trust George (her father, Isobel acknowledged tensely) will learn to live with it. He was always a sanctimonious devil, even in his youth, and, had it not been for your intervention, I am sure the child would have found no favour with him. Still, who am I to judge him? As George would say, I have made my bed, now I should lie on it. He never could forgive anyone’s weaknesses. Which is why, I suppose, my father left Tregarth to me, and not him. I doubt if we’ll be in touch again, dear Iris. My thanks and my best wishes for the future.
The air escaped from Isobel’s lungs in a pained rush, and the nausea she had defeated only minutes before attacked her again. This time there was no escape. She barely made it to the downstairs cloakroom before she was violently sick, and it was several minutes after that before she was able to drag herself to her feet again.
She felt chilled now. Whereas earlier she had been sweating in the heat of the attic, now goosebumps feathered her skin. She found the jacket she’d left hanging on the banister, and pushed her arms into the sleeves, clutching its warmth about her. But the chill she felt was as much psychological as physical, and it was some time before she could bring herself to return to the bench.
When she did, she found the dozen or so letters scattered in all directions. They’d tumbled from her lap as she’d rushed into the house, and, although she was tempted to toss the lot of them into the dustbin, she forced herself to pick them up again. Looking at the date of the postmarks on the envelopes, she discovered that the letter she’d been reading had been the last one to arrive. They must have been saved, one on top of the other, in reverse order, which was how she’d come to read the last letter first.
And that letter was dated August 1975, which was only a few weeks after she’d been born. According to her birth certificate, her birthday was the twelfth of July 1975, and it was highly improbable that her mother should have been involved with two babies at that time.
Which meant…? That this man, whoever he was, was her real father? That he’d got some poor girl pregnant and then reneged on his responsibilities towards her? Although George Dorland had always maintained that he had no relatives, it seemed obvious now that Robert Dorland must be his brother. His younger brother, by the sound of it. And instead of spending his early years in East Anglia, as he’d told his daughters, he’d actually been born in Cornwall instead.
Isobel swallowed, turning the other letters over in her hands. The last thing she wanted to do now was read them, yet she had to know how—why?—her own parents hadn’t brought her up.
From the tone of the letter she’d read, she thought she could guess at least part of the story. If anything the Dorlands had told her was true, then her mother must have died, as they’d said. But if she’d lived in Newcastle, claiming to be a single mother, how had Robert Dorland become involved with the baby? And who on earth was Matty? Isobel knew from what she’d been told that her real mother’s name had been Frances Parry.
She turned, somewhat apprehensively, to the earliest dated letter and drew the two sheets of paper out of the envelope. The address was the same: Tregarth Hall, Polgarron. And it both confirmed Robert Dorland’s identity and proved that Mrs Dorland had known him personally.
Dear Iris,
I am writing to you and not to that hidebound brother of mine because I’m hoping that what I have to tell you may strike a chord of sympathy in your heart. Ten months ago, I did something totally selfish and totally stupid. I betrayed Justine by having a brief fling with a young woman I met while I was in London, visiting my solicitor. Believe me when I say that I’ve regretted it ever since, and I had no intention of having anything more to do with the woman involved. Unfortunately, circumstances have contrived against me, and I now find that a child resulted from that reckless union. How do I know this? you ask. Because the child’s mother has now died, leaving the infant in my care. Not literally, of course. At least, not yet. At present, she is in the care of Southwark Social Services, but I have been contacted, as the child’s father, and I fear it’s only a matter of time before Justine finds out. You know how distressed she’s always been at not being able to have any children herself, and there’s no way I can confess the truth to her. I’ve thought of denying any knowledge of the woman, but who knows what other incriminatory evidence she may have left? No. It’s obvious that I’ve got to find an alternative home for the child, and, knowing how much you and George would have liked a larger family, I’m hoping you might agree to adopt your niece. Yes. In spite of everything, I know she is my daughter. I’ve seen her, and although her colouring is much darker than mine, the resemblance is there. Naturally, Justine must know none of this. Some other explanation must be found for your decision, but I’m sure we can work something out. What do you think? Will you do this for me? For Justine? For an innocent child? I beg you not to let me down.
Robert.
Isobel was shaking violently when she finished reading the letter. To think, all these years, when she’d believed she had no blood relations, she’d had an aunt, an uncle, a cousin—and a father! She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it. Somehow it made a mockery of her life so far.
Why had no one ever told her? Why leave these letters for her to read when for more than twenty-five years she’d been kept in the dark? Surely her feelings had had as much relevance as Justine’s? As soon as she was old enough to understand the significance of what had happened, she should have been told the truth.
Stuffing the letter back into its envelope, she reached for the second, and the third, flicking through them with trembling fingers. There were fifteen letters in all, and, however reluctant she was to continue, she knew she had to read them all. Somehow she had to come to terms with what she’d learned, and the only way to do that was to try and understand why it had happened.
But the tenor of the letters changed after that first one. It soon became evident that this was because Robert Dorland’s plea had not met with universal approval. George Dorland had apparently refused at first to have anything to do with his brother’s problems, and, judging by the response his reaction had earned, there’d been no love lost between the two men.
Slowly, however, perhaps because of Iris’s intervention—Isobel would never know now—a compromise had been reached. However opposed to the idea her husband had been, Iris’s wishes had prevailed, and he had eventually agreed to adopt the child.
Herself, thought Isobel disbelievingly. She was the child they’d fought over, and, ultimately, she was the one who’d benefited. But at what cost? George Dorland had driven a hard bargain, and his agreement had entailed stringent conditions.
The first was that he’d never wanted to see his brother again. There would be no familial visits; no opportunity for Robert Dorland to secretly drool over his handiwork; to feel a sense of pride in the child he’d been prepared to give away.
The second was that Isobel herself was never to know the truth, which explained her ignorance. Whatever bitterness there’d been between the brothers had been reinforced by her adoption, and was obviously why George Dorland had always denied any connection with his past. And why she’d never been told she’d been born in London, instead of the north of England.
Spots of rain were dotting the knees of Isobel’s leggings by the time she’d snapped the elastic band back around the bundle of letters. Returning them to the case, she closed the lid, and got to her feet. It was odd, she thought, she felt entirely different now from the woman she’d been before she opened the case. Pandora’s Box, she thought painfully, as she walked back into the house. She should have burned the letters without reading them as her conscience had prompted her to do.
And yet…
She sighed. Why had her mother kept the letters? She suspected
