After a Fashion (A Class of Their Own #1)(99)
Ah, that was Oliver’s voice—such a wonderful voice, masculine but with just a touch of ruefulness mixed . . .
“Call me Richard, and yes, of course I forgive you. If you hadn’t convinced my daughter to go along with your plan, Margaret and I would have never found her again.”
“Harriet wasn’t comfortable with what we were doing, but I can be quite persuasive when I set my mind to something, and . . . well, my original plan seemed to snowball into something neither of us expected—that being complete and utter madness.”
“I’ve recently come to the belief that you and Harriet were brought together because God was setting matters to rights,” Reverend Gilmore said softly.
“You believe God wants me to be with Harriet?” Oliver asked.
“As to that, I can’t say. I do believe the two of you came together so that Harriet could finally experience the love of a true family, and that her mother, father, and sister, could finally meet the lovely young lady they’d been denied for so very, very long.”
She wasn’t certain, but she thought Oliver released a huff.
What could that mean?
Had he wanted Reverend Gilmore to confirm that they were meant to be together, because . . . It turned out she wasn’t just a hat girl, in fact . . . she was a lady, an honest-to-goodness lady who had a duke and a duchess for parents.
Surely that would make it perfectly acceptable for her to be with Oliver, but . . . what if he didn’t want to be with her, what if . . .
“Is she awake yet? It’s been hours and hours.”
Was that Millie or Lucetta?”
“No, but we’ve seen her twitching every once in a while, and the doctor did say, given that she took a blow to the head, that it might be more than a few hours before she comes to,” Oliver said.
“She won’t like it if she wakes up and finds all of us staring at her.”
Ah, that was Lucetta—the first one was Millie.
“I’m not leaving.”
Warmth flowed through her.
That was her mother’s voice, a mother she’d thought was long dead, but a mother who’d never stopped loving her, even though she’d thought Harriet was dead.
“Her original name was Julia?”
Harriet’s ears perked up again.
“It was, but I barely spent any time at all with her before Jane snatched her away,” Margaret said. “I still cannot believe the woman stole my child from me. She then decided I hadn’t suffered enough, so arranged for a dead infant, swaddled in my baby’s clothing, to be delivered to our country estate. Then, after waiting what she apparently felt was a sufficient amount of time—holding my hand and crying with me over my loss, no less—she then went off, took Harriet from the miserable person she’d paid to watch over my baby, and spirited her straight out of the country.”
“I’m still not exactly clear why she arranged for a dead infant to be delivered to you,” Victoria said.
“Because she knew that if your mother and I had any hope she was alive we would never rest until we found our little girl,” Richard said.
Someone let out a small sob, the owner of that sob becoming clear when Margaret started speaking again. “Jane caused me more pain than I can even express, but the mere thought of all my darling girl must have suffered because of Jane’s evilness breaks my heart.”
The pain in her mother’s voice had Harriet concentrating as hard as she could to open her eyes. Light blinded her for a moment, but then, a face swam into view, the face of her mother.
Harriet licked dry lips, swallowed, and tried to smile, knowing she failed miserably when her mother released another sob.
“I don’t want your heart to be broken . . . Mother,” she finally said, stumbling just a bit on the word Mother. “I never knew what I was missing, which makes this business of finding you all so much more delightful.”
With tears pouring down her cheeks, her mother moved closer, and the next thing Harriet knew, she was lifted up and cradled in her mother’s arms, the scent of violets tickling her nose.
How long she stayed there, Harriet couldn’t really say. She heard people leaving the room, most of them crying, but she couldn’t raise her head to offer them reassurances—she could only cling to the woman she’d never known, even as she sent a prayer to God, giving thanks for the gift He’d bestowed on her.
This was what He’d given her for her birthday wish—her family.
Her mother let out a muffled laugh before she eased Harriet out of her embrace and gazed into her face. “You look so much like I did twenty years ago.” She wiped tears that were still leaking out of Harriet’s eyes with her fingers. “I cannot believe you’ve been returned to me.”
“I can’t believe it either,” her father said, looking at her over her mother’s shoulder.
Her mother edged away from her, and then her father, a real live duke, took her place and strong arms wrapped around Harriet, something she’d longed to feel her entire life.
It was little wonder she’d been drawn to the man when she first met him—he was her father, and somehow she’d known he was special before she even knew exactly who he was.
She buried her head into his broad shoulder and allowed more tears to flow, tears she’d been holding back for years, but tears of joy this time, each tear healing the bit of her heart that had been damaged over her youth.