The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [102]
“Ian died,” Mary Rose said. “He got drunk and fell over that cliff.”
“Perhaps,” Gweneth said. “But I know that Tyronne told him that very same day who you were, that he was your father. And then Ian was dead. It was all over.”
Mary Rose couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe it. “No, I will never believe that Ian killed himself.”
“I don’t know. I pray that he didn’t.”
Without another word, Mary Rose turned and walked to her husband. Tysen opened his arms and drew her close. He said nothing, merely held her, resting his cheek against her hair. Finally he said, “Is that all of it, ma’am?”
“Yes. I do not know the amount Tyronne left in trust for her. It is probably a vast amount. He more than hinted that it was. I do have the name of the old gentleman, the only person in the whole world, who knew what had happened. I will give it to you now. It is your right.”
22
September 15, 1815
TYSEN AND MARY Rose left the bedside of Mr. Mortimer Palmer, solicitor, a very old man who was propped up in bed, all wrapped up in woolen scarves. He’d given Mary Rose a thick envelope, then blessed her in the manner of a Catholic cardinal and proceeded to cough until Tysen feared he would fall out of his bed with the effort. He was frankly relieved that Mr. Palmer had survived their visit. He wondered what would have happened to Mary Rose’s envelope if Mr. Palmer had died before she’d come.
They were walking back to Abbotsford Crescent to Sinjun and Colin’s town house, enjoying the warm, sunny weather, breathing in the smells of Edinburgh. Tysen was listening to all the lilting English that he scarcely understood, looking over his shoulder every once in a while at the castle, high and stark on the hill in the middle of Edinburgh. Mary Rose was walking beside him, her brow furrowed, silent and thoughtful, clutching that envelope to her bosom.
“You may as well open it now, Mary Rose,” he said after a while, smiling down at her. “Don’t worry so. It will be all right.” He led her into a small park and motioned her to a small bench.
“I’m afraid,” she said, looking at him, then at that fat envelope clutched in her hand as if it were a snake poised to bite her. Finally, after more hesitation, she thrust it into his hands. “Please, Tysen,” she said, “you read it.”
Tysen opened it. There was a single sheet of paper wrapped around another smaller, very thick envelope. He opened the single sheet of foolscap first and read aloud:
My dear daughter:
I am dead and you are either twenty-five or married, and thus are reading this, my letter to you. Your mother was a beautiful woman and I was hopeful she would breed me a son and another heir, but she did not. She birthed you, a female. I prayed and prayed for a son, but God didn’t heed me. No, you are not a son and that is a pity. This is why I couldn’t marry her. She hadn’t proved true. But you are here now and what am I to do? Because I am an honorable man, I am providing you with a dowry.
Your father,
Tyronne, Lord Barthwick
Tysen wadded the single sheet of foolscap in his fist and shook it northward, toward Kildrummy Castle. Then he got hold of himself. He read the letter again, to himself this time, and he laughed, an honest laugh. He said, “What a pathetic old curmudgeon. He believed it was a pity that you weren’t a son? Thank God you’re weren’t, else we wouldn’t be here together, you still looking all battered down. Listen to me. Old Tyronne had a full measure of cruelty, not to mention he was more obsessed with begetting heirs than the devil is with stealing souls. The old buzzard also enjoyed a full measure of arrogance. Actually, he was a dreadful man, Mary Rose.” He waved the envelope again. “You will not let this hurt you. The old man’s mind was long gone when he wrote this drivel.”
She cocked her head at him in a way that he found very