Would anyone even remember her mother?

“There’s the churchyard,” she said. “Can we stop and look? There might be . . . some sign of my family. I would like to see my grandparents’ grave.”

They got down, tied up the horses and entered the churchyard through a lych-gate smothered in the twisted gray vines of wisteria. It would be magnificent in spring. The graveyard was very pretty, tidily kept, with ancient stones softened by grass.

“What were their names again?” Freddy asked. “We’ll split up and search.”

“Howard. Charles and Mary Howard. My mother’s name was Catherine.”

They searched, taking their time, reading the words on the headstones. So many stories, some tragic in their stark simplicity. An elderly lady was tending a grave, replacing dead rosemary with fresh and weeding the surrounds. Damaris slipped quietly past her, glancing at the headstone. Her son, she thought from the dates. Poor lady.

“Damaris,” Freddy called.

“Yes?” Damaris and the old lady answered in unison. They turned and looked at each other in surprise.

“Don’t tell me you’re called Damaris too!” the lady said.

Damaris nodded.

“How delightful,” the lady said. “People are always saying what an unusual name it is—they really mean it’s odd, of course. And though I do tell them it’s from the Bible, they still think it’s outlandish.” She smiled. “Well, well, I’ve never met another Damaris.”

“Damaris Monkton-Coombes,” she said and held out her hand.

The lady shook it. “Damaris, Lady Templeton.” She glanced at Freddy, who was threading his way toward them between the headstones. “And that’s your handsome husband, I suppose.”

“Yes.” Damaris couldn’t help but smile. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

“Oh, my dear, how delightful. Congratulations.” She gave them a quizzical look. “Is there any reason you’re spending some of your honeymoon in a graveyard?”

Damaris laughed. “It does sound odd when you put it like that, but this was my mother’s village. She died when I was twelve and this is my first visit. I thought I might be able to find the headstones of some relatives, maybe my grandparents.”

“I’ve lived here all my life. Perhaps I could help you find them. What were their names?”

“Howard. Charles and Mary Howard.”

The lady turned a little pale and swayed. Damaris caught her and asked, “Are you all right?” The lady clutched her hand as if fearful of falling.

Freddy came hurrying up. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, Freddy, this is Lady Templeton and she’s just been taken ill.”

“No, no, just a bit of a turn,” Lady Templeton said. “I’m prone to them, a disadvantage of old age, I’m afraid. I’ll be right as rain in a minute.” She held out her hand to Freddy. “How do you do, Mr. Monkton-Coombes. Your wife was just telling me her mother was born here.”

“Ma’am, are you sure you’re all right? You’re looking rather pale,” Freddy asked. He glanced around but could see no other carriage but their own. “Can I offer you a lift?”

The lady hesitated. “I do feel so foolish, but yes, I think that would be best. I just live a step away, up there, on the hill.” She pointed to a graceful Georgian house set in a pretty park. “It’s not far. But a carriage would make it easier. Thank you.”

Freddy and Damaris helped the lady into the carriage and a few minutes later they pulled up in front of the house. It was as elegant as it had looked from the churchyard, fronted with Corinthian columns and with a sweeping vista to the village and beyond.

“Please come in and take tea with me. No, I insist, you’ve been so kind. Besides”—she glanced at Damaris again—“I know my husband would wish to meet you.”

Damaris nodded. “Thank you, Lady Templeton, it’s very kind of you. Are you sure you’re well enough?”

“Oh, I’m well enough,” Lady Templeton said in a voice that trembled just a little.

They entered the house and Lady Templeton led them to an elegant drawing room with a large bay window. “Tea and refreshments,” Lady Templeton told her butler, “and ask Sir John to join us immediately. We have guests he will want to meet.”

The color had quite come back to her cheeks and she seemed almost excited. Perhaps they didn’t get many visitors, Damaris thought.

A few moments later, a tall, distinguished-looking gray-haired man entered. He took one look at Damaris and blinked. He turned to his wife. “Damaris?”

“Our first name is not all we have in common,” Lady Templeton said. “John, she’s Catherine Howard’s daughter.”

Sir John Templeton stared at Damaris. “Oh, my God,” he exclaimed in a whisper and sat down abruptly on the nearest chair. “Catherine’s daughter.”

Damaris gave Freddy a mystified look. He frowned and rose to his feet. “I think we’d better go.”

“No!” Sir John and Lady Templeton exclaimed at once.

“Please don’t. I’m sorry to be so mysterious,” Lady Templeton said. “It’s a little awkward to know quite where to begin. You see, we knew your mother very well, my dear. She was very dear to . . . to us.” She glanced at her husband. “Perhaps Martin’s portrait?”

He nodded and hurried from the room. Damaris and Freddy waited in silence. Sir John returned in a few minutes, carrying a portrait. He turned it around and held it up in front of Damaris and Freddy.

It was of a good-looking young man with dark hair and eyes and a lovely smile. Damaris smiled politely.

“You don’t see it, do you?” Lady Templeton said. She glanced at Freddy. “Ah, but you do.”

Damaris looked at her husband. He stared at the painting and then at her, and then he kept looking from the painting to her. “It’s uncanny.”

“What is?” Damaris asked. Sir John couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. She felt a little uncomfortable.

“The likeness.”

Sir John Templeton nodded. “She has his eyes, his smile, his warmth . . .”

Puzzled, Damaris looked at the painting more closely. Yes, there was a strong resemblance between Lady Templeton and her son, but that was not so surprising, surely. “I don’t understand.”

“My dear.” Lady Templeton sat down in the chair closest to her and took her hand. “This may upset you to hear, but we believe you are our granddaughter.”

Damaris frowned. “How can that be possible?”

“Your mother, Catherine, was engaged to be married to our son, Martin. They were very much in love. We loved her like a daughter. But just two weeks before they were to be married, Martin . . . Martin . . .”

“He died,” Sir John said gruffly. “Came off his horse and crashed into a stone wall. Broke his neck.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, but what does—”

“We think they anticipated their vows.”

“Your mother became pregnant,” Freddy said bluntly.

Lady Templeton nodded. “We weren’t sure; there were whispers—this is a village, after all. But your grandparents wouldn’t let us see Catherine; in fact, she wasn’t seen in the village again after Martin’s funeral.”

“What, ever?” Damaris said.

“No. The first we heard was that she’d married a minister and moved out of the district. To tell the truth, we were hurt by what we thought was a rather too quick recovery from loving our son, so we made no attempt to contact her. We didn’t know, then, that she was increasing.”

“If she’d come to us, we would have taken her in, taken care of her and the child,” Sir John said.

“Some years later, when your grandfather was dead, your grandmother told me about the child. Her husband had paid the man a handsome sum to marry her—”

“Prided himself on his respectability, Charles Howard,” Sir John interjected.

“The minister had apparently known she was pregnant by another man’s child, but he didn’t care.”

He’d cared, Damaris thought. Papa had an austere and unforgiving nature that found fault with human frailty. He’d done his duty by her and her mother, but he hadn’t been able to love them. Or truly forgive her mother for her lapse.

So many things she’d always wondered about now started to slip into place. It was such a relief to understand finally.

“And by the time we tracked her down, she and her husband had gone to China. Taking their daughter with them. And so we lost all track of them. Of you.”

“I didn’t take after either of my parents,” Damaris told Freddy, staring at the painting. “But I do look like him.” Her father. Her
real
father. The man Mama had loved. And who had loved Mama.

It all made sense now. Papa’s coldness, his constant slurs on her mother’s lack of morals. And the fact that he’d never really loved Damaris. He couldn’t. He would have seen her as a child of sin.
Original sin.
That was what he’d been talking about.

At that realization some of the misery and guilt she’d borne all her life slipped from her shoulders. So what if he didn’t love her? He wasn’t her father.

This was her father. This smiling young man cut off in his prime. The man her mother, she now understood, had probably never stopped loving. Poor Mama.

“You don’t mind knowing?” Lady Templeton asked quietly. “That the man you thought was your father wasn’t your real father?”

“It doesn’t affect your legitimacy,” Sir John said quickly. “You were born in wedlock, and nobody can prove otherwise.”

“I don’t mind,” Damaris said softly. “I am very pleased to discover my real father. And his parents.”

“Martin would have loved you,” Lady Templeton said, as if reading her thoughts.

“I came to this village looking for my relatives,” Damaris said slowly. “Only I thought I’d find them in the churchyard.”

“You did,” Lady Templeton said with a little laugh. “But not all of us were dead.”

“Perhaps you won’t want to know us,” Sir John said heavily. “We’ll understand if that’s the case. We’re just glad to have met you.”

“Oh, I’ll want to know you,” Damaris said, slipping from the chair and going to plant a kiss on the old man’s cheek. She turned and embraced Lady Templeton. “I always wanted grandparents.
Always
.”

“Oh, you sweet girl,” Lady Templeton said, hugging her.

“Your Damaris looks just like my Damaris did when I married her,” Sir John told Freddy.

“Then it’s good to know that my Damaris is only going to become more beautiful with age,” Freddy said with a smile.

“Poor Mama, she didn’t have a very happy life, did she?”

“She had you, and I’m sure you made her very happy,” Damaris’s grandmother said.

Freddy leaned across and pulled Damaris to him. “We’ll just have to ensure her daughter has a very happy life, won’t we?”

Damaris turned and smiled mistily at him. “I’ll do my best.”