Adrian stared toward the painting.
“What did my father do?”
“He wanted arrangements made.”
“What arrangements?”
June’s face tightened.
“He wanted the baby raised elsewhere. He wanted me gone before anyone noticed.”
“Did he send you away?”
“I left the house. My sister took me in.”
“And the payments?”
“Some were for Noah. Some were attempts to keep me quiet.”
The answer landed heavily.
“Did you take them?”
“Yes.”
Adrian looked at her.
June met his eyes.
“I had a baby, no position, and very little money. I took what he sent.”
For several seconds, Adrian said nothing.
Then he asked, “Why did you come back?”
June looked around the room.
“Your mother asked me.”
He shook his head.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She was ill. You were frightened. There were days she could not get out of bed.”
His face changed.
I knew that part of the family history.
Marian had died when Adrian was fourteen.
Noah would have been eight.
June rubbed her hands together.
“She did not forgive everything. We were never what we had been before. But she trusted me to care for you when she could not.”
Adrian looked down.
“You put me to bed.”
“Yes.”
“You stayed outside my room.”
“You didn’t like waking up alone.”
He pressed his lips together.
June’s voice began to shake.
“My sister cared for Noah while I worked. I went home whenever I could.”
“And I never knew.”
“No.”
“Did he know about me?”
“Yes.”
Adrian’s eyes lifted.
June looked suddenly exhausted.
“He knew whose house I worked in. When he was older, I told him the rest.”
“How old?”
“Eighteen.”
Adrian pushed his chair back and stood.
I thought he might leave.
