Catherine’s knees buckled, and the constable lowered her to the lowest step. He looked to her guests. “You were with her? For the last hour?”
The ladies all nodded. From within the parlor Lord Rushworth pushed past them and went to his sister, gathering her close. She wept into his shoulder.
The constable sighed and edged closer to the ladies, away from the mourners. “And Lord Rushworth—he was with you too?”
The eldest of them, as if shocked, still looked to where he’d brushed by. “I didn’t realize he was there at all.”
“Oh, Lucinda—he was there the whole time, he greeted us when we came in.”
“No, not the whole time,” the third put in. “He stepped out for a moment, remember? For ten minutes, perhaps.”
Not enough time to have gone to Midwynd and back.
Fearing she was about to be ill, Rowena stepped back outside, tugging Brice along with her. “They didn’t take them. They may have had someone else do it, but it wasna them. And now . . . this . . .”
Brice shook his head and looked back to the door, his face wreathed in pity. “I wouldn’t have wished this on them. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”
The curse? Happenstance? Tragedy, whichever it was. Rowena sank to the step, gripped the cold iron rail. “This will undo her. For all she lied to me about, I canna think she feigned her love for her child. He was her everything. Her joy. Her heart.”
Constable Morris stepped outside, sighing. “Your Grace, I don’t know what to say. Neither of them could have done it, but it’s obvious they had something to do with it, given that they’re the only ones who were told where the gems were stashed. But now . . .”
“Leave it.” Brice had settled beside her, wrapped an arm around her waist. “No diamonds are more important than a child’s life. Do what you must do. Look into the boy’s death.”
“But the gems—”
“Forget them. It’s not worth it.”
Rowena gripped his knee. “I wish . . . I almost wish she would let me comfort her, that I could be a friend.”
Morris shook his head. “Don’t try it, Your Grace. She was crying to her brother about how it’s your fault they’re here, that you asked her to come. That if they hadn’t . . .”
The ache in her heart matched the one in her stomach. Would it have happened anywhere? At Delmore? Or had it been tied somehow to coming here? Because they had come because of her, because she’d promised to help them.
“Don’t.” Brice put a hand on her elbow and used it to pull her up alongside him as he stood. “Don’t blame yourself, darling. You didn’t do this. I daresay no one did. But we should go.”
The constable nodded. “I’ll find out anything I can, but . . .”
“Don’t make it worse for them than it is. Please.” Looking near to heartbreak himself, Brice tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “There is pain enough for us all to deal with.”
He led her down the steps to where he’d parked the Austin. She knew well they would head to hospital now, to see if new pain awaited. And she could find nothing to say. She could do nothing but clutch her hands together and let the scenery roll by, much like her first ride in this car. Except that now they shared the pain, shared the circumstances.
She reached out and rested her hand on his, on the gearshift.
When they arrived at hospital, they found Ella outside, rushing to meet them. For a moment, too familiar panic nipped . . . but her face was clear.
“I saw you coming. He blinked! He’s unconscious again now, but he blinked. The doctor is bursting with hope.” Tossing herself at the car, Ella embraced her brother and then reached over to embrace Rowena too. Her smile was pure sunshine. “I knew it! He’ll recover. He will. I am certain of it—down to my very bones. Just like Phin—”
“If you launch into that story again . . .” Brice loosed a long exhale. “Praise God.”
“Indeed. And we saw Stella. I know you didn’t want us going there, but we did—so that’s that.” Ella squirmed her way back onto her feet and lifted her chin. “And she swears she didn’t send a telegram to that laird. Said she wished she had, but she didn’t.”
Catherine, then. They’d thought it the threat she needed, but she must have decided the distraction would work even better. Rowena shook her head. Scare her, get her to tell her where the diamonds where, and then sic Malcolm on them anyway, to direct the attention away from whomever she’d sent to fetch them.
They’d underestimated her. And yet . . . Rowena could feel no anger now. Not now. Only that soul-deep pity.
Brice opened his door, slid out, gave her a hand so she could slide out behind him. Leaning into her husband’s side, Rowena turned with him and Ella toward the building’s doors. Maybe it was the curse that had wrought this new pain. Maybe it was merely consequences of the actions all had taken. Maybe it was sheer coincidence, unrelated.
No. She knew what it was. She knew, as surely as Ella had known that a miracle would happen for their friend. Some things were beyond their human understanding. Like that blackest of hatred, that strongest of greed.
The purest of love. She soaked in the beautiful planes of her husband’s face, the earnest light in his sister’s eyes. Perhaps the curse had not yet been completely broken. But they had dealt it a blow, hadn’t they? They had found something bright and light and holy.
They had found love. Family. Hope. If anything would break the tiger’s curse, it was that, when paired with faith.
And faith was one thing this family had in spades. She smiled as she stepped with Brice and Ella into the cool halls of the hospital. There would yet be clouds in their life. But there was sunshine too. And it shone all the brighter against the shadows.
Epilogue
DECEMBER 1912
Never in her life had Rowena believed she would scowl at Annie, but if the girl didn’t stop laughing . . . “I’ll send you back to your room. I will—dinna doubt me.”
Her sister fell back on Rowena’s bed in a fit of giggles. “But, Wena, ye just burst into tears over napkins.”
Aye, and now she was as likely to burst into laughter—she couldn’t, it seemed, stick to one emotion for more than five minutes at a clip these days. Wagging a finger at Annie, she shook her head. “Ye’re to have patience with me in my state. Not make fun.”
“I canna help it, Wena. Napkins?”
Her lips twitched, but Rowena didn’t let the laughter out. If she did, it might just turn back to more crying. And she hadn’t time to get the puffiness from her eyes as it was. Turning back to the mirror, she patted at her face with a handkerchief and adjusted her gown. Her stomach was beyond hiding, but it earned her smiles and stories about their pregnancies from all the other ladies. Common ground. Comradery. New friends.
And Brice, every night, would set his hand upon the growing flesh and try to feel the wee one move. They ought to be able to soon, the doctor said. It would be a grand day—as grand as the one when she’d woken up without having to rush to the lavatory.
Annie’s giggles subsided, and she rolled onto her stomach, resting her chin on her hands. “I like that dress. So festive, especially with your plaid brooch.”
Rowena smiled and touched a finger to it, then smoothed her hand over the evergreen satin. The exact shade of the wreaths upon the doors, the garlands on every rail and mantel. “Well, I want to look my best tonight. Brice’s first birthday as a married man.” She had been planning this fête with his mother for two months—and had done equal amounts of crying and laughing over it.
But it would go off without a hitch. All Brice’s friends had come for the occasion, even the Staffords from the Cotswolds . . . and Mr. Abbott had promised to attend, though he’d warned them he might not make it through the meal. He still suffered from headaches most every evening—but he was alive, walking, talking, and still determined to accept his post in Bristol in a few short weeks. And to speak on miracles and believing in the unseen in his first sermon.
Rowena chuckled. “Sorry, a leanbh. Eight is a bit young for a coming out, even in this enlightened age.”
Annie grinned. “Perhaps I’ll sneak down during the dancing. Just to see the gowns.”
“And perhaps, if I see you doing so . . .” Rowena moved to the bed and bent down to put her nose on a level with her sister’s. And grinned. “I’d nod my head to the most beautiful dress to be found.”
“But that’s yours! Or perhaps,” she added with a thoughtful purse of her lips, “the Duchess of Stafford’s. Did you see what she wore to dinner last night?”
How was she to help but chuckle? “Aye, I did—though how you managed to when you were supposed to have been dining up here . . .”
Annie was saved the need to respond by a quick rap on the door connecting her room to Brice’s. He entered without awaiting a response, flashing a grin as he did so. “There are two of my four favorite ladies. About ready, darling?”
“Almost.”
“Good, I . . . Have you been crying again?”
He’d long ago given up being concerned over her tears. Rowena waved the question away and turned back to her dressing table. “It was only that the napkins weren’t folded in the shape I’d wanted them to be and . . .” Seeing the way he pressed his lips against laughter, she swatted at him as she passed. “Dinna laugh at me, Brice.”
“No, no. Never. Wouldn’t dream of it.” But he winked at Annie.
Which she pretended not to see. “What necklace, do ye think, mo muirnín? Emeralds?”
“Emeralds? Nonsense. Let’s be fully festive.” He appeared beside her and drew out the ornate wooden box. “Rubies.”
“Perfect.” She presented her back to him so he could drape the beloved necklace around her throat and fasten it for her. As she had each of the three times she’d donned it since September, she touched a finger to the gold and jewels and said a prayer for Catherine. Remembered the glee in little Byron’s eyes when he’d shoved it into his mouth.
Poor baby. Poor mother. Catherine and Rushworth had gone back to Yorkshire as quickly as they could after the wee one’s passing, and no one had heard a peep from them since. Not Rowena or the Staffords or, so far as she could tell, any of Catherine’s friends. But everyone knew that Catherine had lost Delmore, what with no heir to keep it for. She’d moved back to her childhood home with her brother, and the crown had reabsorbed the Pratt estate, the title. Everything but the few funds unattached to it.
“There.” Necklace fastened, Brice rested his hands on her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her neck . . . which lingered a second too long, given their company. She gave him a soft elbow to the stomach, and he chuckled into her ear. “Don’t I have a wager to settle with you, Duchess? Something about a holiday, just the two of us? A delayed honeymoon, as it were?”
She grinned at their reflection in the mirror. He so handsome and looking at her with such longing. She so content to have his heart, and his arms about her every night. “Technically, mo muirnín, the wager was that ye’d fall in love before I did. And if memory serves, we were rather equally matched in that.”
“Mm.” He slid his arms around her waist, resting his palm against her stomach. “In that case, you owe me a holiday in the destination of my choice. I hear Monaco is pleasant this time of year.”
“You know,” Annie said too loudly, “if you need to kiss you can just ask me to go to my room.”
It wouldn’t have done any good, given the frantic knocking now upon her door to the hall, and the redhead who let herself in with panic in her eyes. “I can’t find my garnet earbobs! Have you seen them, Rowena?”
“Ella.” Brice pulled away with a laugh. “Can you not keep track of anything?”
“It’s the fairies Annie was telling me about, it must be. Thieving little beasties.” She tousled the girl’s curls but then joined them at the dressing table. “Didn’t I take them off in here the other night? I did, I put them right here.” She tapped the marble top. “I remember.”
“Aye, and Lilias ran them back over to yer room the next morning.”
“Drat.” Screwing up her mouth, Ella glanced around the room. “Is she here? Perhaps she remembers what I did with them when she handed them back.”
“I sent her off to help Mr. Child with last-minute preparations.”
Brice snorted. “Brilliant. They’ll just stare with moon-eyes at each other and get in the way of everyone else.”
Rowena treated him to another elbow . . . but had to laugh. “They willna. And it’s adorable that they’re courting. Lil deserves happiness.”
“As does Mr. Child. Even so.”
“Yes, yes, it’s wonderful. But let’s focus.” Ella tapped a finger to her bare earlobes. “Jewelry. I beg you. Or perhaps I should go and beg Mother. Surely someone has another pair of garnets I can borrow, or rubies, or—”
“Oh! I have rubies.” Rowena spun back to the tabletop and the carved wooden box. “I canna wear them, so you might as well. Here.” She pulled out the lovely dangling earrings that had nearly tempted her to let Lilias come at her with a needle.
Nearly.
“Ah . . .” Brice reached as if to snatch them before Ella could.
Rowena lifted a brow.
Ella pouted. “I won’t lose them, Brice, I promise. I’ll not even touch them. Lewis will be the one to take them out.”
Brice looked from one of them to the other. “They’re the Nottingham rubies.”
Ella rolled her eyes. “They are not. They’re the ones you commissioned to look like part of the set, you dolt. You’re not believing your own stories now, are you?”
“Ye had them made?” Rowena held them up next to the bracelet she still needed to put on. “But they’re a perfect match. And yer mother’s wedding portrait . . .”
“Yes, the originals were lost or stolen when I was a girl. Macnab made the replacements for him while we were up in Lochaber in August.” Ella batted her lashes. “And it’s a shame to keep his creation locked away in a box all the time, isn’t it?”
Sighing, Brice shoved his hands in his pockets. “Fine. But if you lose them, Ella . . .”
With a squeal, she snatched them from Rowena’s palm and made quick work of putting them in her ears—and then made a show of peering into the mirror. “Oh, they’re gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous.”
They were, at that, the way they dangled against the ivory column of her throat, nearly matching the deep red curls she’d had piled high tonight. The light caught them, dancing round the gold, toying with the rubies, setting them alight with a fire that almost . . .
Sucking in a breath, Rowena spun to face Brice, who still stood with his hands in his pockets, innocent as could be. At her open mouth, he grinned. Shrugged.
Blasted man. She’d had the Fire Eyes the whole time, right there in her dressing table. And oh, how he must have had a fit when his mother gave them to her on their wedding day, when they scarcely knew each other.
Laughter bubbled up, spilled out. She slid over to him and wrapped her arms around him. “Happy birthday, mo muirnín. May this year coming be filled with blessings—even more than the last.”
He held her close, a chuckle rumbling in his chest beneath her ear. “A difficult task, given that this past year gave me you.”
“Aye.” She tipped up her face to gaze at his, which she knew so well. Loved even better.
And wondered how love did it. How could it take two people, unite them . . . and somehow make each one more? More than they’d ever been on their own.
Author’s Note
One thing I love about this series is the chance to be swept away to someplace new. In The Lost Heiress, I soaked up YouTube videos and photos of Monaco and the Riviera. I tapped the knowledge of my French-speaking friend to make sure every phrase was just right. In The Reluctant Duchess
, I dove headlong into the Highlands. I studied other successful novels set there, scribbling frantic notes on how to handle the dialect. (There is Scots—the unique words and way of speaking that they have mixed into English—and there is Gaelic, which is a different language entirely.) I took a virtual train trip into the Lochaber region, pausing the video every few minutes to take notes on speech patterns and references. I read up on the tales of Bonny Prince Charlie, who led an ill-fated revolt against the English king.
One thing the narrator in this documentary noted was that the Scots are more proud and fond of the tragedies in their history than of their victories. Those are the stories they still tell around the fires, that they sing about, that they built statues to honor. They are a people who sprang up in a harsh place and carved a world for themselves from strength and determination . . . and more than a little bit of what most of us call superstition.
But where is the line between superstition and the unseen things of God? That’s a question I have great fun asking, and hopefully you have great fun reading as my characters ponder the same.
When I first conceived this series as an eighth grader (so long ago!), I wanted the heroine of this second novel in the series to have suffered abuse that I knew absolutely nothing about firsthand. I wanted to watch her grow and change and find love—and I failed miserably back then, never finishing the story. But I revisited it seven years ago and, in rewriting it, and revising it again under the direction of Bethany House’s amazing editorial staff, I finally plumbed the depths of Rowena and Brice and what it really means to feel those empty places inside . . . and then learn to trust again. I don’t pretend to be well acquainted with the pain that abuse victims suffer, but I do know the power of God . . . and that He never forgets us, even when we feel He has.
Rowena’s father was an especial challenge for me. I wanted him to be multi-dimensional and realistic, and yet how does one humanize a man who has hurt his child so deeply? I pray that I found a way to do so that makes him an understandable character, even if we never like him.
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