Akitada was silent, caught in the monstrous shock of the thing. He stood up and walked to the veranda door, opened it, and stepped outside. Standing on the edge of the veranda, he stared down at the fishpond, where a few dead leaves mimicked the golden and scarlet fish beneath the dark waters. Just so his father must have stood many times. What thoughts had been on his mind? The bond between himself and his father suddenly seemed strong and unbroken. It was as if he had always known deep inside of himself the truth he had just been told. The truth within! Somewhere he had read those words, but could not now recall where.

His sister sat wringing her hands in her lap. After a long time of watching him anxiously, she whispered timidly, “I am so sorry, Akitada. I did not mean to hurt you.”

Akitada had been thinking of his father loving another woman, who was his mother, and was startled. “You have not hurt me,” he said in a tone of wonder. “On the contrary, it is a great relief to me. Only, now my father’s dislike for me seems even more strange.”

His sister said quickly, “I thought about that, too. I think he must have pretended to dislike you because of Mother.”

Akitada turned to look at her uncertainly. That idea would take some getting used to. How do you divest yourself of almost forty years of resentment toward your father in one moment? There were too many bad memories to be explained away, one by one. It was not going to be easy. He sighed and said, “At least it should not be difficult to find out the truth.”

“You are not angry with me, then?”

“Of course not. And stop worrying about having caused… your mother’s death. The slightest aggravation would have done the same.” As he watched Yoshiko rise, her slender figure obscured by the stiff folds of the hemp gown, he forced a smile. “I suppose I shall have to wait until the forty-nine days are up before I see you in one of your pretty new gowns.”

“Forty-nine days? We mourn a parent for a full year.”

“No, Yoshiko. As head of this family, I decree that after the funeral we shall wear dark colors until after the ceremony of the forty-ninth day. Then all mourning will be put aside. So get busy with your needle.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then smiled. “Yes, Elder Brother. As you say.”

After she left, Akitada examined his feelings. On the whole he felt enormous relief that he was the child of another woman, as yet a mythical figure. It was one thing to be hated by one’s own mother, but quite another if a stepmother had done so. A woman’s jealousy of a rival could well cause her to reject that woman’s child.

He felt a mild curiosity about that long-dead young woman, so hated by her rival, and so beloved by his father. For if he had not loved her, surely the woman whom Akitada had thought of as his mother would not have hated her son so bitterly and long. He recalled, too, moments when his stepmother’s guard had slipped and she had revealed her bitterness toward her late husband, her many complaints about his political and financial failure, her bitter reminders that she had married someone unworthy of her own family. And gradually the stern, unforgiving image of his father softened in his memory until it became almost human.

He was still pondering these relationships when the door opened softly and Seimei entered with another message of condolence.

Seimei! Akitada looked at the old man with new eyes. He put the message aside unread and said brusquely, “Please take a seat!”

Seimei was surprised but obeyed.

“I have just had some extraordinary news, and it occurs to me that you must have known about it for many years.”

The old man looked blank. “What is that, sir?”

“It seems the woman who claimed to be my mother all these years unburdened herself on her deathbed and told my sister that I am another woman’s son.”

Seimei paled slightly, but his eyes did not flinch. “It is true, sir,” he said. “Lady Sugawara was not your mother. I regret that you had to find out before I could speak.”

Akitada stared at him. How could the old man be so calm? A bitter resentment rose in his stomach. “Why did you not tell me?

“I was bound by a promise to your honored father, but I was about to do so now, since Lady Sugawara has passed out of this sad world.”

Akitada felt stark disbelief. This Seimei was a stranger to him, not the friend he had trusted from childhood, to whom he had confided every hurt and all his uncertainty about his parents, and whom he had loved like the father he had wished for. This man had kept a secret from him through all those years, a secret which would have saved him so much heartache! How could he have done it?

Seimei was still looking fully at him, but there were tears in his eyes now. “I gave my word, sir,” he repeated.

His word! Was keeping one’s word more important than a child’s misery? Was it more important than seeing the adult struggle with self-recrimination? As recently as yesterday Akitada had still agonized over the relationship between himself and his supposed mother.

Seimei said softly, “I promised your father, because we feared for your life.”

“What are you talking about?”

Seimei flinched at the harshness of Akitada’s voice. “Lady Sugawara believed she would have a son of her own. There came a time when she was certain she was with child and she made arrangements for an accident to happen to you. Your father discovered it in time and sent you away.”

All these years Akitada had believed that his father had driven him out of the house because he disliked him so intensely that he could not bear his sight any longer. He was moved profoundly by the thought that his father had cared for him after all. He stared at Seimei, but the tears welling up in his eyes blurred the old man’s image until he could barely see him, and he turned away to regain his. composure. The news raised more questions. After a moment he asked, “If he discovered his wife in such a plot, why did he not divorce her?”

“He, too, believed her with child. By the time it became apparent that she was not, you were quite happy in the Hirata family and refused to come home.”

Yes, that was true. His professor at the university had taken him in. Hirata and his daughter Tamako, now Akitada’s wife, had both welcomed the deeply distressed Akitada with such unaccustomed kindness and warmth that he had rejected out of hand his father’s rapprochement.

“But why did you not speak after my father’s death?” Akitada asked. “And why did my father not leave a letter for me?”

“Your father asked for my silence again on his deathbed. I do not know if he feared for your safety or wished to protect Lady Sugawara and your sisters. I could only give my word that I would do as he asked.” Seimei quoted softly, “ ‘First and foremost be faithful to your lord and keep your promise to him.’ “

Akitada closed his eyes. Confound Confucius! He had much to answer for in this case, he thought bitterly.

“You would not wish me to break my word to you, sir, would you?”

Akitada looked at the old man and saw tears sliding down the wrinkled cheeks into his straggly beard. He sighed. “No, I suppose not. Tell me about my mother!”

“Her name was Sadako. She was the only child of Tamba Tosuke, one of your father’s clerks. Her family was provincial, very poor but respectable. When his wife died, Tamba Tosuke suddenly took Buddhist vows without a thought to his daughter’s welfare. People took it for a sign of his extreme devotion, but your father was angry and he paid for the young lady’s support. In time he fell in love with her and married her, though arrangements had been made for another marriage to the late Lady Sugawara. Your mother died when you were born, sir, and then your father brought you to this house to be raised by Lady Sugawara, hoping she would be a mother to you.” Seimei paused, then added diffidently, “Her ladyship came from very different circumstances than your poor mother.”