Free An Inconvenient Wife by Constance Hussey

Portugal?” Blackwell doubted she knew, but was unwilling to
solicit any further unsettling personal information right now. Besides, the
more he knew of Meraux, the better.
    “I don’t know. It has to do
with the men he brought home once. Something about wine, I think. I saw and
heard them for a just a minute, and they frightened me.”
    To his dismay, her eyes
filled with tears. Blackwell looked at Miss McKenzie in unconscious appeal, but
she was a step ahead, pressing a handkerchief into the girl’s hand and putting
an arm around her shoulders.
    Miss McKenzie looked at him,
brows raised in question. “Perhaps you might tell Danielle of her message now,
if you have all the information you need.”
    Need, maybe; more than he
wanted, certainly. Certainly she—they, could not be left in Meraux’s hands,
although what he was to do with them was another story. Now he had no choice
but to lay another sorrow on this girl’s head, for it seemed clear she had no
idea she was adopted.
    “Is it something bad, Mr.
Blackwell?”
    Blackwell winced at the
plaintive little question and hesitated no longer. Tell her straight out,
Westcott. Beating around the bush will not cushion the blow. “I know this
will come as a shock, but this begins with the fact that the Durants were not
your natural parents. You were adopted by them as an infant.”
    Danielle stared at him in
disbelief and Miss McKenzie stirred and took her hand.
    “That cannot be true! Why do
you say such a thing?” She turned away from him. “It is a lie, isn’t it, mam’selle ?”
    “I do not believe Mr.
Blackwell would lie about such a thing, Danielle.”
    “Miss Durant—Danielle.
Listen to me.” He reached over to pull her hands from Miss McKenzie’s and
grasped them firmly. “Don’t think for a minute you were not loved. Monsieur and Madame wanted you very much. You would never have been told this if
they had lived. You are their daughter in every way.”
    “Except my birth,” she
whispered. But some of the distress eased from her eyes and her voice steadied.
“May I know who my real parents were?”
    Blackwell paused, reluctant
to tell her she was the offspring of an amoral nobleman who had seduced and
abandoned an innocent girl.
    “It is best in the open,”
Miss McKenzie murmured, sympathy on her face, as if she suspected what he was
going to say.
    “Your mother was very young
when she met your father. He was handsome and wealthy and she believed him when
he promised marriage. Instead, he left her enceinte and in disgrace with
her family. When his sister, your aunt, learned of it, she took your mother to
a convent to have her child, planning to send you both to another part of
France into a new life. But your mother died soon after you were born and your
aunt, hearing of a couple who longed for a child, placed you with them. She
knew them and could be sure you would be well loved and cared for.”
    “I see. I am a bastard,
then.”
    “No, you are not!” Blackwell
released her, stood, and looked sternly at her. “You are the daughter of Madame and Monsieur Durant. They gave you their name along with their love.” He
walked to the window with heavy steps. This was as hard a thing as any in his
life. Gad, he wanted to be home, riding out over the Hampshire hills, playing
games with Sarah. Instead he was tearing a child’s life apart.
    “Mr. Blackwell is quite
right. You are Miss Durant and there is no reason you should be otherwise.”
Miss McKenzie made her brisk, matter-of-fact statement, rose, and pulled the
girl to her feet. “Since it appears this conversation will go on for some time,
I suggest we take a turn in the courtyard and have something to drink before we
continue.”
    Concern for the passing time
warred in his head with a fervent desire to escape the confines of this room,
but the pull of fresh air won and he followed them outside. Not much was left
to explain and any decisions necessary could be made tomorrow. Perhaps a