A Love Story - 1769 England

Chapter 1 - The Homecoming

Wednesday, 26 April, 1769, 3:00 p.m., Billingsley Manor, Kent, England

Billingsley Manor watched the coach climbing toward it, knew it was her, as apprehensive as she was about her arrival. Perched high on a hill, little happened in the surrounding Kent County that went unnoticed at Billingsley. Along the half-mile long, cobblestone path, visitors were treated to an uninterrupted view of the architectural splendor of the massive stone mansion, the gray stone softened by climbing ivy and manicured rose gardens.

She wasn’t a visitor. After eighteen months away, she just felt like one. Spray from water fountains caught the sunlight and formed shimmering rainbows around the marble statues of Roman gods and goddesses. The effect was as breathtaking now as it had been the first time she’d seen it. She eased out a breath she’d been holding, felt her tight chest relax an infinitesimal bit.

Would it feel like home? That remained to be seen — or experienced.

The long driveway had the added benefit of allowing the Billingsley occupants a bird’s-eye view through dozens of mullioned windows, warning of approaching visitors to prepare for a welcome or a snub. Hers would be a welcome, subdued, formal, as befitted the marquis, Lord Antoine Beaufort and the marchioness, Lady Elizabeth Beaufort, her parents. She’d be greeted with warm words, a warmth that didn’t reach her mother’s worried eyes or her father’s fixed smile. Appearances must be kept for the servants’ sake, as if appearances fooled them. Billingsley buzzed with whispered gossip, tittered with secrets and scandals. Mary knew some of what was tittered and whispered in the halls, knew it to be true.

“Lady Mary Beaufort, the misfit, is coming back.”

Mary felt a familiar dread, praying she’d get through her arrival with some grace, not look like the plebeian she was. She smoothed the lace on one cuff with a trembling hand, then straightened a ribbon bow, bedraggled from her tugging on it for the tenth time in the past hour. The cobalt blue linen day dress she’d chosen to wear this morning highlighted her blue eyes. Was it garish, too frilly? Would her mother approve?

Her refusal to wear a wig — ever — established during her initial stay at Billingsley remained steadfast. She liked her hair, long, glossy, and black. It suited her. She twisted a long, stray strand around her gloved fingers, a habit, brought it to her nose and breathed in the faint scent of lavender. Should she have used the more subtle rose shampoo instead?

She wasn’t sure of anything. Her parents weren’t inclined to write, nor was she. Few letters were exchanged between her twin sister, Morgan, and her. As twins, they had their own way of communicating that didn’t involve quill and parchment. They saw each other in images in their minds, felt each other in their bodies. It’s how Morgan had found her, rescued her. They’d agreed to communicate, “visit” as they called it, with each other if urgent. Nothing had been urgent while she was gone. Until now.

“It will be fine.”

Talking out loud to herself usually comforted her, but not today. She’d been summoned from Ireland to meet eligible men who wanted to marry. She, however, did not want to marry, not that what she wanted mattered. The summons hadn’t mentioned marriage in exact words, but the implication was clear to Mary. Her mother and father felt it was time for her to become someone else’s problem to explain and fix.

Addressing Lady Elizabeth Beaufort as Mother felt awkward. At the Foundling Hospital in London, she’d always wanted a mother, daydreamed about a warm, jolly woman who would hug her and teach her how to make boysenberry jam. Elizabeth Beaufort knew the proper way to eat a meal but remained purposely clueless about how to prepare one. A father? She’d never been able to imagine that. Lord Beaufort had asked her to call him Papa like her sisters did. Maybe she could now after all these months. Maybe. It depended on how welcome she felt.

Morgan would welcome her with open arms. Lord Damaunt, Morgan’s husband, and his friend, Lord O’Dubhghaill would be happy to see her. A pang of longing squeezed Mary’s chest at his name. Yes, she would see Lord Quinn O’Dubhghaill. She hadn’t seen the handsome Irishman since he’d taken her to his grandmother on his estate in Ireland. Her goal had been to teach and comfort other young women he’d rescued. In truth, he’d taken her there to heal and recover herself.

And she had. Or so she hoped.

Horses’ hooves clopped and hinges creaked as the coach rumbled slowly up the hill. The closer she got, the louder her heart pounded in her ears, the noisier her mind got, remembering.

She’d once overheard a Billingsley servant say, ‘The Beauforts know how to spin a tale and make things that stink smell good.’ The silliness of the statement and the disgusted look on the maid’s face had made her want to laugh. That it was said about her had made her want to cry. It still did.

They all stood on the steps, waiting for her, lined up in order of rank and importance. The dust-covered window in the coach obscured their facial expressions, which meant they couldn’t see her expression. She curved her lips into a smile, tugged at the ribbon bow, and tucked the twisted strand of hair behind her ear.

Horses whinnied when the coach lurched and squealed to a stop. Heavy footsteps, then a footman snapped open the door. Bent over, holding her skirt out of the way and looking down to see the coach step, a man’s legs in white silk stocking and black leather shoes with diamond-studded, silver buckles stepped into view. To her shock, her father, the French marquis himself, impeccable in his finery and powdered wig, reached in to steady her on the step and onto the ground. His blue eyes twinkled, a laughing smile lit his face as he patted her hand on his forearm.

“My darling Mary, it’s been too long.”

Head spinning in joy, pathetic in its neediness at the warmth of his greeting, she glanced toward her mother, who stood unmoving, a thin smile on her lips, ever the proper British marchioness, never to be called the French marquise. The matrimonial blend of her French father and English mother was the proverbial mixture of oil and water. The oil, Lord Antoine Beaufort, a man whose manner and every word emanated entitlement and refinement, made things run smoothly. The water, Lady Elizabeth Beaufort, a woman who demanded perfection and expected disappointment, drenched everything like a pounding rainstorm.

The servants stood lined up like silent sentries. A dozen-plus pairs of curious eyes focused on her as she walked toward the marble stairs leading into the grandeur, the tradition, the immaculate perfection of Billingsley Manor. Multiple chandeliers heavy with sparkling prisms and hundreds of aromatic beeswax candles, all lit, hung from thirty-foot high ceilings. Magnificent, monstrous, the chandeliers cast a brilliant, consuming light, ensuring no cobweb or dust bunny was safe from feather dusters and brooms.

No dirt or intruders allowed here.

She blinked, pushed that thought away, and smiled. Her mother nodded at her. Her piercing blue eyes scanned her from head to toe.

“You look tired. Tea will be served in an hour. You’ve time to refresh yourself and change your attire. Come. Don’t dawdle.”

Her mother turned and swept up the stairs. The swishing satin skirt, the tiny pearl buttons on her gloves, and the fresh rosebuds in her mother’s powdered wig glistened in the sunshine. Mary hesitated, stared at her back as she swept into the blinding brilliance of Billingsley.

Images flashed through her mind. A shipwrecked boat. Crashing waves. Heaving parcels and boxes. Splintered wood. Water crashed over her head, pulled her into blackness.

A warning.

She sucked in a breath, staggered, clutched her father’s arm. He laid his hand on hers and started up the steps.

“Lady Mary. New beginnings. We have such high hopes and plans for you.”

Chapter 2 - Dark Night in London

Wednesday, 26 April, 1769, 8:00 p.m., deserted street, London

The man who followed him was close. He smelled him, stale ale, tobacco, and wet wool.

Lord Quinn O’Dubhghaill, Earl of Dubgharran, crept through the street, as dark and silent as the night fog that swallowed him. Underneath his thick-soled boots, Quinn felt the footsteps of the man who stalked him. Fog roiled, heavy and suffocating, darkened this early eve into night blackness on this desolate London street. The thick, wet murk cloaked the brick walls, cobblestones, and doorways. Too bad it didn’t smother the stench. Desolate London streets made his longing for the green hills of his homeland, Ireland, ache in his heart. Some day he’d be free to go home.

Silent as a ghost, Quinn slipped into a doorway, pressed his back against the door, thumbed the grip of his pistol, and waited. The man’s body stirred the moist air as he sneaked past him, so close Quinn felt it brush across his face. The creeping man breathed hard, a ragged sucking sound. Quinn stepped out behind him, stuck his pistol into his spine, and through tight lips said, “Smolley, what is it?”

The Bow Street runner stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“Crazy Irishman. You scared the …. I might’ve turned around and smacked you.”

Quinn tucked his pistol into his belt and took the runner’s arm.

“Not a chance. Step back so we can talk.”

“Wasn’t sure it was you. Dark as a coal bin tonight.”

“What’s so important to pull you out in it?”

“Higgins. Told me to find you. Wants to see you tomorrow. Early.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t say. But he was sitting with his feet propped up on the desk looking real comfortable for a change.”

Quinn couldn’t pull up an image of a relaxed Constable Higgins. Maybe Higgins had good news for him? Doubtful.

“Thanks. Get out of this fog before you get hustled by a pickpocket.”

“Somethin’ else you should know. You’ve got company. Went to your townhouse first, lookin’ for you. Saw a light. Figured you must be there. Knocked. No answer. Seems odd.”

That news surprised him. Only a few people knew where he was hiding in London.

“Good to know.”

“How did you know it was me followin’ you?”

“You breathe through your mouth when you’re concentrating. It’s a bad habit, a giveaway.”

“Higgins says you can hear a butterfly sneeze in a windstorm.”

Quinn snorted.

“You’re no sneezing butterfly. More like a wheezing greybead humped up in a rocking chair.”

Smolley laughed.

“That’s what I like about you, Quinn. Your compliments. So upliftin’ to the soul. Want me to go with you? Check out who’s visitin’ your place?”

“You’ve done enough for one night.”

“No offense, you Irish bloodhound, but you can’t save this rotten world by yourself.”

“It’s not the world that’s rotten. It’s the vile scum that defile it.”

“Just sayin’. You need someone to watch your back.”

“Nearest ale house is calling your name.”

“I’ll have one for you.”

They stepped out of the doorway and walked side-by-side for a few steps. Quinn tapped him on the shoulder, a silent goodbye. He crossed the street his feet knew so well and headed for his townhouse. He had no servants, didn’t require or want a valet or a butler, so who was there and why?

###

Wednesday, 26 April 1769, 10:00 PM, Quinn’s Townhouse, London

Quinn stood hidden in the roiling fog, out of range of the corner street lantern. An upstairs window light reflected in small patches of glistening orange on the wet cobblestones. The front door and through the long, dark stairway was one more direct option. There were times to be direct. This wasn’t one of them. Quinn headed toward the back of the building. Another thirty meters through a reeking alley and he reached the hedge surrounding the backyard.

A rustle in the bushes startled him for a second. A cat meowed. He pushed through the hedge and sprinted to the painted railing he knew so well. Running his hand along the cold iron rail, he climbed, soundless, up two flights of iron steps. At the top, he pulled out his knife and pried the lock off the window. Grateful his broad shoulders could squeeze through, he climbed into the dark room he used as his bedchamber. He crossed the room with the footsteps of a ghost, a way of walking learned from an Iroquois warrior a lifetime ago in the war in the colonies.

At the door, he listened, then eased it open. A swish on oiled hinges and he was in the next room, empty, nothing to trip over in the darkness. A crack of light under the opposite door meant the adjoining room was not empty. Pistol in hand, he crept to the door and pressed his ear against the cold wood. A clink of a glass, pouring liquid, a crackling fire, whoever it was had made himself or herself comfortable. He eased the door open and stepped into the drawing room.

Two wingback chairs faced each other. Long legs with knee-high, polished boots stretched into the space in front of the small fireplace. Lord Damaunt raised a half-filled glass of whiskey in greeting. With his other hand, he swept his dark brown hair off his forehead. Quinn tucked his pistol in his belt and crossed the room to a table with a poured glass next to a bottle of Irish whiskey and sat down.

“Didn’t expect to see you here. You’re lucky I didn’t blast through the door and shoot you.”

Damaunt picked up the coiled whip tucked next to his thigh and hung it over the armrest.

“I heard you chiseling the window open. Thought it might be an unwelcome visitor until it went whisper quiet. I knew it was you then.”

“You didn’t think to warn me? Save me from creeping around in the dark?”

“Nah. It was an excellent opportunity to hone your skills.”

“I could have shot you.”

“Next time.”

Quinn laughed and took a long swallow. The whiskey burned his throat, a good feeling.

Damaunt drained his glass and tilted his head at Quinn.

“I thought you’d gotten lost.”

“Side-tracked.”

“Was she pretty?”

“There’s nothing pretty about Smolley.”

“Higgin’s crew? Anything new about Cormac Byrne?”

“Don’t know yet. I’m meeting with Higgins tomorrow. Didn’t know you were in London.” He flipped a hand at the room. “Why are you here?”

Damaunt stood to fill his glass. “Morgan insisted I come.”

“How is your lovely wife and the twins?”

“As lovely and charming and enigmatic as ever. The twins are … indescribably glorious.”

“I’d like to see everyone.”

“That’s why I’m here. Lady Mary is coming home. Morgan wanted you to know.”

“Mary? When?”

“She should have arrived at Billingsley by now, this afternoon.”

“That means no one is left at the school on my estate then. That’s a relief. All the girls and young women have found homes. I haven’t heard from my grandmother in a while. She doesn’t have my address. Safer that way.”

He hadn’t been able to take a deep breath since Damaunt had spoken her name. Mary. He hadn’t seen her in eighteen months, since he’d taken her to his estate in Ireland and turned her over to his grandmother’s care. He didn’t want to see Mary and couldn’t wait to see her. She twisted him into knots, knots he’d best leave tied. Ebony hair, a sweet smile, and eyes a man could get lost in and he had.

In his home country, beloved Ireland, he’d once ridden over a hill and seen the brilliant blue sky reflected on a still, bottomless pond far below him. It had taken his breath away. That’s what he saw in Mary’s eyes — brilliant blue, still, bottomless. He’d carried her frail, battered body from the Grigston’s shed and cradled her in the coach all the way to Damaunt’s townhouse, praying she wouldn’t die.

“I expect Mary would like to see your homely face. You haven’t been back to Ireland since you took her there.”

“Been busy. One step ahead of the red raven.”

“Cormac Flannery Byrne. I’ve heard you call him a lot of things, but the red raven is a first.”

“Flannery, his mother’s maiden name, is a derivative of the Gaelic O’Flannghaille which roughly translates as descendant of Flannghal. Flann means red. Gal means valor, a trait Byrne is incapable of. Byrne comes from O’Broin which means raven. There you have it. The red raven.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“Know your enemy. Inside and out.”

“Any idea where the blackguard is holed up now?”

“No. Just when we think we have him, he’s gone. Like stuffing a cloud into a burlap bag. Higgins wants to see me tomorrow. He may have stirred up some snakes.”

“Bow Street never sleeps.”

Quinn pulled out the note, scanned it, and then tossed it into the fireplace. It landed on an ember toward the side of the grate. A hole burned through the center of the parchment; the edges curled. He stared, eyes unfocused, until it burst into flames. His grandmother’s words whispered in his mind, ‘Look beyond what your eyes see, Quinn. There’s naught that’s done by chance.’ A silky shiver curled up his spine, wound around his heart. He missed his grandmother. He missed Ireland. He’d missed Mary.

“Higgins wrote he has something to tell me I’m going to want to hear in person.”

Quinn swallowed the whiskey and shook his head when Damaunt held up the bottle for a refill.

“No. I’m going to get some sleep. You’re welcome to sleep in the spare room. You look like a horse dragged you here.”

Damaunt shook his head and took a long swallow.

“Where? There’s no bed in your spare room.”

“We slept on worse in the colonies. Cold ground. Rock for a pillow. And there aren’t any mosquitoes here.”

“I’m headed for Grosvenor Square. The townhouse is in an uproar, but at least it has a bed. Morgan has an architect renovating, more play space for the twins. I’m leaving for Brooksridge tomorrow. If you can get away from London, come stay with us. Morgan adores you. Why escapes me. And you can see Mary. She and Morgan will be glued together.”

“I’ll see if I can make that happen. Depends on what Higgins has to tell me.”

He’d crawl through broken glass to get to see Lady Mary. Higgins be damned.

Chapter 3 - Who Is She?

Thursday, 27 April, 1769, 10:00 a.m., Billingsley Manor, Kent, England

Mary and her twin sister, Morgan, sat on the beds cross-legged with their skirts billowing around them. The lady’s maid assigned to Mary left the room, disapproval at their unladylike behavior etched in her frowning face. The bedchamber, once shared by Morgan and their sister, Sarah, now served as Mary’s suite.

“This room brings back memories, Mary. Mostly good. Sarah and I shared chats and spats in this room as we were growing up.”

“How is our intrepid sister in the guise of a triplet?”

“Married life suits her, oddly enough. She loves Italy. Count Esposito adores her. She hasn’t been back to England since she left, right after you went to Ireland.”

“I’d like to see her again. I like her. She and I spent a lot of time together, worrying and crying, when you were kidnaped by Lord Randall.”

“ I don’t think she’ll come back to England. Just as well. She and Mother have a strained relationship.”

They looked at each other, silent for a moment, both thinking the same thing. Mary blurted, “All three of us have a strained relationship with Mother. I don’t know how to approach her.”

“She’s demanding. She’s had a lot of disappointments in her life. It’s as if she expects everyone is going to disappoint her. She reminds me of the governess Sarah and I had in France when we were little. The woman never smiled or laughed. She swept through life like a broom offended by dirt. Our art teacher, her paramour, a secret everyone knew about, crept through life as if apologizing for his existence.”

“Swept and crept. What a pair.”

“Amusing. I never thought of them that way before. We all approach life the best we know how. Just be yourself.”

How could she be herself? She didn’t know who she was. An orphan with an unsuspecting living family? An unlikely, unfit heiress? An insane person who randomly heard other people’s unspoken thoughts and saw terrifying images?

“I saw unsettling images when I arrived yesterday afternoon.”

“Tell me.”

“I saw a shipwrecked boat. I was in the water. There were crashing waves, and boxes, and splintered wood. The water dragged me down. Everything went black. It felt real, as if happening in real time.”

“It sounds terrifying.”

“I’m wondering if it’s a warning.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know, Morgan. Nothing. Everything. Myself. Whoever I that is. I don’t know who I am. I can’t talk to anyone about it except you. I’ve missed our visits.”

“Me, too. With the twins and Damaunt and managing Brooksridge, there’s so little time to indulge thinking about you.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “That’s not how I meant it. I think about you often. We agreed not to peer into each other’s lives, now that I’m married. Damaunt found the prospect of your ‘dropping in’ objectionable.”

Looking at Morgan was like looking into a mirror. Blue eyes, black hair, porcelain skin. They both had merry eyes and smiling mouths in this moment.

“I can imagine your husband would find it unsettling to wonder if you and I were switching living spaces in the ethers.”

Morgan sat leaned back on her hands, arms straight, and peered at her.

“You may not be visiting me, but images are coming to you. You’re seeing others. You’re hearing unspoken thoughts, too.”

Mary wheezed a relieved sigh. Morgan understood like nobody else could.

“I am. Random images come to me unbidden. I hear things now, too. When we first met each other, I told you I could see, taste, feel, and smell information coming from you, but I couldn’t hear anything at all. No sound. On the wharf after I got off the ship from Ireland, I responded to a young woman’s thought. I heard her voice in my head as clearly as if she’d spoken. Startled, her eyes widened and her face froze in fear. I felt as crazed as she did. I hurried away before she recovered enough to scream or call for help.”

“Mary, that sounds awful.”

“The moments are more frequent. I don’t know when they’re going to happen. It’s unsettling, unnerving. What if I blurt out something in answer to an unspoken thought I’ve heard from the butler, or a guest, or save my sorry soul, Mother? When I hear a thought, it’s in that person’s voice. I don’t know how to explain it.”

What if she heard or saw something derogatory or humiliating about herself that somebody was thinking?

“I don’t know how to answer that. If you’re looking at someone and their mouth doesn’t move, you’ll know it’s a thought. But if someone is out of your line of sight … I don’t know.”

“It’s a relief to see you in person again. I feel understood and welcomed by you, but not Mother. She’s cordial, but aloof. Resigned might be a more apt description of her demeanor toward me.”

“It’s not you. Well, not entirely. She and Papa are at odds again. She’s not a forgiving person. And there is a lot to forgive.”

“She can be loving. When Quinn first brought me to their townhouse in London, Mother set up round-the-clock care for me. She was solicitous and kind. As I got better and able to come to Billingsley, she didn’t seem to know what to do with me and became distant.”

“In her defense, she had a lot to deal with in a short span of time. My father’s secrets. Shocking. Your arrival. Shocking. My wedding jitters. Annoying.”

“I know she was happy to know about me and find me. But she doesn’t know what to do with me. I’m an embarrassment to our parents. I’m an embarrassment to myself.”

“They’ve yet to figure out how to explain your sudden appearance. Mother is petrified of scandal.”

“The need to explain me here in England is why I was happy to be in Ireland. No explanations needed. Free to roam the hillsides, pick wildflowers, ride my horse, sing with the birds, howl at the moon, if I felt like it. Not many people around. Quinn’s grandmother accepted my need for solitude. I liked that.”

“You can do all those things in England. You might want to curb your howling at the moon. Or do it while Mother and Papa are in Paris.”

“Mother told me they’re leaving tomorrow and will be gone for a week or so. ”

“I don’t know why they’re going to Paris. It seems sudden. You just got here. Damaunt and I decided we’ll all go to London in a few days. There’s plenty of room for you at our townhouse until Mother and Papa return. They’ll be staying in London when they get back.”

“I’m relieved. It gives me a chance to settle in and spend some time with you. The only thing I missed about England was you.”

That wasn’t entirely true. She missed Quinn. It was a rare day that she didn’t think of him at least once.

“ Why are you so anxious about being back here?”

“I’m a misfit. I’m an heiress brought up in an orphanage. I’m going to disappoint our parents. I’m the toad in the punch bowl. The bad smell on the shoe sole. What self-respecting nobleman will want to wed me without an indecently large dowry? I don’t want to be sold.”

“The deplorable circumstances of your birth and where you were brought up are not your fault. You can learn the rules and strictures of society. You have the support of our parents and Damaunt and me. We’ll all help you to be —

“—a mannequin.”

“I was going to say we’ll help you to be comfortable in your role.”

“As a mannequin. Peddled off to marry someone I don’t know how to be with. I’m not ungrateful. I want to please Mother and Father. I know they mean well and want to provide me the same privileges and benefits they provided for you and Sarah. But I’m afraid I’ll never live up to their hopes and expectations.”

Morgan shook her head, but didn’t say anything. What could she say? It was the truth. The truth hurt. A reality Mary knew all to well.

“But Morgan. Most of all, I want to marry a man I fall in love with. Like you did with ‘green eyes’.”

Morgan laughed. “Damaunt still talks about that. Green eyes. It was the first thing you said to him when he cut the rope and moved the blanket off your face.”

Mary could call into her mind’s eye the shock on Damaunt’s face when he saw her, the mirror image of Morgan. But the agonized concern in Quinn’s eyes, the set of his jaw, that image of his face surfaced with no effort on her part. His face came unbidden into her welcoming mind, into her dreams. She imagined she could still feel his powerful arms when he carried her from the shed and held her in the coach as she was brought to the Beauforts.

Lord Quinn Dylan O’Dubhghaill, Earl of Dubgharran was not a candidate for marriage, at least not for her. She could think about him all she wanted, but he was unavailable. Forget about him.

She couldn’t wait to see him.

Chapter 4 - Just A Friend

Friday, 28 April, 1769, 7:00 a.m., Fence border between Billingsley and Brooksridge

She sat on the stone fence, leaned back against the massive oak tree, and watched for him. She knew he’d come. She’d seen it. Horse hooves, slow moving, muted in grass wet with heavy dew, whispered through the early morning fog. Movement stirred the mist around the rider, tall, broad, at ease in the saddle as he rode toward her. He didn’t know yet that she waited for him. Soon enough, he would.

She knew when he felt her presence. She felt it, his awareness that he wasn’t alone, alert and wary until he broke through the mist and saw her. Dressed in black from neck to knee-high polished black boots, he sat astride Onyx, a black Arabian horse, he kept stabled at Brooksridge. No one would or could ride it but him. Her horse whiffed a greeting to Onyx.

An arm’s length from where she sat, he studied her, a smile lit his eyes. “I see you brought her. What did you name her?”

“Aine.”

“After an Irish fairy queen. Interesting choice.”

“Fairies are like the wind.”

She sounded like a ninny. He quirked a brow in question and waited. What to do but explain what she meant, as silly as it was?.

“You can’t see the wind. You can see the effects of the wind, but not the wind. Same with fairies. You don’t see them, only what they do. Not that I believe in fairies.” She wasn’t sure about that.

“You’re teasing me about my Irish beliefs?” He shrugged and grinned at her. “There’s more than what can be sensed with our feeble senses. You and Morgan know that well enough. The Norns spin our fates whether we believe in them or not.”

Bless the man. He got it.

“I admit. I’m in a mood.” She felt girlish and silly, unsure of herself in his presence. His maleness.

“You’re out and about early. The birds are barely awake. How are you?”

“Don’t ask unless you want to know.” Time to rein in her emotions. She liked Quinn, what she knew of him.

His smile shifted to a slight frown. He dismounted, sat down next to her, and leaned back against the oak tree, not touching her, but close enough to feel his warmth.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t belong. Anywhere, it seems. I’m a misfit.”

Rein it in. You don’t want to sound like a sniveling, spoiled ingrate.

“I don’t even know my name. I know the name I was assigned by the Foundling Hospital. Mary. A fine name. Such a fine name dozens of us had it. And we had identification numbers. My last name there? Gates? I was found bundled up in a basket at the gate.”

“It could have been worse. The Foundling might have named you basket or bundle.”

She laughed and shook her head.

“Or maybe cobblestone. Or weed. Or dirt.”

“You’re being hard on yourself.”

“Am I, Quinn? I lived under the name Mary Gates, number one four seven, eight three, for eighteen years. Then, I’m rescued and find out my last name is Beaufort, a twin to Morgan. Morgan is an intriguing name for a girl. It fits my sister, daughter of a Marquis and Marchioness.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve now lived as Lady Mary Beaufort for almost two years. Only it’s not really Mary because my parents didn’t name me. How could they? They didn’t know about me. And if they had, wouldn’t they have named me something else? Griselda or Millicent or Jane. Who knows?”

“It was complicated.”

“You think?”

“I think you’re thinking too much.”

“I’m just getting used to being called Lady Mary Beaufort. I don’t deserve being called Lady. That’s a title that truly doesn’t fit me. My horse knows more about how to be a lady than I do. I looked at a thirteen-piece formal dinnerware setting and didn’t know the difference between an oyster fork and a dessert spoon.”

“In the overall scheme of the world, distinguishing an oyster fork from a dessert spoon is an astounding insignificance to the universe. It only matters if you try to eat pudding with an oyster fork and it ruins your gown.”

“More likely it would ruin my mother’s evening.”

“There is that.”

“As an earl, I imagine you could get away with just about anything at the table and no one would say a word.”

“Maybe anywhere but at my grandmother’s table. Shenanigans were frowned upon and knuckles rapped. I imagine you know more about dining etiquette than you credit yourself.”

“I can thank your grandmother for teaching me the finesse of proper dining. The Foundling Hospital provided a spoon. A fork and a dull knife were for special occasions, such as Christmas. The orphanage was a palace compared to Mrs. Grigston. That harridan assumed a thumb and four digits sufficed. Soup was a challenge.”

“Mary, I’m so sorry you ….” Quinn shrugged, unable to finish his sentence. “I feel blind rage when I think about the Grigstons and what they did to you.”

“To me. To Morgan. To all those other poor girls.”

“I’d like to say I’m sorry Agnes Grigston was hanged for her crimes, but I’m not. Put it behind you. Step into your rightful role and all it entails as Lady Mary Beaufort. You are a lady with a prominent heritage and a bright future.”

“I still don’t know if I address the person across from me as Lady Jane, Lady Smith, Honorable Jane Smith, or you-talk-too-much-in-your-shrill-voice Lady Town Gossip.”

“The last one might cause a few eyebrows to raise. Tighten a few —”

“Arse cheeks.”

Quinn snorted a cough.

“That was coarse. Forgive me.”

What on God’s green earth was she thinking to blurt that?

“I was going to say jaws.”

“Don’t worry, Quinn. I wouldn’t say that in front of Mother. Or at a dinner party.”

“One would hope.”

“Quinn, my parents summoned me back to Billingsley from Ireland, which I love, to prepare me for marriage to”—she waved her hand to the sky—“heaven knows who, and I’ll be assigned another name that isn’t mine.”

There. She’d said it. Marriage. She picked up a small, gnarled branch, broken off and left in a crevice in the stones to be pounded by wind and rain. A few spindly dried leaves rustled as she rolled the twig back and forth between her palms.

“I hope the man I marry has a name not as hard to pronounce as yours, Lord Quinn Dylan O’Dubhghaill.”

That was a lie.

Quinn laughed at her pronunciation.

“My Irish ancestors are rolling in their tombs at that pronunciation. Say it like your fellow Englishmen say it. O’Dougal. It’s easier on the ears.”

“It’s easier on the tongue. I got used to hearing the Celtic brogue while I was in Ireland on your estate. Eighteen months with your grandmother and I still cannot speak a word of it that would be recognizable to an Irishman. She tried to teach me. A lovely, lovely woman, your grandmother.”

“The best. I miss her.”

“She misses you, too. She talks about you like you’re a god.” He looked like a god. Firm jaw. Powerful arms. Wide shoulders. “She told me wonderful stories that the O’Dubhghaill’s are descended from kings and queens. Do you believe that about yourself?”

He shrugged.

“I’ve heard the tales.”

“Your grandmother told me what your name means. Quinn means wisdom and chief. Dubh means dark and ghall means stranger.”

“Yes?”

“Back to my point. A name defines you. You live your name, Quinn.”

“I have my moments, days, weeks sometimes, when I have to assume other names that I live in order to keep living.”

“With a bounty on your head, I imagine so.”

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. The bard knew of what he wrote in Romeo and Juliet.”

“Your grandmother tried to interest me in reading Shakespeare. I’m sure it’s me, but I found it tedious. What did he mean when he wrote that?”

“A name is just a label. A label doesn’t define the essence of something. You are not your name. You’re so much more.”

“When you’re in disguise, you make up a name and take on a persona of someone else so well, it’s as if you become the person you’re pretending to be. I saw you do it once. It was impressive. How do you do that and not lose yourself?”

“Being in disguise is not about who I am. I never forget that. It’s about why. Why is staying alive. Why is getting information that I might not get as Lord Quinn Dylan O’Dubhghaill, Earl of Dubhgharran.”

“You’re not a person who can go unnoticed. Your height. Your shoulders. Your eyes.”

She made the mistake of looking into his penetrating brown eyes. Brown didn’t describe the color. His eyes were like a collection of gemstones. A rare brown garnet, a brown onyx, and a tiger’s eye she’d seen in Quinn’s grandmother’s collection of gemstones paled compared to the richness of Quinn’s eyes. She dropped her gaze to his mouth. A smile twitched, gone in a blink. He waited. It was one of the many things she liked about him. He listened without interrupting.

“Few men are built like you.” This was getting awkward. What was she thinking? “What I mean is, how do you blend in and fool people when nobody else is comparable to you? You’re bigger, stronger than most men.” More handsome. She’d leave that unspoken.

“People see what they’re looking for.”

She blushed. Is that what she was doing? He was decadently handsome and fun to be around. But he was just a friend. And he was old. Thirty-two seemed ancient to her at twenty. Morgan’s Damaunt was thirty-two, and they were happy. Maybe she and Quinn could be happy?

“You’re young, Mary, and naïve. You’re trying to figure out a role that fits. Give yourself time to be. Antoine Beaufort will find a good prospect for you, but he won’t force you to marry a man you don’t want. Go to balls. Dance. Fall in love. If you’re ever worried about the attentions of a suitor, you tell me. I’ll straighten him out. I’m your friend. Don’t forget that.”

My friend.

A crow flew in and landed near their feet. They sat in silence for several minutes and watched the crow scrabble in the Creeping Buttercup. Finding nothing to eat, it hopped away, still within an arm’s length of them.

Hey, little crow. I had a friend just like you at the Foundling. We talked every day until one day he flew away.

A friend. Her chest felt tight. Young and naïve, that’s how he saw her. Go fall in love. Right.

“A name might not define the essence of someone, but it summons your sense of self. Your grandmother said a name is a whispered sound heard before you’re born. You’re born to live that name with soul and purpose. My parents didn’t hear that whisper. No one did.”

“You did.”

She hadn’t thought of that. Was it possible?

“Perhaps you can remember it.”

“It’s a thought. I wouldn’t know how to go about it.”

“Sometime when you’re in London, I can take you to someone who might help you find yourself.”

“Who?”

Chapter 5 - Romance in the Air

Friday, 28 April, 1769, 8:30 a.m., Damaunt’s study at Brooksridge

Quinn alternately strode and side-stepped Damaunt’s big, black cat, Per, who wound around his feet as he made his way through the gallery of family portraits to his friend’s library.

Damaunt looked up from his desk where he sat with a quill in one hand and a paper in the other when Quinn came through the door.

“Your butler said you were in here and could probably use a drink.”

Per circled and rubbed against Quinn’s legs, pushing the side of his face against the leather boots. He squatted and stroked the big cat from the top of his head to the end of his tail.

“By the scowl on your face, you look like you need a drink. Good thing Per doesn’t understand curse words in Gaeilge. He’d be offended.”

“I wasn’t in the mood to dance down the hallway with Beelzebub the Beast and I do need a drink.”

“From the wild-eyed look you have, I’d say you’re in some kind of a mood. I’m not in the mood to sign documents. Let’s have a glass of some kind of mood changer.”

“Whiskey. Not Brandy.”

Damaunt poured a glass of whiskey for each of them and set them on the end tables beside the facing wingback chairs. He bent over to pick up Per who had jumped up onto his chair. The big cat hissed his displeasure and clung straight-legged to the seat with his claws clamped into the cushion.

“Per, keep it up and you’ll be ….”

Lady Morgan breezed through the door and walked over to the chair while cooing to the cat.

“Per, you poor baby. Are these big lugs being mean to you? Such meanies to my little snookems.”

She leaned over and picked up Per who had become clawless and boneless at her voice. She draped him, formless as a blanket on a couch back, over her shoulder. Rubbing the cat’s body, she turned to Quinn and said, “I heard you walking through the gallery and thought Per might be a nuisance you could both do without.”

“I saw Mary.”

“Did you? You’ve been to Billingsley this morning?”

“Only as far as the oak tree at the stone fence.”

Morgan and Damaunt exchanged a look and a smile.

“Ah, well. Perhaps romance is in the air. Have you ever told Quinn about how we met? At the oak tree?”

“I might have mentioned it.”

Damaunt gave a warning look to Quinn.

“I seem to remember a passing remark about how you met.”

Quinn had, in fact, heard glowing detail about Damaunt’s first encounter with the lovely, bare-legged Lady Morgan, perched in the oak tree trying to rescue Per, the cat.

“That oak tree holds special memories. Mary loves that spot as much as I do I imagine.”

She looked at Damaunt. “ I’ll leave you two to hatch your plans. I’ll catch up with you at dinner.”

Damaunt made a few swipes to brush away cat hairs and settled into the chair. He picked up his glass and raised it to Quinn.

“The oak tree? Romance is in the air. You dog. That’s what put you in a mood. How is Mary?”

“Fine.”

Quinn sipped his whiskey and gave Damaunt a “don’t ask” look that his friend ignored.

“You haven’t seen her for almost two years and all you can say about her is she’s fine?”

Quinn shrugged, an attempt to look noncommittal. It didn’t fool Damaunt, who settled back into his chair and smiled at him.

“The fresh air in Ireland was good for her. She looks healthy and vibrant and”—he swirled the whiskey in his glass, stared at the amber liquor as it whirled up the sides—“ beautiful beyond words.”

Damaunt’s gaze was fixed on him, but he said nothing, waited for Quinn to say more.

“Don’t worry. It’s platonic. She’s in no danger from me. Antoine Beaufort will search the earth to find her a suitable husband.”

His chest squeezed at the thought.

“I recall two years ago Antoine said he’d welcome you into the family in a heartbeat. His words.”

“I remember.”

“Antoine said Lady Mary was not ready then, of course, but Lady Sarah needed a good man to wed.”

“An offer which I politely declined. No offense to your sister-in-law, but I pity the Italian count who did marry Lady Sarah.”

Damaunt laughed. “I can still see the look on your face when Antoine suggested you wed her. Mary wasn’t ready then, but she is now.”

Damaunt lifted his eyebrows in question.

“I’m not in a position to marry anyone.”

“Yet.”

Quinn stared out the windows at the lake in the distance. Sun shone through a break in the clouds, created swimming diamonds on the surface, then hid behind the clouds again. Like him, moments of shining, then back in hiding. It was no life for a woman to have share with him.

“Yet is determined by the red raven, the bane of my existence.”

“Do you know where Cormac Byrne is now?”

“Close. Higgins thinks he’s in London again. If so, he’s in Bow Street’s jurisdiction.”

“So the runners have your back while you’re in London at least. I have your back while you’re here.”

“Feel free to snap your whip around his neck if you see him.”

“With pleasure. If you were free of Byrne, would you consider Mary for a wife? There’s nothing I’d like more than having you as a brother-in-law. Although I don’t know why. You’re such an insufferable, pig-headed know-it-all.”

Quinn laughed. “I’ve been taking lessons from you. As for Mary, the fact is, I’m not free of Byrne. I have a bounty on my head. A father would be irresponsible to choose me as a suitor for his daughter. Antoine Beaufort is not an irresponsible man.”

“You avoided answering my question. Would you consider Mary for a wife?”

“A better question is, who do you know who might be potential suitors for your sister-in-law? We can vet them, cull out the gamblers, dandies, and bounders.”

Chapter 6 - A Wise Woman

Tuesday, May 2, 1769, 10:00 a.m., Grosvener Square, London

Mary waited for Quinn in the Ghost, Damaunt’s custom-built, heavy duty coach. Harry, a big, affable Scotsman, who worked for Damaunt, sat in the driver’s seat. Quinn climbed in and sat across from her. To Mary’s relief, Morgan had invited her to come stay for a few days in London at the Damaunt townhouse in Grosvenor Square. They had arrived on Sunday. To her delight, Quinn had come at Damaunt’s invitation to stay as long as he liked.

“Where is Morgan?”

At his frown, she said, “She’s busy with the twins and with the architect. Don’t worry about not having a chaperone for me, Quinn. I trust you. You brought me home alone in this coach almost two years ago. So, there’s precedence. Morgan and Damaunt trust us both.”

He shook his head. “Your parents might not. It’s not the same, and you know it. You were ill. You look anything but … ill this morning.”

“Was that a compliment?” If she could, she’d yank those begging words back.

“Your reputation could be ruined riding unchaperoned with a man.” He sat back and folded his arms across his massive chest. “You look lovely. As always.”

At the smoldering look in his eyes, a sensation that felt like warm honey flowed through her stomach and pooled in her nether regions, a stark contrast to the tightness in her chest and throat as she forced words across her lips. She forced herself to focus between his eyes at the top of his nose, what Morgan called “the safe spot.” It allowed her to seem as if she were looking into his eyes, but not get sucked into the depths and lose herself. It also helped her avoid looking at his lips.

“This black, unmarked rig with no crest emblazoned on the doors doesn’t attract attention. Which is why Damaunt designed it, from what Morgan told me. We’ll keep the curtains drawn.”

His face looked dark as a thundercloud. Before he could disagree with her logic, she gave him a bright smile and said, “I’ll let you worry about my reputation, if that will make you feel better.”

She rapped the roof of the coach for Harry to get moving.

“Tell me about this woman, Gretna. You’ve met with her before.”

“A few times for help in search of young women and a missing girl. Once I sought her help for a stolen horse.”

“Was she helpful?”

“She’s cryptic. A wee bit alarming at times. Can make the hair raise up on the back of your neck.”

“Is she a fortune teller?”

“Not so much a fortune teller. She asks questions that make you think in ways you might not have. Helps you get your own answers. You’ll see. A visit with her is a bit like putting a spoonful of sugar, bitters, and salt on your tongue.”

“Delightful.”

###

The coach stopped. Harry jumped down to open the door and pull out the step. Bent over to get through the door, Mary reached for his outstretched hand and stepped down onto the ground. She straightened and gasped. Quinn stepped down beside her and took her arm.

“Maybe I should have warned you. Gretna lives on Flower de Luce Lane. The Grigstons aren’t here anymore since Agnes was hanged. Old man Grigston and his son John are gone. You’re in no danger here.”

Mary stared at the abandoned two-story house, a house of horrors for her and the other girls the Grigston’s beat and underfed. The house was shabbier and dirtier. Narrow and built of stone, it had settled with age, causing more cracks around the windows and a sagging roof. A high, unpainted wood fence surrounded the side yard and backyard where the shed was. The heavy gate hung lopsided with a broken hinge. A big oak tree grew at the corner of the fence. Morgan had climbed that tree, sneaked to the shed where Mary huddled, locked in for the night.

Patches of dead grass and weeds straggled between the deep wheel ruts that led to the gate. A cobblestone path led to the front door that had neither porch nor step. The gray paint had chipped off the door, exposing patches of worn wood.

The door was centered between two tall, narrow windows with shutters painted the same dingy gray. One shutter hung at a crooked angle from a broken hook at the top. Closed dingy, tattered curtains, once white, laundered, starched, and ironed by small hands, red and raw from lye soap, covered the windows on the ground floor.

She whispered, “The window on the left, I hid behind that curtain the first time I saw Morgan. She marched up to the door, brave and determined to find me. I was too scared to move. I thought my heart would beat out of my chest. I couldn’t breathe. Mrs. Grigston told her to leave, said she’d never heard of me. After Morgan left, she told her son, John, a miserable man, as mean as his mother, to lock me in the shed.”

Quinn gently squeezed her arm. “Mary, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

“Yes, you should. This house haunts my dreams. I’m in it, running from room to room trying to find a door. When I find it, I think I’m safe. I open it and fall into a cold, dark hole. The coal bin they locked me in.”

“If I could, I’d hang Agnes Grigston again. If Henry or John Grigston ever show their faces around here again, they’ll be unrecognizable when I finish with them.”

“I’ve tried to be forgiving toward them for what they did. I thought I could. I haven’t. The shed was bad. Cold and dark. But I could move, stand, sit, stretch my legs out, flap my hands to get the blood flowing. The coal bin? I was lucky to breathe.”

She looked up at Quinn, at his eyes. His pain for her was palpable. She gave him what she hoped was a bright smile.

“Now, looking at it. It’s just a tired old house, hunkered down, like a vagrant, harmless and weary. I’m done with it.”

Quinn turned her away from the house and began walking toward a small white house toward the end of the street.

“Gretna’s house. She doesn’t like coaches parked in front of it. I met Gretna in the alley behind her house the day we broke you out of the shed. She saw me running down the back alley when Molly was leading me to meet Damaunt at the back of Grigston’s house and demanded to know what I was doing.”

“

At Quinn’s rap, a petite woman with hair so white it shimmered in the sunshine, opened the door and waved them in. Merry eyes, so dark they looked black, peered at Mary. A smudge of flour dusted one cheek.

“Come in. Good timing. Pie’s in the oven. I can spare a bit of time.”

The small foyer felt cool. A faint scent of lavender and rose wafted from her as her pale green skirt rustled. She pointed toward the chairs in her small parlor.

“Sit down, Irishman, so I don’t snap my neck looking up at you.”

Her soft voice, a faint Scottish lilt, soothed the air. Quinn walked Mary to a chair, then sat. Mary waited for Quinn or Gretna to speak. No one spoke for a few moments. Gretna studied them, her face impassive.

“My name is Gretna. Since you’re caught up in names, it means pearl.”

The flickering fire in the candelabra and fireplace made shimmering golds and pinks shine in her long, lustrous hair, like the colors of a pearl. An appropriate name, Mary thought.

Gretna looked at her and said, “The name Sequana suits you.

A shiver fluttered up Mary’s spine at the sound of the name.

“Sequana was a goddess in ancient France who had Celtic origins. She was associated with water. People came to her for healing and oracles. It’s the name you seek. It’s the who and the why you seek.”

Mary sat in stupefied silence. This woman knew her thoughts.

“Invoke the name when you seek understanding of the images that come to you unbidden and for those you seek. Tell me the different ways information comes to you.”

Mary stammered, compelled to answer the demand.

“Mostly, random images flash into my mind when I least expect it. I’ve had times of witnessing an event happening in real time, as if I’m there as it’s happening.”

“Good. That’s not what shivers your bones. Tell me.”

Mary glanced at Quinn and then back at Gretna, who said, “Don’t mind him. He’s canny. Now, tell me. What makes you shake like a mouse cornered by a cat?”

“Unspoken thoughts that I hear as plain as if the person spoke. They’re so real, I’ve sometimes responded.”

Gretna laughed. “Must’ve rattled a teacup or two. So what are you doing with these gifts of yours? How are you using them?”

“I’m not. I don’t feel it’s proper for me to do anything with them.”

Her episodes with Morgan were different. Those were communications between twin sisters that led to Mary’s rescue. That’s all.

“Not proper? I use my gifts. So, I’m not proper?”

“No, of course not.”

“I’m not proper?”

“That’s not what I meant. Yes, of course, you’re proper.”

“Am I? Who appointed you judge?”

“I’m confused.”

“To say the least.”

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Nothing. Ask that question of yourself. What do I want from myself?” She held her hand up to stop Mary before she spoke. “Never mind. For the sake of time, I’ll answer that for you.” She sighed and sat back in her chair. “You want to belong. You can’t.”

Mary’s stomach flipped. Gretna held up her hand.

“Until. You can’t belong anywhere until you belong with yourself. You need to be you. What you see and hear is a language. Use it. It tells you who you are and why.”

“I’m afraid to. I’ve been told it’s evil. The chaplain ….”

Mary didn’t want to think about the chaplain, or the head mistress at the Foundling and the punishment she got for her “evilness.”

“Pah. Nonsense. Rules and fools. Be yourself. It wastes too much effort to be somebody else.” She turned to Quinn. “You’d know that well enough Irishman. We’ll get to what brought you here in a minute.”

“This isn’t about me this time.”

She scoffed and said, “Oh, it’s about you, dark stranger. It’s all about you.” She turned back to Mary and said, “Tell me about the drop of water.”

Surprised, Mary looked at Quinn, then back at Gretna, whose dark eyes glittered with amusement.

“Drop of water?”

“You know what I’m talking about. Listen to yourself as you tell it. Feel it.”

How did Gretna know about that? She pressed her hands against her stomach, a futile attempt to calm the fluttering butterflies.

“I was sitting on a stone wall, leaning against an oak tree. It’s my favorite place to be.”

She glanced at Quinn. A smile tugged at his lips, brief, but it made her heart flip. She looked away, felt the heat of a blush on her cheeks.

“I felt dreamy. I was staring at the flickering patterns on the ground from the sunshine filtering through the leaves. A drop of water glistened in the sunlight.”

She shrugged, searched her mind for words. How could she explain the inexplicable?

“It seemed to call to me, compelled me to focus on it. Everything else disappeared into nothingness, leaving only me and the drop of water. I found myself floating above it. Not physically. But the essence of me hovered above the drop of water. I dropped into the water, seeped into it.”

She glanced again at Quinn for reassurance. Her story must sound like madness, utter lunacy. What must he think? He sat in perfect stillness, his face unreadable. His dark eyes focused on hers, held her spellbound. Her body relaxed, she held his gaze and continued.

“I experienced being the water. I was not Mary Beaufort inside a drop of water. I was water.” She flipped her hands up. “I don’t know how to explain it. I was water. Then I was me, sitting under the oak tree.”

Quinn tilted his head and smiled at her.

“What did you learn from it?”

Gretna’s question snapped Mary’s attention away from Quinn’s soft lips. Gretna’s brows were drawn together over dark eyes that searched Mary’s face.

“Water has a sense of self, a consciousness of self. It’s sentient. All things are sentient. That was the message to me.”

She looked at Quinn. His eyes were intense. He sat still as a stone.

“Good. When you were the water, what did you call yourself or the water call itself? What was the name? As water.”

Odd question.

“There was no name. I just was. It was. Alive. Sentient. Being. Water is water. The name is water.”

“Is it water? Or drop? Or wet? Or agua? Or l’eau? Or uisge? Or whatever, depending on the language?”

Mary didn’t know what to say. Her mind was reeling with questions.

“My point? Did the drop of water need a name to exist as a sentient being?”

“No.”

“A name is a label. It is not the essence of a being.”

“So why did you tell me my name is Sequana?”

“Did I tell you that? Or is that what you heard? What I said was, Sequana is a name that suits you.”

Abruptly, Gretna turned toward Quinn and said, “Danger comes. Speaks flattery. Speaks false.”

“Cormac Flannery Byrne has stalked me for a long time, but his words aren’t flattery.”

“Not him. Another.”

“Who?”

Gretna laughed. “You’re impatient, Irishman. I’ve told you what I can. You people and your fixation on names.”

Gretna turned to Mary. “Learn to use a weapon. You’ll need it.”

She looked at Quinn. “Arm her. Teach her. Give her the weapons you’re hanging on to. They’re not doing you any good in a box.”

Quinn gave her a sheepish grin.

Gretna stood. “We’re done here.”

“Why do I need a weapon?”

Gretna waved them toward the door.

“Go on now. I’ve said all I’ll say.”

At the door, Gretna caught Mary’s arm, held it, and said, “You’re like the fool who tries to swim up the waterfall to find the source of the river.”

She closed the door in Mary’s face.