Scoundrel With A Noble Heart (sequel of Disgraceful)

Chapter 105

"Farewell" wasn't the devastating blow she'd anticipated. Knowing he was still on the same soil, breathing the same air, had held a sliver of comfort. But the idea of him millions of miles away on the other side of the ocean, permanently removed from her life...

The thought was suffocating. The air in her lungs was harsh and unforgiving, it was a torture to just breathe. Absurd, when all the time she'd begged him to release her. Now when his departure was a stark reality, she felt not an ounce of relief. The rhythmic rattling of the carriage pierced the silence within its plush walls, mirroring her rioting emotions, each jolt a cruel taunt to the peaceful, predictable life she'd so desperately craved, a life that now seemed utterly meaningless.

And of all days, why must he leave on the very day she marries another? The bitter coincidence felt like a cruel twist of fate. The exact date marked not just her union with someone else, but also the stark beginning of their separate paths.

Arriving at the sanctuary of her suite, the dam holding back a torrent of emotions finally burst. Marguerite stumbled through the doorway, her legs shaking beneath her. Collapsing onto the plush sofa, she buried her face in her hands, a strangled sob erupting from her lips. Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and unchecked, as the weight of her decision crashed down on her.

She shifted when she felt something poking her thigh beneath her skirt. Briefly startled, she reached down to brush it away. Her fingers brushed against a familiar texture, and her breath hitched. It was the note from Jacob, the one she'd shoved into the folds of the cushions in a panicked haste when Matthew had appeared unexpectedly.

The elegant handwriting on the paper mocked her attempt at burying her feelings. With trembling fingers, she unfolded the note, pressing it to her pounding heart. It was the only tangible reminder of Jacob that she could keep close. But then she remembered the other one, hidden away in the dusty leather bookcase, a secret tucked amongst her precious collection of fairy tales.

She scrambled off the sofa and hastened to the bookshelves, sorting through a collection of old books crammed into a tightly packed stack. With a soft thud, a misplaced book tumbled out as she reached for the one she was hiding. Her brows furrowed in surprise. She'd devoured almost all the books on these shelves, yet this one was completely unfamiliar.

Curiosity piqued, she pulled the book out into the light, her delicate fingers brushing against its worn leather surface before flipping it open. Her breath hitched in her throat as she recognized the swirling script... her mother's unmistakable handwriting. Her eyes widened as she scanned the first page, a faded sketch at the top corner catching her attention. It depicted a woman with flowing hair, holding a small bird... an image that sparked a flicker of recognition deep within her. With trembling fingers, she flipped through the pages, images of her mother flickering back to life with each turn. These weren't just stories or poems; they were her mother's dreams and hopes, her most intimate thoughts and secrets laid bare on the yellowed paper.

She devoured the pages, each line a brushstroke painting a vivid picture of her mother's life. A life filled with unfulfilled dreams and quiet desperation. She found out that young Olivia Spencer, her mother, had always been obsessed with France. She'd dreamed of living in Paris one day, a dream forever out of reach. That's why she'd named her daughter with a French name, Marguerite, a bittersweet reminder of a life she could never have.

Born into near poverty, Olivia had to bear a lot of responsibility at a young age, taking care of her younger siblings and the household. When she was eighteen, her struggling parents, desperate to lessen their burden, had married her off to a widower baker, sixteen years her senior, named Ewan Clarke.

A soft gasp escaped Marguerite's lips as she discovered her real father's name for the first time. She'd long given up any hope of ever meeting him, because her mother had kept his identity a tightly guarded secret until her last breath. But now, with a mere twist of fate, she'd accidentally stumbled upon it, just a couple of days before her wedding. Could it be a sign? A chance to finally meet the man who sired her, to have his blessing on her marriage?

A whirlwind of emotions swirled within Marguerite. A flicker of anger towards her mother for the years of keeping her in the dark about her own father, mingled with a surge of curiosity about this unknown man. She wondered if he was still alive, what he looked like, if he ever thought of her. Now that she knew his name, there was one more crucial piece of information missing... the small town where she was born. Ewan Clarke was a pretty common name, without knowing his location, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

With renewed determination, Marguerite scanned the pages, her eyes fixated on the script. And then, a few pages later, she found it. In a heartfelt passage, Olivia poured out her desperation to escape Bloomfield, a sleepy village with nothing to pique her interest, stretched before her like a never-ending yawn. Each day bled into the next, a monotonous hum punctuated only by the clang of the church bell. There was nothing special here, nothing to give meaning or purpose to her life. Bloomfield. With a determined gasp, Marguerite closed the book, a single page folded to mark the crucial information. She had a name and a location. That made everything possible.

Overwhelmed by the discovery , Marguerite dashed to Matthew's suite. Eager to share the story, she knocked on the door frantically and burst into his room without waiting for an answer. Her foot barely crossed the threshold as she exclaimed,
"Matthew, I found my mother's long lost diary!"

Starled, Matthew looked up from his papers. The words barely registered in his occupied mind when Marguerite settled on the bed next to him with a worn leather book in her hand. She swiftly flipped through the pages, her fingers tracing the lines of faded script with newfound purpose.

"Look!" she exclaimed, holding the open book out to him.
"I discovered my real father's name and the village where I was born," she declared, her voice trembling with a mix of excitement and uncertainty.

"Maggie, that's great news." He took the book from her, his gaze briefly meeting hers before skimming over the yellowed pages. "How did you find it tucked away?"

A gasp, barely audible, preceded her stuttering reply. "I... I was just... sorting out some old books."

The subtle signs of unease, the breath catching in her throat, the brief pause between words, didn't escape him, but he couldn't decipher the cause. The discovery of her past was completely unrelated to Jacob. A slight crease appeared between his brows as his gaze delved into hers. "Maggie, this is a huge revelation, now what are you planning to do next?"

Hesitation flickered across her face, a tiny spark of worry flickering in her eyes. After a moment, she finally said, in a voice barely above a whisper, "If my father is alive, I would want his blessing upon our marriage."

A tense beat settled, lingering into a long silence that stretched on, heavy and suffocating. Anxious by the lack of response, Marguerite prompted, her voice tinged with a hint of desperation, "Matthew, there's no rush for us to get married. Can we search for my father so he can witness our vows?"

Matthew's jaw clenched, his features hardening into a mask of suppressed anger. A stark realization dawned upon him, a bitter truth that left a foul taste in his mouth. This whole revelation about her father, convenient as the timing might be, felt like a poorly veiled excuse to delay their wedding. It seemed Jacob's parting gift had done its damage. The dog, the necklace, all a calculated move to sow seeds of doubt in Marguerite's mind. But this time Matthew wouldn't yield, he wouldn't let that bastard manipulate him again. Meeting Marguerite's hopeful gaze, a gaze filled with a naive trust that grated on his nerves, he chose his words carefully. "Maggie, that's not possible,"
Matthew steeled himself as he saw the hurt flicker across her face, the hope in her eyes dimming with each word he spoke. Despite the sense of betrayal simmering beneath the surface, he felt compelled to explain. "It took a great deal of effort to obtain the special license for our wedding, and a priest has been booked for tomorrow."

"Why?" Marguerite's voice trembled, a tremor that betrayed the storm brewing within her. "We can keep the special license for later and I think the priest wouldn't mind a reschedule. And, we are not having a grand wedding. There's no elaborate decoration. Nothing will go to waste."

"We will be getting married in two days. There will be no further delay," Matthew persisted, his voice laced with a finality that sent shivers down her spine. "We'll look for your father shortly afterwards," he continued, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "We'll be heading to Bloomfield directly after the vows if you want, but the wedding will take place first."

To be continued