‘What’s wrong?’she prompted again, once the drinks had been poured and they were all seated in the sitting room.
Her mother gave a shaky sigh. ‘We should have told you at the weekend,’ she said, flustered. ‘Your father wanted to tell you then.’ She gave him a rueful smile. ‘But I begged him not to. I see now that he was right all along—that we should have told you years ago.’ She shook her head sadly.
‘Told me what?’ Hebe pressed anxiously, her tension increasing by the second.
Nick moved to stand behind Hebe’s chair, quietly supportive—whether she wanted his support or not.
Which she probably didn’t, he accepted heavily—but she was going to get it anyway!
‘About your mother,’ Henry said, taking charge of the conversation.
‘My—mother…?’ Hebe repeated slowly.
Hebe’s mother? Nick repeated too, inwardly, having been sure that this conversation was going to be about Jacob Gardner after Jean’s reaction to his name at the weekend.
What did Hebe’s mother have to do with Jacob Gardner?
Besides which, hadn’t Jean and Henry assured him on Saturday that they had no knowledge of Hebe’s mother?
No…he suddenly realised. What Henry had actually said was that the name of Hebe’s father had never been mentioned…
Nick had thought the other man’s reply ambiguous at the time. Now he realised why!
‘What do you know about Hebe’s mother?’ he prompted harshly.
‘Please, Nick.’ Hebe turned to him pleadingly. ‘Let them—let them tell this in their own time.’
She had a feeling she knew at least part of what her parents were going to say, as she was sure now that they had known of her mother’s connection to Jacob Gardner all along—if not to Andrew Southern. They probably knew her name too.
Hebe had no idea why they would have kept such a thing from her, as they had always been so open about everything else, and had brought her up to be the same way. They must have had a good reason for not telling her about her mother. And, having seen the portrait, with its overt sensuality, she could perhaps guess what that reason was.
‘You asked about the medical history of Hebe’s real parents on Saturday, Nick,’ her father reminded the younger man ruefully. ‘I told you then that we had no idea. I wasn’t exactly truthful. We really don’t know anything about Hebe’s real father.’ His voice hardened slightly. ‘But now we know of Hebe’s pregnancy, we—’
‘Your mother died in childbirth, Hebe,’ her mother told her emotionally. ‘She was so tiny, so delicate, and they left it too late to do anything about it. The birth went terribly wrong, and—and she died and the baby lived. You lived.’ Tears glistened, and then fell from pained brown eyes.
It was all too much for Hebe to take in. Her mother was dead.
It was a possibility she had never even thought of.
When she had first learnt of her adoption, before dismissing the whole thing as unimportant, she had imagined lots of reasons why her mother had given her up. Perhaps she had been very young, a single mother, or even a married woman who hadn’t been able to support another child in the family. But death—death had never been an option…
The woman in the portrait, so young and alive, had died giving birth to her?
It didn’t seem possible. It was a cruelty that shouldn’t have been allowed.
Like the death of Nick’s son Luke…
She turned to him as his hand came down firmly on her shoulder. ‘I can’t—’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it, Nick—can you?’
Oh, he could believe it, all right. It wasn’t the believing of it that was the problem!
He fixed his glittering gaze on her parents. ‘Are you saying—are you telling us that Hebe may have a similar medical problem when she gives birth to our baby?’ He had caught the relevance of Jean’s statement even if Hebe hadn’t.
‘It’s a possibility.’ Henry was the one to answer him. ‘Can you see why we had to tell you?’
‘I can see why you should have told us on Saturday, not waited until now—’
‘Nick!’ Hebe cautioned emotionally.
He shook his head impatiently. ‘I’m sorry, Hebe, but your parents knew all the time that your mother had died in childbirth, knew the risk of the same thing happening to you, and yet only now—’ He broke off abruptly, turning sharply to look searchingly at the older couple.
There was something else significant in what Jean had just said about Hebe’s mother…
‘How do you know that Hebe’s mother was, to quote you, Jean, “so tiny, so delicate”?’ he prompted shrewdly.
‘You’re an intelligent man, Nick,’ Henry complimented him gruffly. ‘The reason we know those things is because Claudia, Hebe’s mother, was our daughter.’
It was Nick’s turn to be left speechless.
And if he was stunned by this revelation, how much more shocked must Hebe feel?
Except she didn’t appear shocked when he glanced down at her. Instead there was an excited glow in her golden eyes as she turned to him, a look of anticipation on her face.
‘Would you go and get the portrait, Nick?’ The animation was audible in her voice.
‘Portrait?’ He frowned his confusion.
‘The portrait, Nick,’ she said, very firmly.
What the hell did she want her portrait for now? Why show that to her adoptive parents—her grandparents?—at all? They were talking about her mother, for God’s sake—
Nick froze. ‘Hebe…?’ he questioned slowly.
She nodded. ‘Please.’
Nick moved to his bedroom as if in a dream, a truth—a startling truth—hitting him right between the eyes.
A truth he had scorned.
A truth he had accused Hebe of lying about.
The woman in the portrait was her mother!
‘Are you okay, darling?’ Hebe’s mother prompted anxiously once they were alone. ‘We shouldn’t have deceived you, I know…’
‘I’m okay,’ Hebe assured her warmly. ‘I’m not too sure about Nick, though,’ she added ruefully, having seen the stunned look on his arrogantly handsome face as he went into his bedroom.
‘You’re not upset or angry, or feeling we’ve let you down, because all this time we’ve never told you we’re your grandparents and not your adoptive parents?’ her mother probed emotionally.
It was a little strange, Hebe had to admit, but at the same time it all made perfect sense. Her mother—Claudia—had died giving birth to her, and so Claudia’s parents had taken Hebe in as their own.
She stood up, moving to hug the people who had been the only parents she knew. Kind, giving people, who had loved her and cared for her all her life. How could she possibly be angry with them? Whatever they had done, she was sure they had done it out of love and nothing else.
She smiled tearfully as she stood back. ‘How could I possibly be angry with you? You did what you thought was best, I’m sure.’
‘We still should have told you,’ her father admitted heavily. ‘But we had lost Claudia, and you—you were so like she was as a baby.’ His voice grew husky with emotion. ‘A tiny little thing, with a mop of blonde hair. We loved you