mementos she had of her childhood—the vintage Steiff teddy bear her parents had given her when she was four, the rock fossils they’d found together on a family holiday, the empty perfume bottle that had once held her mother’s favorite scent.
But now her grandfather was telling her that her parents weren’t both dead, that it was her stepfather who’d died. That her real father—the stranger whose name was listed on her birth certificate—might still be alive and well somewhere in the world.
“Why has no one ever told me this before?”
“Because it wasn’t necessary. I won’t go into details, but Sam Blackwell is not someone we want involved in your life. John Mason was your father in every other way, so we didn’t see the point in bringing up something that was best forgotten,” her grandfather said.
There were so many assumptions in his speech, so many judgments. And all of them made on her behalf, with no consultation with her whatsoever.
Elizabeth’s hands curled into fists. “Is he alive? My real father?”
“I believe so, yes.”
She leaned forward. “Where does he live? What does he do? Is he in London? How can I contact him?”
“Elizabeth, I know this is a shock for you, but when you’ve had a chance to process I’m sure you’ll agree that it really doesn’t change your life in any substantial way,” Martin said.
Elizabeth focussed on Martin for the first time. “You knew.”
“Your grandfather told me after I proposed.”
“You’ve known for six months and you didn’t tell me?”
“Don’t be angry with Martin. I requested that he respect my confidence. I didn’t see the point in getting you upset over nothing,” her grandfather said.
Nothing? Nothing?
“I’m thirty years old. I don’t need to be protected. I deserve the truth. And my father being alive is not nothing. It is very decidedly something.”
Martin shifted uncomfortably. Her grandfather placed his hands flat on the leather blotter on his desk and eyed her steadily.
“We did what we thought was best for you.”
This was usually the point in any argument with her grandparents when she retreated. They’d taken her in when her parents died and bent over backward to ensure she had a happy childhood. They’d sent her to the best schools, attended every school play and recital and parent-teacher night, taken her on holidays to France and Italy—all despite her grandmother’s heart condition and frail health. Elizabeth had grown up with a strong sense of obligation toward them and a determination that she would never be more of a burden than she had to be.
She’d excelled at school, then at university. She’d never stayed out late or come home drunk. She’d never had a one-night stand. Even her husband-to-be had come with their seal of approval, since he worked at her grandfather’s law firm.
She owed them so much—everything, really. But she also owed herself. And what they’d done was wrong.
“This was my decision to make. You had no right to keep this from me.”
Because she didn’t trust herself to say more, because rage and a bunch of unwise, unruly words were pressing at the back of her throat, she stood and left the room. She’d barely made it halfway up the hall when she heard Martin coming after her.
“Elizabeth. Slow down.”
He caught her elbow. She spun on him, pulling her arm free.
“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down or that this doesn’t matter, Martin. Don’t you dare.”
Her chest was heaving with the intensity of her emotions and he took a step away, clearly taken aback by her ferocity.
“If I could have told you without breaking your grandfather’s confidence, I would have. Believe me.” He was deeply sincere, his eyes worried.
“You’re my fiancé, Martin. Don’t you think you owe your loyalty to me before my grandfather?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Under ordinary circumstances, yes, but your grandfather and I have a professional relationship as well as a personal one.”
“I see.” And she did. Martin was hoping to be made partner at the firm this year. The last thing he wanted was to rock the boat.
He reached out and took her hand, his thumb brushing reassuringly across her knuckles. “Elizabeth, if we could go somewhere private and talk this through, I’m sure you’ll understand that everything was done with your best interests at heart.”
Her incredulous laughter sounded loud in the hall.
“My best interests? How on earth would you know what my best interests are, Martin? You’re so busy telling me what’s good for me, you have no idea who I am or what I really want. It’s like those bloody awful Waterford champagne flutes. No one cares what I think, and I’m such a pathetic coward I swallow it and swallow it and swallow it, even while I tell myself it’s because I want to do the right thing and not upset the applecart.”
Martin frowned. “Champagne flutes? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She knew he didn’t, but it was all inextricably entwined in her head: her anger at her grandparents and Martin for this huge betrayal of her trust, her feelings of frustration and panic over the wedding, the suffocated feeling she got every time her grandparents made a decision for her or Martin spoke to her in that soothing tone and treated her as though she were made of fine porcelain.
“I can’t do this,” she said, more to herself than him. “This is a mistake.”
It was suddenly very clear to her.
Martin slid his arm around her shoulders, trying to draw her into a hug. “Elizabeth, you’re getting yourself upset.”
The feeling of his arms closing so carefully around her was the last straw. She braced her hands against his chest and pushed free from his embrace.
“I want to call off the wedding.”
Martin blinked, then reached for her again. “You don’t mean that. You’re upset.”
She held him off. “Violet has been saying for months that I should stop and think about what I’m doing, and she’s right. I don’t want this, Martin. I feel like I’m suffocating.”
“Violet. I might have known she’d have something to do with this. What rubbish has she been filling your head with now? The joys of being a free and easy slapper in West London? Or maybe how to get a head start on cirrhosis?”
He’d never liked Violet, which was only fair, since her best friend had taken a violent aversion to him from the moment they’d first met.
“No, actually. She pointed out that I was going to be thirty this year and that if I didn’t wake up and smell the coffee I’d be
