He had looked at this young woman every day for nearly 3 weeks. He had felt from the first moment something he could not name. And he had pushed it away the same way he had pushed away everything that threatened the order of his world.
But the birth certificate was on his kitchen table. And Victoria’s handwriting was in a letter he could not unread. And the young woman dusting his bookshelves was, he knew it now in the way that is beyond proof, beyond documents, beyond anything that can be argued with, his daughter.
His daughter, who did not know it yet. Who came to his house every morning and made his breakfast and said, “Good morning, sir.” Who had no idea that the man she was working for was the same man her mother had once written a letter to from a place of quiet, dignified heartbreak.
He pushed off from the doorframe and went back to his study.
He needed to think. He needed to be very careful about what came next.
Rebecca finished the sitting room and moved to the study. The door was open, but Mr. Caleb was not inside. She had heard him go upstairs a few minutes earlier, which meant she had time to clean the room properly.