Chapter 14 - A Dead Man

Saturday, May 27, 1769, 3:00 a.m., Warehouse in London

Quinn loped up the stairway, two stairs at a time, and stepped into the outer office of Bow Street’s constable. A clerk, a young man Quinn hadn’t seen before, looked up from behind his desk. He sprang up and peered over his spectacles at Quinn. He laid down his quill, flipped over the parchment in front of him, and shuffled a pile of neatly stacked files.

The clerk lifted his chin, looked down his nose, and said, “You are?”

Quinn snorted a laugh. He’d gone to his townhouse hideout and changed clothes into wrinkled trousers stuffed into scuffed, brown leather boots, a jacket with frayed cuffs, and a tattered Tricorn pulled low over his forehead. It was one of his many disguises. A “Lord” he did not look like.

“Lord Quinn O’Dubhghaill. Higgins expects me.”

Color drained into a pasty-white on the clerk’s face. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his thin neck as he wheezed, “Begging your pardon, my lord, I—“

Quinn stepped toward the open door to the office where Higgins sat behind his desk. He flipped an impatient wave to Quinn.

“O’Dubhghaill, come in. Come in. Before Bertram has an apoplectic fit of nerves.”

Bertram’s neatness ended at the door. Quills, parchment, an inkpot, and books scattered across the constable’s scratched desk. Books and files stuffed bookshelves and heaped in disarray on the floor and chairs. Higgins, a bulldog of a man, both in physique and facial expression, stood, bowed to Quinn, and sat down.

Higgins tapped an unlit pipe on the desk. The big man liked to chew on the end, but thought it unhealthy to smoke, not for himself. The risk of starting a fire inhibited his desire to light his pipe.

“Sit.”

Quinn leaned against the door frame as Higgins knew he would. Despite the mess, or perhaps because of it, Higgins knew where every piece of information he needed could be found. Far be it from Quinn to move a scrap of parchment or a book from a chair. The big desk chair creaked when Higgins sat back and clasped his hands over a slight paunch.

“You might be free, O’Dubhghaill.”

Quinn stared at Higgins for a few seconds. Those were words he’d wanted to hear for a long time.

“Tell me.”

Higgins nodded, picked up the pipe he’d laid down, and tapped a parchment.

“The rotten, miserable, conniving scoundrel who put a bounty on your head so long ago”—he slammed the pipe on the parchment—“was a gnat’s arse from getting away. We got him. He’s dead. We think.”

“Dead, you think?”

Higgins smiled, a rarity.

“I want you to identify the body. You know him better than any of us.”

Quinn nodded. He’d like nothing better than to make sure Byrne was dead.

“How did it happen?”

“I wasn’t there. Wish I had been. One of the boys came to my house and told me about it. It was a fierce fight. Four blackguards were caught in a warehouse down at the wharf near the Hogs Ale. Started when a runner noticed a torch moving around where it shouldn’t have been. Warehouse was closed. Locked up. So, a couple of the boys sneaked in through a window to check it out, weapons ready. Found the four of ‘em pilfering through the office. Before anyone could blink, everybody was shooting. One dead. Three got away.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me, Higgins. Lord Cormac Flannery Byrne is into a lot of nefarious deals, but breaking into a warehouse is beneath him. He doesn’t dirty his hands. Just his soul. I’ve seen those warehouses. They’re not fit for a rat to live in. He sends his henchmen to do the footwork and dirty work.”

“Wondered that myself. Asked the boys why they thought it was Byrne. They heard one of the miscreants yell, ‘Flannery’s dead.’ And then, one asked, ‘Byrne is dead?’ The three hightailed it out of there. Maybe they call him Flannery, not Cormac.”

Quinn wasn’t convinced Byrne would soil his shoes to enter a dirty warehouse. He’d have to see for himself.

“Where’s the body?”

“Still at the warehouse. Told the boys not to let anyone take it away until we could verify it. Figured you were the best suited and closest to do that.”

“Let’s go.”

###

Higgins walked into the foul-smelling building ahead of Quinn. Two Bow Street runners leaned against the wall, arms crossed, quietly talking and laughing. Another sat on a crate, his legs stretched out and feet crossed, his upper body hidden in shadow. They all stood to attention when they saw the constable. All nodded to Quinn. He was well known to them.

“Get torches for all of us. I want plenty of light.”

They scrambled at Higgins’s barked command and handed out smoking torches. Quinn swung his torch in all directions as he followed Higgins, a habit. Never assume. Boxes and crates of all sizes and shapes created a labyrinth they wound through until he stood in front of a gruesome sight.

A man’s body, tall, well-built, and well-dressed, lay in the filth on the ground. He’d fallen onto his side, pulled up his knees toward his stomach, and grabbed his face, a face that had been blown off by a pistol shot at close range.

When Quinn had fought for the king in the colonies, he’d seen dead men, too many, some at his own hand. Kill or be killed. It was war. He’d lost count of those he’d seen, the dead and the dying all around him. But he’d never forgotten, never lost, the feel of it in his gut, the stench, the sights that sometimes made a grown man weep or made him howl like a crazed wolf.

Higgins stared, speechless. Quinn squatted near the dead man.

“Can you identify that … him, O’Dubhghaill? I almost feel sorry for the sod. Terrible way to end.”

“I don’t feel a whit of pity for that sod. It was a tussle I thought I was going to lose. His pistol was pushed against my chest. Thought I was going to die for sure. It felt like my ancestors lined up in me and filled me with the strength to push it up at him. Killed by his own gun. Serves him right, I say. Wasn’t my time to die.”

Quinn looked at the runner who had spoken and nodded.

“Fear and fury can give a man strength he didn’t know he had.”

He looked back at the body, then pried the man’s clutching hands away. He shook his head. The man had no face. It was the most gruesome thing he’d ever seen, a sight that could never be unseen.

“Did you check his pockets, boys?”

“We did, Constable. Nothing but a few coins.”

When Quinn had moved the man’s hands, he’d had to pry the entwined fingers apart. A gem shone in the torchlight. With the flap of the man’s jacket, he wiped the blood off. He recognized the ring — gold with a lapis lazuli gemstone encircled by alternating tiny pearls and diamonds. He’s seen that ring before, up close, with Lord Cormac Flannery Byrne’s fist behind it. Quinn had a small scar on his cheek from it.

“The ring. It’s Byrne’s. He’s dressed like Byrne, built like him, brown hair.”

Quinn shook his head.

“I can’t be positive … without a face.”

“The sods called him Flannery Byrne. They were damn excited. Can’t think why they’d make that up when they were running for their lives.”

Quinn nodded at the runner who’d spoken, then looked up at all of them. Higgins and the three runners circled the dead man, their heads tilted down, faces tired, drawn, ghoulish in the flickering torchlight. He’d like nothing more than to say with certainty that the faceless dead man was Lord Cormac Flannery Byrne, his nemesis, the miserable sod who had abducted Quinn’s young cousin, a sweet Irish girl, and started Quinn down the lonely path he’d been on for years.

It had been years of countless rescues of women and girls, abducted by Byrne and his bored friends for sport, then abused and dumped in brothels — those who lived. The faces and heart-rending stories of those he’d found and rescued were imprinted in his mind. He’d spent years in hiding and disguise with a bounty on his head, put there by the powerful, wealthy, corrupt, debauched aristocrat, who Quinn hoped with all his being, now lay dead in the filth.

Higgins spoke into the silence, a silence not of reverence or awe. A quivering, lurking, consuming silence sucked the air.

“Go get the undertaker. Shake him out of his sheets and tell him to get here. He won’t like it, but he’ll do it.”

Higgins looked at Quinn, pressed his lips together and tucked his tongue up over his front teeth while he perused Quinn’s face. His distended upper lip on his bulldog face would have triggered a laugh under normal circumstances.

“This is a grave decision. No pun intended. My report will say Lord Cormac Flannery Byrne died here.”

Quinn heaved a long sigh, a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“O’Dubhghaill, the death of that miscreant has made you a free man.”

Quinn said nothing. Was he? Free to live? Free to love?

Chapter 15 - In the Garden

Saturday, May 27, 1769, 1:00 p.m., The Garden behind the Beaufort’s in London

Three gazebos graced the Beaufort Mansion garden. The one Mary and Morgan sought for refuge and solitude most often had stained glass windows on one side. The panels were made of copper aged into shades of green. Pieces of transparent glass in the palest hues of pink and blue were set in the copper in a pattern that mirrored the swirls and carvings of the balustrade. The scent of roses filled the air from the rosebushes that grew on two sides of the gazebo. Pendulous branches of a willow tree cascaded down one side, creating privacy.

Mary loved the peacefulness of the setting. She and Morgan sat next to each other on a cushioned bench with their backs to the gently swinging willow branches, enjoying a rare opportunity to talk in private.

“When he comes near me, my hands tingle as if they’ve been tied up. You know what I’m talking about.”

Morgan shuddered. “I remember that feeling when you untied my hands in the shed at the Grigston’s.”

“And my body feels clammy. That awful feeling you get when bound in a blanket. The fear. You can’t breathe. You can’t move. You can’t see. Those memories, feelings, flood me when he’s near me. I can’t abide him.”

Was she experiencing, conjuring, these feelings about Lord Fontaine because he wasn’t Quinn? She didn’t trust what she felt. The two men were incomparable. Any man would come up lacking when compared to Quinn. Was she being judgmental and unfair?

“Mary, that’s awful. You have to tell Mother and Papa.”

“I told Mother. Or tried to.”

Exasperated, Mary threw up her hands.

“She tut-tutted, said it was just nerves because I’ve had no social experiences with men. She thinks Lord Fontaine is charming and witty, or so she says. Maybe she’s right.”

Mary had tossed and turned all night thinking about Quinn. She’d relived his kisses until dawn. Her lips and the back of her hand should be raw; she’d kissed it so many times while imagining she was kissing Quinn. Her ribs were sore from hugging herself. Imagining being with him was all she was going to get.

She was pathetic and embarrassed. She’d thrown herself at him. She’d practically climbed on him and forced him to respond to her. For a few glorious moments, she’d thought he’d enjoyed kissing her. But he’d regretted it and apologized to her in a most courteous, gentlemanly manner. He’d been so polite. Condescending, perhaps? As usual, she was a mess. Her face flamed at the memory. What must he think of her?

“Lord Fontaine is charming. He was entertaining and pleasant at dinner. I hadn’t expected that. But that doesn’t mean he’s not hiding something sinister.”

Too caught up in her thoughts about Quinn and her misery, Mary hadn’t been listening to everything Morgan said about Lord Fontaine.

“Sinister. Perfect word to describe what I feel when he’s near me. I don’t know what to do. I don’t feel comfortable talking to Father about it. About anything.”

“I’ll speak to Damaunt. He has Papa’s ear. They’ve gotten close.”

“Morgan, I don’t trust myself … my feelings. The images and thoughts that come to me. It frightens me that I’m tainted or evil somehow.”

Morgan reached out, squeezed her hand, and looked at her through worried eyes for a long, silent moment before she whispered, “What happened to you? At the Foundling? What made you afraid to be yourself?”

Mary jerked her hand away, balled up her fists against her stomach, and hunched forward, nauseous. It all came back. She was there again, cold, afraid, alone.

“I was sent to the attic.”

“Why? Who sent you there?”

“The headmistress at the Foundling. We never said her name. The older girls said to say her name was to summon the devil. And so we didn’t. We averted our eyes, too, looked at the floor or over her shoulder so she couldn’t take our souls. Her name was Miss Thripp. Gladys Thripp. There. I’ve said it.”

She looked at Morgan, smiled, and rolled her eyes. Her fear of Gladys Thripp had been real, but silly. Children believed what they were told. Why wouldn’t they?

“When I was seven, Miss Thripp summoned me to her office. My legs shook so much I thought my knees might snap as I stood in front of her big, shiny desk. She sat, squat as a toad on a rock ready to jump. I was careful not to look at her eyes. She didn’t say anything for a long time. The big clock in the corner ticked louder and louder in the silence, like my heart did. I didn’t know what to expect, why she’d called me in. I stood between the two chairs facing her, wishing I could sit down before my knees caved in.

Finally, she said, ‘I’ve heard about the stories you tell the other children. Tell me. All of it.’

I nearly jumped out of my skin when she spoke. I swallowed a few times trying to work up enough spit to speak. My tongue loosened and I told her everything about you, the images, the smells, the tastes, the feelings. I told her they were visits to you and you seemed real. The more I talked the more confident I felt. My heart stopped thumping like a caged bird. She asked questions about how I was able to do my visits and how often and when did they start. I felt important and special. I answered all her questions. I felt proud and understood.

I’d seen a peacock once. A donor at the Foundling brought one for a week for all of us to admire. That peacock was magnificent, feathers fanned out, beautiful and ready to strut. That’s how I felt. Like a fanned out, beautiful peacock ready to strut. I waited for her to speak, to tell me how pleased she was with me, to praise me and tell me I was special.

But she didn’t do that. She said, ‘You’re evil. You look sweet and innocent. But, you’re evil. You commune with the devil.’”

“Oh, Mary. I’m so sorry.”

“I thought if anyone would know how to commune with the devil, she did. I surely didn’t. I didn’t say anything. My throat closed up. My heart pounded in my ears. Hot pee ran down my legs and pooled in my boots. I never looked at her eyes, but she took my soul.”

Morgan took her hands and squeezed them between hers.

“I spent that afternoon and two more nights, alone, in the attic where girls were sent to reflect on misbehavior. I agonized about how my way of being was wrong. My sense of self was wrong. I didn’t believe for one minute that I was evil, but I did believe it was dangerous to be me. I didn’t know how to be anything else, but I would try. I did. And I failed. I didn’t belong. I still don’t.”

“Mary, you were a child. You didn’t fail.”

“I believed I had failed. Even the chaplain, though kind, believed I failed. He lectured me about false pride and sinful thoughts.”

Sunlight shining through the stained glass cast sparkling sunbeams on their clasped hands. Mary pulled her hands away and held her palms up. The girls in the Foundling used to catch sunbeams, make a wish, and blow them into the sky. She watched the dancing light in her hands. What did she wish for now?

“Mary, I’m so sorry you suffered like this. I understand. When I was eleven, I had my own terrible experience with Bishop Boucher. Papa was so angry at him that he threatened him and threw him out. The Bishop, if you can imagine. Papa has no fear.”

“What did the bishop do to you?”

“I was summoned to Grand’Mere’s library. My art tutor had seen my drawings of you. He thought they were self-portraits, but the eyes looked sad, not like mine. I told him about you. That I called you Em and you were my imaginary friend. He told the governess, and she told Mother, who got worried and called in the bishop. Mother, Papa, and Bishop Boucher were there. At eleven years old, I couldn't look directly into anyone’s eyes. It was too scary. With the bishop, I couldn't even focus on the safe spot at the bridge of his nose. Rubies on the gold cross hanging around his neck glittered in the sunlight as his chest heaved with each breath. The glistening cross seemed a safe spot to look at.

I told the heaving cross everything about you. The dreams, the visions, the drawings, everything. When I finished, I had a short-lived moment in which I felt relieved to have shared my secret.

Bishop Boucher heaved himself out of his chair, pointed his finger at me, and frothed, ‘Beat her. That child is the spawn of the devil.’ His face purple and eyes bulging, he spewed saliva from his fat red lips. Then, Grand'Mere was angry at Mother for calling in the bishop to hear such ‘utter nonsense.’ Papa was angry at the bishop for frightening me. The bishop was angry at me. I was afraid then, maybe even God was angry at me.”

“And so, here we are. Two misfits in the family. You’re doing well, but I’m a mess.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Mary.”

“My entire life, I’ve obeyed … for the most part, what others have told me to do. I’m going mad. Cooped up here. Peering into rooms and around corners to avoid running into Lord Fontaine. But the worst of it? I feel guilty.”

“Guilty? About what?”

“I shudder to think about how much they’ve spent on … everything. And I’m whining and being impertinent and impolite. And feeling sorry for myself. Father and Mother are trying to do what they think is best. They’ve done so much for me. Mother has spent endless hours trying to make a lady out of me. Impossible to even imagine. I’m like a slug plodding under the rosebushes.”

Morgan’s lips were pressed together, holding back a laugh. Mary frowned at her, but then had to smile at how silly Morgan looked.

“Out with it. What’s so amusing?”

“You called yourself a slug. Maybe you should think of yourself as a worm.”

“A worm? Lovely. I feel so comforted now.”

“A silkworm. You know where the silk thread comes out of a silkworm?”

She didn’t know, but could imagine.

“This is getting worse.”

“Its mouth, silly goose.”

“What’s your point?”

“Be a silkworm. When you talk about yourself, think about what comes out of your mouth. A silk thread is strong and can be woven into something beautiful.”

“Maybe I am being childish and hard on myself. I should try to get to know Lord Fontaine better. Living in France, leaving England, could be … nice, maybe? I’d adapt. Maybe?”

At least, she’d be far enough away from Quinn so she wouldn’t see him and make a fool of herself. She had a gift he’d given her last night before he’d hurried off. With a smile, he’d pressed a small folding comb into her palm and folded her fingers over it. The ebony sheath was embossed with a silver filigree of a Celtic design.

She reached into her pocket and ran her fingers over it. She hadn’t opened it; the size was impractical for combing her thick hair. Curious, she pulled it out of her pocket to look at it.

Morgan saw it and took it out of her hand.

“How beautiful. Where did you get this?” She flipped it open. “You’ve seen my knife that I carry. And now you have one.”

Shocked, Mary whispered, “A knife?” She stared at the four-inch blade. “Quinn gave it to me last night. I thought it was a folding comb.”

Gretna had told him to give her a weapon. She’d forgotten, but he hadn’t. Morgan folded it and handed it back to her. She slipped it into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around it. He’d remembered.

“What Papa and Mother think is best may not be so for you. Take Aine for a ride in the park. Clear your mind. Sneak out early tomorrow morning before Mother gets up. I’ll try to meet you if I can. I haven’t ridden Nemesis for days either.”

“A ride in the park sounds like a wonderful idea, my dear ladies.”

She and Morgan both jumped, startled by Lord Fontaine’s voice. Smiling, he stepped out of the path in the trees and walked toward them. A blackness, brief but blinding, washed over her eyes as his footsteps swished through the grass. How long had he been there, and what had he heard?

He climbed the steps into the gazebo. Mary stood. She glanced at Morgan, hoping her sister would understand she didn’t want to invite him to sit. Morgan stood. He bowed and peered up at Mary with an expectant look. She’d tucked her hands in the folds of her skirt. A refusal to extend a hand for an obligatory kiss was rude. She held her hand toward him and smiled. A smirk curved his lips, gone in an instant.

“What a lovely day to enjoy the outdoors. The day would be even lovelier if you beautiful ladies would join me for a stroll. The roses are magnificent. And the birds! They sing songs of joy to us. Join me. I insist.”

Walking with him was not what she wanted to do, but she didn’t want to sit with him. The Foundling Hospital had taught her to smile even if you hurt. Be pleasant — always. She’d forgotten those lessons the night before at dinner and had been rude and selfish.

“A short walk. Morgan and I have things we have to attend to this afternoon.” They didn’t, but it seemed a valid excuse.

“Indeed. Any moment I have in your company fills me with the greatest pleasure.”

Morgan placed her fingertips on his extended arm. Mary took his other arm. Unsmiling, he nodded at her.

“You will learn not to test my patience.”

Mary blinked, swallowed a biting retort. His lips had not moved. Her entire body shook. Her shaking fingertips felt the taut muscle of his forearm. She’d heard his unspoken thought and felt the animosity behind it.

To reclaim her equanimity, she breathed in the scent of roses, of lavender, of fresh grass. Felt the warmth on her face and listened to the birds twitter, the leaves rustling in the breeze. Fontaine’s baritone voice filtered into her mind. What had he said?

“I trust your parents will forgive my abrupt change of plans. It’s only for this evening. We’ll be leaving within the hour.”

Mary wheezed, “We?”

Heaven help her, he wasn’t talking about her, she hoped.

“My valet, my driver, and me. I fear you haven’t been listening, my dear Lady Mary. Caught up in the beauty of nature, no doubt.” He turned toward Morgan. “What say you, Lady Morgan? Your sister is caught up in cobwebs?”

Mary forced herself to smile. He bowed to both of them, then turned his pale brown eyes toward her.

“I think you are a clever one, Lady Mary. You enjoy riddles, perhaps? I will leave you with one to think about. Cobwebs are being spun. Who is the spider?”

He turned and walked away. She shivered in the warm sunshine.

Chapter 16 - In the Library

Saturday, May 27, 1769, 4:00 p.m., Library, Beaufort Mansion, London

After the unsettling encounter with Lord Fontaine in the garden, Mary had scurried into the mansion and spent the rest of the afternoon hiding in the library. Sunshine filtered through riffling leaves in the massive oak trees outside the floor to ceiling windows. Sunbeams danced on the walls of books. A small clock on the marble mantle ticked, a soft shushing sound, as if subdued in the silent presence of tomes of knowledge.

Curled up in a wingback chair, Mary thumbed through a book she’d randomly grabbed. The Foundling Hospital, for all the hardships and its lack of social amenities, had provided her with a rudimentary education. She’d been taught to read and write, a blessing for which she was grateful.

Even though she’d had no one to write letters to, she’d practiced her script on a slate. A teacher recognized Mary’s determination and allowed her to use ink and quill on discarded parchment, then brought her books to read, each one an escape into worlds outside the walls of the Foundling. She loved books. The scent and feel of the leather, the crisp print on smooth pages, the excitement of discovery enthralled her. Books brought friends, allies, knights, and exciting vistas to her dreary existence. Books always saved her, rescued her. But not today. Today, she couldn’t escape.

A book lay in her listless hands, words blurred through unfocused eyes. Fatigued from the endless lessons and drills and inevitable failure and disappointment she was proving to be, she felt hollow and guilty and ashamed and confused. Exhaustion, insidious and tenacious, crept through her body and her mind. Her head fell back against the chair. Her eyelids dropped, heavy as lead lids on a pot over tired, dry eyes. Crying was useless. At best, crying got taunts from the equally distraught, but tough girls at the Foundling or, at worst, a scolding, and warning by staff to stop crying or they would give her something to cry about.

A shake snapped her out of a deep, dreamless sleep. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was or who she was, or who the woman standing over her was. Mary stared at the woman’s pinched lips and furrowed brow. Then she saw a man she knew, her father, a puzzled frown on his face, who stood beside the anxious woman. Her mother, she realized.

Mary uncurled her stiff legs, sat up, and put her feet on the floor. The sudden flow of blood caused them to tingle and burn. If she were alone, she’d yank her slippers off and rub her throbbing feet. Instead, she rocked her feet up and down, toes to heels, pounding into the carpet. Her knees shook and rustled her skirt. Feeling half-mad with pain and half-stifled mirth at how maniacal she must look, she snorted a laugh. The sound reverberated in the silent room. Her bewildered, silent parents now sat on separate chairs across from her, watching her antics.

She stopped pumping her feet up and down, pressed her soles hard against the floor, straightened her skirt, and said, “My feet fell asleep. They’re tingling.”

Her father smiled. Her mother stared at her. No one spoke as a maid wheeled in a tea cart and another carried a tiered tray of biscuits and cakes. At the swish of the closing door, her mother broke the silence.

“I’ll pour the tea as you seem to be … agitated.”

Her mother’s voice had trailed off on the last word. Mary, still squirming and wiggling her toes, set the offered teacup and saucer on the table next to her and, with a shake of her head, declined a sweet. Why were her parents having tea here in the library? This was not customary. The air in the room felt expectant, buzzed in her ears. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at her father, waiting for him to speak.

Her father, poised as always, sat back in his chair, legs crossed, and sipped his tea. Her mother perched toward the front of the chair seat, back ramrod straight, with her teacup held midair as if forgotten. She glanced at her husband and said, “Antoine?” Before he could respond, she turned back to Mary and said, “We have most exciting news for you, Mary. Isn’t that correct, Antoine? Tell her.” With a beatific smile, she brought the teacup to her mouth as if performing an act of reverence and sipped.

At her mother’s words, a wave of fear tingled up Mary’s spine and neck and riffled at the top of her head. It reminded her of the time at the Foundling when a huge, bulbous-bodied, brown and black striped spider had skittered up her bare arm, across her shoulder, up the side of her face, and onto the top of her head with alarming swiftness. Screaming and wildly swiping the eight-legged marauder off her head, as she had ingloriously done at the lunch table at the Foundling that created quite a shrieking stir and broken dishes and landed her in the headmistress’s office, was not an option of behavior here. Practice decorum at all times within these auspicious rooms. Smile. She clutched her hands against her stomach, took a deep breath, pasted a smile on her tight face, and looked at her father. He looked away.

An image of a quill and pen flashed in her mind. Ink dripped from the tip of the quill, fell with a splat, and spread across the parchment. Words, scrawled and illegible, disappeared as the edges of the parchment curled up and burned.

Her father set his teacup down and cleared his throat. “Lord Fontaine has asked for and I have granted permission for him to formally court you.”

She sucked in a moan before it could rumble out of her, rendering the ability to speak impossible. She wanted to cry, to rail at the injustice of having to obey an odious expectation or to appear ungrateful for all they had provided her. Her smile felt like a presentation of teeth behind stiff, twisted lips.

Words howled in her mind, churned to spew. Be kind. Be good. A shallow breath, all she could manage, allowed a whimpering, wheezing whisper as her words trembled from her lips. “I don’t love him. I —“

“What nonsense. As if love mattered.” Her mother shook her head, fixed her with a piercing glare, and spewed, “Life is not a fairy tale. You’re not Cinderella. A prince is not going to fit your foot with a glass slipper. Love is for fools.”

It was the sound in her mother’s voice, not the words, that wrenched Mary’s heart, and caused her to look directly into her mother’s eyes as she spoke. And there it was — pain, despair, and loneliness. Her mother’s blue eyes, a mirror of her own, swam with unshed tears.

As she gazed into her mother’s eyes, an image of a heart, as if drawn by a child and colored red, flashed in Mary’s mind. The heart pulled apart as if torn and ripped in half. A lace ribbon, delicate but strong, tied the heart back together, the jagged edges overlapped and shredded. The heart was placed in a small wire cage, where it could be seen, but could not be touched.

“I’m so sorry, Mother.”

Her mother gave a tiny shrug and twisted her wedding ring on her finger, a habit when she was agitated.

“There’s no need to apologize. You’re young and have a lot to learn about life.”

Mary had meant she was sorry for her mother’s pain and disappointment. She didn’t try to explain. How could she? What could she say?

“I want my own place.”

Father, who had been staring at the floor while Mother talked, looked at Mary and said, “Of course. You’ll have a magnificent mansion in Paris. Lord Fontaine described it. It sounded elegant.”

“I mean, I want to live on my own, in my own place. A small place I can make into a home.”

Having her own place, her own home, were hopes and dreams she’d nurtured in the Foundling, but never believed possible. Why not? As she thought about the possibilities now, her heart thrummed. She felt giddy at the possibility of freedom.

“I won’t marry Lord Fontaine. I’m sorry if that disappoints you.”

She’d marry no one. She loved Quinn. She couldn’t have him. Living alone was best for her and her family.

At their stunned faces, she stammered, “I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, truly. Just think, if I leave and have a place of my own … somewhere.” She hesitated. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. Plans were forming as she spoke.

“There will be no need to explain who I am, or where I came from, if I leave. Please, I beg you to understand. I’ve decided. I want my own home.”

Chapter 17 - Angry Words

Saturday, May 27, 1769, 9:00 p.m., Beaufort Mansion, London

What now? Mary held a note in her hand from her mother, brought to her by a maid. It was a summons to come to her mother’s sitting room at once.

Mary’s refusal of Lord Fontaine put her parents in an awkward position. She felt guilty, but she wasn’t responsible for bringing him here. In the library, she’d offered to tell the Frenchman herself when he returned in the morning, but her father had shaken his head and said it was best if he broke the news to him immediately before Fontaine made any plans or told anyone. Fontaine had left the address where he was staying for the evening. Father left for his study to write the note he would have a footman deliver to Fontaine.

And that was that. She was relieved never to have to see the man again.

Guilt warred with relief. Her mother had stood and swept out of the library without another word or a backward glance. She’d not come down to dinner either. Father had kept the conversation light-hearted and casual and told amusing stories of his youthful escapades growing up in France. After dinner, she’d excused herself, but before she could stand, he’d taken her hand and gently squeezed it.

“Mary, I disliked my father. He was a powerful, influential man of his time. He didn’t believe love mattered in a marriage. Marriages were legal agreements arranged by parents to benefit themselves. Determined to marry the woman I loved, I revolted against the arrangement made at my birth. I confronted him, railed at him, begged him. He won. I lost. My loss harmed not only me. I was not the only one who suffered, still suffers. I don’t want you to have reason to dislike me. I understand about Lord Fontaine. Stay here. You don’t have to leave.”

“I must. Please understand. When I left and went to Ireland you gave me your blessing.”

“That was different. You needed to be somewhere private, where you could heal.”

“Where you didn’t have to explain my sudden arrival.”

The words were out before she thought. She bit her lip and wished she could reclaim the rude words that hung in the silence between them.

His eyes bleak, he’d sighed. He nodded his head and patted her hand. Her response was not what he’d wanted to hear. She’d scuttled back to her room, feeling ashamed, and flopped down on her bed. Too exhausted to sleep, she’d been staring at the ceiling when the maid came in with the summons. A confrontation with her mother was inevitable. Get it over with.

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The sitting room was immaculate, elegant, and uncomfortable. It was a room to admire, not a room to relax in. Her mother, resplendent in a blue satin gown and sapphires, perched in the middle of the tufted velvet loveseat with her skirt fanned across the seat. She pointed to a chair across from her. Mary sat on the uncomfortable straight-backed chair with unpadded armrests. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to sit here too long.

Her mother looked weary. Mary waited for her to begin. She didn’t feel like engaging in pleasantries and had no illusions that her mother would appreciate it.

“The colonies would be ideal. The Colony of Virginia, perhaps. I’ve heard it’s nice.”

Mary stared at her, unsure about what she meant.

“I’d had modest hopes that you could learn the skills necessary to ease into society with grace and competence. With enough time and effort, I believe you could. But it’s clear that your motivations and intentions are not in accordance with ours. Your father and me. The colonies can provide a more provincial setting for you. One in which you might flourish. I will see that you have sufficient funds to establish yourself comfortably.”

She looked down and twisted her wedding band. The ticking clock sounded loud, maniacal, as if laughing at the absurdity. Mary stood and stared at her mother. Her words choked through a dry throat, “The colonies?”

“Your father has contacts there. If not the Colony of Virginia then surely the Colony of Massachusetts would be an excellent destination for you to ….”

Her mother’s voice trailed off.

“An excellent destination to …?” She flipped both hands palms up and raised her eyebrows at her mother. “What? Hide? Fade into obscurity? Minimize the taint of scandal, God forbid?”

Her mother gasped, “How dare you speak to me that way.”

“My birth circumstances were not my fault. My upbringing in an orphanage was not by choice. From what I’ve gleaned from the little that is permitted to talk about, nor was it yours.”

“You tone your voice down when you speak to me. This is my home.”

Mary held her hand up to stop. She took a deep breath.

“I apologize. It’s your home. I want a place that I can feel is my home. I don’t know where yet. But the colonies? That’s your dream for me. Not mine.”

She curtsied and fled.

Chapter 18 - In the Park

Sunday, May 28, 1769, 8:00 a.m., a park next to the Beaufort Mansion

After a fitful night of tossing and turning and worrying and riding a pendulum swinging between exhilaration and guilt, Mary slipped out of the mansion early in the morning to ride Aine. With any luck, Morgan would join her. Mary wasn’t worried about being alone. The park abutted the Beaufort property and seldom had riders or visitors, which suited her. The only person she wanted to talk to was Morgan. She had to be the one to tell her sister she wanted to leave, to have her own place, to have a home that was hers.

Shaking her head to rid her mind of brooding thoughts, she allowed herself to enjoy her surroundings. The breeze felt cool on her face as she let Aine set the pace, which was a gallop for several minutes, until the horse slowed to a trot, then stopped to nibble grass. Mary dismounted and left Aine to graze for a few moments. She meandered through the park, enjoying the fresh air and the sounds of early morning birds warbling and chirping at the squirrels.

As she wandered beside the wooded area that shielded the park from the road, she sensed somebody was watching her. She stopped, peered into the shadows in the dense trees, and listened. Nothing. Unsettled, she turned to go to Aine. A twig snapped. She whirled.

“You?”

“Good morning, my lady.”

Flint bowed. His baritone voice had been polite. What was he doing here? Lord Fontaine stepped out of the woods and walked toward her with a pistol in his hand. He raised it and pointed at her.

“Take her arm and escort her to the coach.”

Flint snapped his head toward the Frenchman. He looked as surprised as Mary was, but he said nothing. He took her arm and gently, but firmly walked her through the woods to a waiting coach. She yanked and pulled her arm, but she was powerless against his grip. Furious, she looked up at him, ready to berate him. He glanced at her and gave a slight shake of his head. A warning? A tic in his jaw and pressed lips showed he was angry, halted the flow of words forming in her panicked mind. He was angry, but not at her. That much she knew. When the driver saw her, he looked alarmed, and squirmed on the seat, but nodded a bow to her.

Fontaine waved the pistol, a sign to Flint to lift her into the coach.

“Where are you taking me? My father will have your head for this.”

Ignoring her, he pulled a rope from a pocket next to the coach door and tossed it to Flint. A blanket lay folded on the seat beside him.

“Tie her hands.”

Flint leaned over her with his back to Fontaine, and tied her hands. She wiggled them to see if she could pull out of them. To her surprise, they were loose. He glanced at her, a warning look in his eyes.

Fontaine spoke. “If necessary, I will have you trussed up in a blanket. You understand?”

Her stomach dropped into her lap. She couldn’t breathe. She nodded. The coach lurched forward.