“He was alive when we first sent for you,” his father said. “But he took a sudden fever sometime before Christmas and died.”
Jamie got up and began pacing the too-small room. It should not matter to him if the man was alive or dead—this monk had been nothing to him.
“How did you learn of this?”
“You remember Isobel’s brother, Geoffrey?” his father asked.
“Aye, we were friends in France,” Jamie said. “He left to join a monastery in Northumberland.”
“When we last visited Stephen and Isobel, we went to see Geoffrey at his abbey,” his father said. “There was a monk working in the kitchen garden as we passed. We paid no notice of him, but he saw your mother.”
“Afterward, he asked Geoffrey about us,” his mother said, picking up the story. “He was quite upset, and he ended up confessing who he was to Geoffrey.”
“It was not the sort of news to tell you in a letter,” his father said.
Jamie did not know what to think. “Why would he disclose himself after all these years, when he never bothered to make himself known to us before?”
“Geoffrey says he kept his secret out of respect for your mother,” his father said. “He did not wish to cause her difficulty.”
“I suppose a child born of a man not your husband could present ‘difficulty,’ ” Jamie said, turning to his mother. “You haven’t told me all of this yet, Mother.”
“Mind your tongue when you speak to your mother,” his father said, stepping toward him.
His mother stood and put herself between them, a palm up on each of their chests.
“Sit down,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument.
“I apologize,” Jamie said, regretting his harsh words. He knew too much of what her life had been like with her first husband to judge her.
His father pulled a stool up next to her chair, and the three of them sat.
“I did what I had to do to save myself.” His mother spoke in a clear, forceful voice. “And I have never once regretted it.”
She drew in a deep breath and let it out. “I should have told you once you were old enough to understand, but the time never seemed right. I did not realize how the question of your father’s identity hung over you.”
He had not lost sleep over it. FitzAlan had married his mother when Jamie was three, and their bond was as close as any father and son. All the same, Jamie had wondered about the nature of the man who sired him—and how he could have left his mother.
“What was this monk’s name?” Jamie asked, because he wanted to know the name he should have been called.
“Wheaton,” his mother said. “Richard James Wheaton.”James.So his mother had given him what she could of the man’s name. She must have had some regard for him.
“He told me he had considered joining a monastery in his youth, and so I am not surprised he became a monk,” his mother said, using that careful voice again. “But from what Geoffrey told us, Richard Wheaton’s life was unusually… contained, even for a monk. He took great comfort in the routine of monastery life.”
“Are you saying something was wrong with him?” Jamie asked.
His father shrugged. “Wheaton’s brother—your uncle, I suppose—can tell you a good deal more than we can. He’s written several times expressing a desire to meet you.”
“His name is Sir Charles Wheaton,” his mother put in. “He is most anxious for you to visit. His estate is in Northumberland, within a day’s ride of Stephen and Isobel’s.”
The three of them sat in silence for a long time, lost in their own thoughts.
Finally, his father said, “You have unfinished business. ’Tis best to settle it before you take on a wife.”
“I do not see what is unfinished about it,” Jamie said, “but I suppose I can pay a visit to Charles Wheaton when I travel north to see the Staffords.”
“See Charles Wheaton first, before you make an offer of marriage.” His mother leaned forward to touch his arm. “The visit may help you decide what to do.”
She could not say more plainly that she believed he was making a mistake in choosing Agnes for his wife.