Marcus had driven with a steely nerve. Whilst he was desperate to see Finula, he also had to get matters straight in his own mind. He found it hard to accept how easily she’d told him to leave, and how she hadn’t made contact since. Dermot’s words gave him some consolation, but deep down he wished the call had come from Finula, not her father. Then a voice whispered inside his head: you hadn’t made contact either.
His journey hadn’t taken too long, there being hardly any traffic. Entering the village, he drove past Treweham Hall. There it stood, strong and resilient, while he felt anything but. He pulled into The Templar car park and made his way to the front entrance. Dermot must have been watching out for him, as he pulled open the door and ushered him in. It was late afternoon and they weren’t opening until early evening.
‘Will you just look at yourself,’ uttered Dermot, bolting the door. He nodded towards the bar. ‘And she’s no better, pasty-faced, maudlin thing.’ He pushed Marcus gently through. ‘I’ll see you’re not disturbed,’ and with that he left him alone.
Finula was behind the bar wiping glasses. She really didn’t have the energy to work that evening and was dreading seeing in the New Year. Suddenly she looked up and saw him standing there.
‘Marcus… you’ve come back.’ Her voice cracked.
Marcus slowly walked to the bar. ‘Yes, Finula, I’ve come back. But if you tell me to leave once more, you’ll never see my face again.’ It killed him to see the look of pain shoot across her face, but he had to see this through. He gritted his jaw, then leant across the bar. ‘So, you need to tell me exactly what it is you want.’ His tone was quiet and determined.
‘I want you,’ she faintly replied. Her chin started to quiver and tears swelled in her eyes. Still he carried on.
‘Well, I don’t come cheap, Finula. It’s all or nothing.’ He stared into her face.
‘I… I want all of you,’ she choked, the tears spilling down her pale cheeks.
This was enough, Marcus lifted up the bar hatch and she raced to him. He held her tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of her.
‘Marcus,’ she whispered hoarsely, ‘I know.’
He kissed the top of her head. ‘So do I, we’re meant to be together.’
Finula pulled away to face him. She looked searchingly at him, ‘I mean… I know who your father was.’
Marcus froze. He stared at her, speechless.
An age seemed to pass as they stood opposite each other. Finula broke the silence first.
‘Sit down, I need to talk to you.’ She led him to the settle by the fireplace and explained everything: from how she and Megan had gradually pieced together their suspicions, to finding the ledger containing his mother’s name, to Tobias clarifying the relationship with his father through his diaries.
Marcus sat dumbfounded. How had they guessed who his father was? Had he been so transparent?
After digesting all the revelations, Marcus asked, ‘Finula, how did you suspect Richard Cavendish-Blake was my father?’
‘Firstly, your resemblance to Tobias. You have exactly the same eyes. Then the way you were so cagey about your childhood and only spoke about you mum. You told me your dad was dead and you’d never met him. That tied in. But most of all your dislike of Tobias. You resent him for having what you should have had.’
Marcus frowned. ‘I don’t want a title. The last thing I’d want to be is an aristocrat.’
‘No, I don’t mean that. I meant you wanted a dad. You begrudge Tobias having both his parents and never having to worry about money.’
How perceptive she was. He wondered if she’d worked out his intentions to discredit Tobias, too.
‘What must you think of me, Finula?’ He looked carefully for any signs of disapproval.
Instead Finula took his hand and spoke softly. ‘I think you’re a man grieving. Not only have you lost the most important person in your life, but you have had no one to comfort you.’ She put her arm round his shoulders. ‘Marcus, you need to speak to Tobias and Sebastian. They’re your brothers.’
‘But do they believe that? All we have is hearsay at the moment.’
‘Do you believe you’re their brother?’
He sighed and rubbed his hand through his hair. ‘Yes, I believe every word my mam said.’