Chapter 37

“Miss Winters… little Thalia?” Mrs. Wilson emerged from the country house, her weathered face brightening with recognition. “Is it really you?”

“You know me?” Thalia asked, surprised.

“Good heavens, look at you,” Mrs. Wilson’s eyes misted. “The spitting image of your mother.”

Seeing Thalia’s bewilderment, Asher explained softly, “Mrs. Wilson was your mother’s cook at the Winters estate. Your mother learned all her signature dishes from her.”

“Those eyes,” Mrs. Wilson’s voice trembled with emotion. “Just like Lady Rosalind’s. I used to hold you as a baby, such a precious little thing you were.”

At the mention of her mother, Thalia felt a familiar ache in her chest, tears threatening. “I… I’m so pleased to meet you properly.”

They settled in Mrs. Wilson’s warm kitchen, where stories of Rosalind’s youth flowed freely over tea. Thalia learned how her mother—a privileged young woman who’d never cooked—had determinedly learned to win her father’s heart.

This revelation shifted Thalia’s understanding of her parents’ love story. She remembered their deep love during her childhood and her father’s subsequent depression. The question that had haunted her resurfaced: if he’d loved her mother so deeply, why remarry Victoria just two years later?

“Mrs. Wilson,” Thalia ventured carefully, “did you know Victoria Darwin?”

“Lady Rosalind’s friend from Cambridge? Oh yes, dear. They were inseparable then, though Victoria lived in Surrey, so visits weren't frequent.”

Thalia remembered liking Victoria as a child—she’d always brought pretty dresses and treats. But everything changed when Victoria married her father. Even as a stepmother, Victoria was attentive, yet Thalia never warmed to her.

“She’s my stepmother now,” Thalia said quietly.

Mrs. Wilson fell silent, then said, “Near the end… Victoria visited your mother frequently at the hospital. I overheard something… perhaps I shouldn’t say…”

“Please,” Thalia urged softly. “I need to know.”

“Your mother made your father promise that if he remarried, it would only be to Victoria. She was terrified of leaving you without a mother’s love. She wouldn’t trust anyone else with your care.”

“But that’s…” Thalia’s face paled. All these years of resentment, and it had been her mother’s wish? The truth struck her forcefully.

Asher’s hand found hers under the table, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her palm. This simple gesture anchored her as her world seemed to shift.

Mrs. Wilson prepared lunch—each dish a perfect echo of Thalia’s childhood memories. Pushing aside her turmoil, Thalia managed a bright smile and praised the cooking.

“Do you know,” Mrs. Wilson said warmly as they ate, “Mr. Blackwood spent ages learning these recipes. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. He came by so often, always insisting on watching me cook.”

“Why would you do that?” Thalia asked Asher, eyes reddened.

His expression softened. “After your mother passed, you stopped eating properly. I couldn’t bear to watch that.”

“When Lady Rosalind married,” Mrs. Wilson added, dabbing her eyes, “I had to retire due to illness. Mr. Blackwood visited often afterward—just a boy then, but so determined. He even paid for my medical treatment—insisted it was his tuition fee.”

Thalia’s eyes widened in realization. “Those meals that appeared during that awful time… that was you?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

That single word resonated deeply, carrying with it years of unspoken care and devotion.