Chapter 4
We reached Rosemere at two in the morning.
No army.
Six men.
Enough.
The house lights were on.
Inside, a woman in her fifties held a crying infant.
She looked terrified when I entered.
Not criminal.
Caretaker.
Good.
“Julian?”
She nodded.
My legs nearly stopped working.
I had faced men with guns without hesitation.
A six-week-old child almost brought me to my knees.
He was red-faced from crying.
Tiny fists closed.
Dark hair.
When the woman handed him to me, I held him badly.
Too stiff.
She corrected my arm.
I let her.
Then Julian opened his eyes.
No cinematic recognition.
No magical calm.
He screamed louder.
I laughed.
Couldn’t help it.
My son apparently hated me immediately.
Good start.
Then Amabel’s name came up.
The caretaker, Miriam, thought Amabel had agreed to the arrangement.
That mattered.
Arthur told her the young mother was overwhelmed and wanted a private adoption within family.
Miriam had been waiting for papers.
Nothing signed.
Nothing formal.
Just instructions.
Again.
People doing life-changing things because powerful relatives said it had been handled.
I looked at Celestine.
She stood near the doorway.
Pale.
“Did you ever tell Miriam Amabel was begging for her child back?”
“No.”
“Did you ever tell her I didn’t know he existed?”
“No.”
Good.
Truth.
Ugly.
Then Miriam showed me the nursery.
New crib.
Clothes.
Formula.
Everything prepared weeks in advance.
This was not panic after birth.
They had planned his disappearance while Amabel was still pregnant.
On one shelf sat a silver photograph frame.
Empty.
But engraved:
OUR LITTLE BELLAMY.
I stared.
Not Wycliffe.
Not Julian.
Bellamy.
May you like
Arthur had not only hidden my son.
He intended to rewrite whose child he was.
