bothersome memories for too long and wished to be rid of them, as if voicing them aloud would relieve her conscience of their burden.
“Father was the loudest. Even still I only caught a word or two. Strumpet. Bastard. Those were the words that struck me as odd, most likely because I didn’t know what they meant at the time.” Grace turned her back to the fire, facing Brother Anselm. “But I do now. Why would my father call my mother a strumpet?”
Silence greeted her. She lifted her chin, prepared to face the truth.
“Am I a bastard, Brother Anselm? Please tell me if Marcus Deveraux is my biological father.”
Her heart raced, and she dragged air into her lungs. He must know the truth. Why wouldn’t he say anything? Not knowing was ripping her insides to shreds.
“Is that why my father abandoned me at the priory? Because he found out?”
“Yes,” Brother Anselm said. “He wanted you to repent for the rest of your life. But he was misguided. You’ve done nothing wrong; you are the kindest, sweetest, most caring … ”
His words were drowned out by the sobs ripping from her chest as a torrent of tears flooded her face. She collapsed to the ground as her strength abandoned her. All this time she’d held on to the notion that her father loved her, had given her up to Brother Anselm in a selfless act of kindness, ensuring she remained safe from the harsh rumors attached to her mother’s insanity.
As difficult as it was to accept that her father despised her, it all made sense as the pieces fell into place. How many times had she made excuses when her father turned a cold shoulder to her within the village? He’d signed the petition to commit her to the asylum. Bile lurched up her throat.
She was living a horrific lie, the seeds of which were planted so many years ago. They had taken root in her heart and mind, and tearing them out might prove to be the end of her. Her heart ached with a searing pain. Brother Anselm wrapped her in his arms, and she wept, rocking back and forth in a mindless rhythm, wanting nothing more than to block out the cruel world.
“I’ll go insane like my mother,” she said, pounding her forehead against Brother Anselm’s chest. “Won’t I, Brother?” That was the one truth hidden among the lies of her existence. Her mother’s insanity.
“No, Grace,” he chided as he shook her by the shoulders. “Don’t believe that for even one second. Listen to me! Your mother was not insane. She was a victim of your father’s hatred. He sent her to Waverly Hills out of spite, not fear for his or anyone else’s safety. Do you hear me?”
She stilled. “She wasn’t insane?”
“No, my child.”
“But she killed her caretaker at the asylum,” Grace said, wiping her nose on a handkerchief.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I made discreet inquiries after the incident,” Brother Anselm said, squeezing her hands. “Your mother was filled with grief and feared for your safety. You were a child, blind and alone with a man who despised your very existence. She fled in hopes of rescuing you, but she was caught not far from the asylum and refused to go back without a fight.”
A fresh wave of grief assailed Grace, and she wiped furiously at her tearstained cheeks. She couldn’t remember a time since the age of seven that she hadn’t worried over her mother’s insanity. “Why have you never told me this before?”
“Because I love you like a daughter.” His voice cracked, and Grace pulled his hand to her cheek, nestling against his weathered skin. “And I worried the truth would destroy you. You came into my life by the grace of God, and though you had nothing but the dress on your back, you were gracious and grateful, and learned to love a stupid old man like me.” His tears splashed against her hand, breaking what little remained of her shattered heart. “Please forgive me for doing what I thought was best for you.”
She kissed his hand, wanting to soothe him
“Father was the loudest. Even still I only caught a word or two. Strumpet. Bastard. Those were the words that struck me as odd, most likely because I didn’t know what they meant at the time.” Grace turned her back to the fire, facing Brother Anselm. “But I do now. Why would my father call my mother a strumpet?”
Silence greeted her. She lifted her chin, prepared to face the truth.
“Am I a bastard, Brother Anselm? Please tell me if Marcus Deveraux is my biological father.”
Her heart raced, and she dragged air into her lungs. He must know the truth. Why wouldn’t he say anything? Not knowing was ripping her insides to shreds.
“Is that why my father abandoned me at the priory? Because he found out?”
“Yes,” Brother Anselm said. “He wanted you to repent for the rest of your life. But he was misguided. You’ve done nothing wrong; you are the kindest, sweetest, most caring … ”
His words were drowned out by the sobs ripping from her chest as a torrent of tears flooded her face. She collapsed to the ground as her strength abandoned her. All this time she’d held on to the notion that her father loved her, had given her up to Brother Anselm in a selfless act of kindness, ensuring she remained safe from the harsh rumors attached to her mother’s insanity.
As difficult as it was to accept that her father despised her, it all made sense as the pieces fell into place. How many times had she made excuses when her father turned a cold shoulder to her within the village? He’d signed the petition to commit her to the asylum. Bile lurched up her throat.
She was living a horrific lie, the seeds of which were planted so many years ago. They had taken root in her heart and mind, and tearing them out might prove to be the end of her. Her heart ached with a searing pain. Brother Anselm wrapped her in his arms, and she wept, rocking back and forth in a mindless rhythm, wanting nothing more than to block out the cruel world.
“I’ll go insane like my mother,” she said, pounding her forehead against Brother Anselm’s chest. “Won’t I, Brother?” That was the one truth hidden among the lies of her existence. Her mother’s insanity.
“No, Grace,” he chided as he shook her by the shoulders. “Don’t believe that for even one second. Listen to me! Your mother was not insane. She was a victim of your father’s hatred. He sent her to Waverly Hills out of spite, not fear for his or anyone else’s safety. Do you hear me?”
She stilled. “She wasn’t insane?”
“No, my child.”
“But she killed her caretaker at the asylum,” Grace said, wiping her nose on a handkerchief.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I made discreet inquiries after the incident,” Brother Anselm said, squeezing her hands. “Your mother was filled with grief and feared for your safety. You were a child, blind and alone with a man who despised your very existence. She fled in hopes of rescuing you, but she was caught not far from the asylum and refused to go back without a fight.”
A fresh wave of grief assailed Grace, and she wiped furiously at her tearstained cheeks. She couldn’t remember a time since the age of seven that she hadn’t worried over her mother’s insanity. “Why have you never told me this before?”
“Because I love you like a daughter.” His voice cracked, and Grace pulled his hand to her cheek, nestling against his weathered skin. “And I worried the truth would destroy you. You came into my life by the grace of God, and though you had nothing but the dress on your back, you were gracious and grateful, and learned to love a stupid old man like me.” His tears splashed against her hand, breaking what little remained of her shattered heart. “Please forgive me for doing what I thought was best for you.”
She kissed his hand, wanting to soothe him
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