Over the years she’d been abroad, she’d sent countless letters, begging to see her children.
His father had refused.
Beatrice was right.
And the law had been on his father’s side. His mother had had no rights whatsoever to see her children again.
Will had thought of all the nights he and Ben and Kit had cried themselves to sleep, pretending they weren’t letting tears fall. Hiding under the blankets, holding on to one another.
And in that moment, he wished he could throttle his father.
His father and his pain had caused so much more suffering.
And those letters—the words on them had burned into Will’s soul forever.
With those pleas from his mother and denials from his father, he had come to a single understanding in almost an instant of transformation. It echoed Beatrice’s claim.
His mother had not abandoned them.
She had been kept from them.
And if he could find a way to choose love and gain Beatrice’s forgiveness, perhaps he would be choosing happiness for his mother.
If he chose to take a chance, he would be honoring her.
He would be bringing a better end to the suffering she had engaged in and make her loss have some meaning.
He had also noticed in the letters that she was not entirely unhappy, that she had indeed found love with this man abroad, but it had never been quite able to fill the vacancy of being forced from her children.
Time and time again, she’d asked to see them, and time and time again, she’d been denied.
Because of the law. Because of power. Because of his father’s pride and arrogance.
Tears stole down his cheeks, and he wrapped his arms around himself, thinking of her longing for her children so many miles away.
He held a different stack of letters in his hand as he gazed up at his mother. Letters written by Beatrice. Those letters had stolen his heart long before he had even met her in person. And he had clung to lies and the expectations of his father when he had denied himself her love.
He had denied so much.
But Beatrice was right. Perfection was not possible—and he no longer wanted it. There was only one thing he wanted now, but he feared he had thrown it away. He tightened his grip on the letters, as if he could somehow bring her back, holding them as if he’d never let them go.
But he had let her go.
She’d tried to make him see, but he had clung to familiar lies. Lies about his mother. Lies he had told himself about who he had to be…
At long last, he let the suffering out. In shuddering waves, he knew there was nothing to forgive his mother for. She was the one who needed amends.
And there was only one way to give it.
He would not be the taciturn man that his father was. Oh, no. He was going to be greater. He was going to be more.
He had to be. No matter if she could forgive him, he could never let Beatrice down the way his mother had been let down.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Every day was brutally hard—far harder than Beatrice had expected.
She grimaced as she strode toward Parliament along Pall Mall. Spotting the Palace of Westminster and the cathedral usually invigorated her. A sense of purpose and determination typically flooded her as she made ready to do battle against those determined to keep her in her place.