“... provided!” Excitement fought curiosity in Charlotte’s angry voice.
“... she didn’t bring a boy into the world.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Charlotte’s voice cracked in the middle.
“It was quite a simple arrangement, and in the circumstances it seemed the best. So long as there was no man child to complicate the thing unduly, the world was to be kept out of our secret. At the time it seemed wise and right to do that. Otherwise it would have meant a fearful upset for everybody.”
“Is one to understand,” gasped Charlotte, “that when Rachel died you actually married this—this woman?”
The Duke nodded. “But I made the condition that our secret should be rigidly guarded—always assuming that Fate did not prove too much for us. She went to the little house on the river at Buntisford, where I used to go for the fishing and shooting. And she gave me ten years of happiness—the only happiness I have known. And then came my breakdown, since when she has nursed me with more than a wife’s devotion.” His voice failed suddenly and he lay back in his chair with closed eyes.
It was left to Charlotte to break the irksome silence that followed.
“How could you be so mad!” She spoke under her breath not intending her words to be heard, but a quick ear caught them.
“Nay,” he said in the tone that was so new to her, “it was the only thing to do. It was the call of the blood. And this was a devoted woman, a woman one could trust implicitly.”
“Madness, my friend, madness!”