A Fall

From Grace

A Nicole Rayburn Historical Mystery

Book 6

By Irina Shapiro

Copyright

© 2024 by Irina Shapiro

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the author.

All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people (except those who are actual historical figures) are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Epilogue

Notes

An Excerpt from The House on the Hill

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Prologue

The snow had finally stopped, the heavy flakes that had blanketed the world beyond in a white quilt replaced by freezing rain. The tiny pellets came hard and fast, bits of ice drumming on the roof and scraping against the windows. The sky was strangely light for that time of night, the horizon tinged salmon pink as if London were on fire, the flames leaping just out of sight. The building creaked and moaned, wind howling in the chimneys and windowpanes shivering with the force of the storm. All the fires in the house had gone out and it was bitterly cold, the old casement windows and daub walls no match for the biting chill of winter.

The staircase landing was lost in semi-darkness, the only light coming from an oil lamp someone had left in the corridor above, and those present hardly more than shadowy silhouettes. All was quiet, but the vicious words still hung in the air, the frightening scene that had just played out like something out of a stage production with well-trained actors performing their parts in a tragedy. But it had been real, and in mere moments, everything had changed. New allegiances had been formed, and the axis of power had shifted. As their eyes met in silent acknowledgement, they knew that nothing would ever be the same, for any of them.

Chapter 1

March 2023

Nicole

The rain came down in sheets, leaching all daylight from the room and leaving the study in virtual darkness. Only the ethereal blue light of my computer dispelled the gloom, but only in a physical sense. I stared at the blank screen, and if I were a more fanciful person, I would have thought that the blinking cursor was mocking me. I should have been at least halfway through a new book if I hoped to keep to my publishing schedule, but I had yet to hit on an idea that inspired me. I couldn’t even seem to find the words to write a simple blog post, something I was normally able to accomplish in a matter of minutes. I sighed with frustration and closed the blank document. I would come back to it later and hope inspiration struck, which it hadn’t done in quite some time.

In the past, personal crises hadn’t deterred me from writing since my emotions were the fuel that drove the stories and upped the stakes for my characters, but the last few months had been too draining to focus on creating, and the ideas that normally floated to the top of my mind just as I was falling asleep were replaced with anxiety about the people I had come to love. Kyle’s family was in utter disarray, his half-sister’s kidnapping by a network that sold human organs on the black market several months ago having rocked the family to the core. The aftershocks were still felt by every member of the clan, emotions ranging from guilt to anger to deep sadness and fear.

Edie had been rescued in time and had thankfully walked away from her ordeal with all her organs intact, but she had not only lost the baby she had been carrying but had been robbed of her sense of well-being and personal freedom. Things she had done without a second thought, like walking home alone or taking the Tube, now seemed fraught with danger, and she no longer trusted her friends or the motives of the people whose interest in her singing career she had courted only a few months ago.

Edie had retreated into a world of her own, giving up all the things that made her happy, including the music that had been the soundtrack to her life and the one dream she had worked hard to pursue. The only person she still trusted outside of the family was Kieran, who had truly been there for her in the days following her rescue and had done everything in his power to make Edie feel safe and loved every single day. He probably grieved the baby he hadn’t even known about, but mostly he seemed to miss the girl he had taken for granted before he’d nearly lost her for good and went out of his way to make up for past mistakes. But despite Kieran’s unwavering support and the cocoon of protection the family had woven around her, Edie wasn’t ready to return to the life she’d known.

She had given up her flat and moved back in with her parents, leaving her flatmate in the lurch and spending her days holed up in her old bedroom, too traumatized to sing even in private. Carla was relieved to have her daughter back under her roof, where she could keep an eye on her, but between Edie’s understandable fear and Sean’s forced retirement, the Cadogan household was a tense place.

Due to his age, Sean would have retired from the Met soon anyhow, but having been forced to leave his position as the chief constable due to allegations of nepotism made against him during the investigation into Edie’s disappearance, he was like a tiger locked in a cage. The poor man didn’t know what to do to fill his days and went for long hikes along the streets of London, more often than not winding up at our house and asking if he might take Ava for a walk or play with her indoors. Kyle and I appreciated his help but found his barely contained anger and frustration both contagious and distracting and longed for a time when life had been more manageable.

After the new year, we finally agreed on a schedule where Sean and Carla would take Ava for a few hours on alternate days and give us a chance to work in peace. Not to be outdone, Kyle’s mother and stepfather had volunteered to take Ava on the remaining two days, so there was no excuse for me not to be writing. I had the time and the space I needed, but still the ideas wouldn’t come, and although I was tempted to explore Edie’s story in a fictional context, I was fully aware that such a project would further destabilize the family and cause a rift that could never be healed. So I was back to searching for an original idea.

I had never been a plotter. I was what the American authors called a pantser, meaning that I wrote by the seat of my pants. Plotting simply wasn’t my process, so I eventually gave in to the chaos and vomited words onto a page until I had purged myself of the story.

As I had learned over time, chaos can be an author’s best friend. It can shake one out of their complacency, introduce fresh ideas and more current avenues of research, and force the author to explore new directions and even stylistic changes to their writing. But chaos, when not properly managed, can also cause paralysis. As I sat in my cozy study and stared at my computer, I finally admitted, if only to myself, that perhaps I had tried to do too much too soon. The past few years had been Chaos with a capital C. Between meeting Kyle, living through the pandemic, getting married, having a baby, and severing ties with my agent and publisher, I had unbalanced myself to the point where I no longer knew which way was up.

I had self-published my last book and loved the control and the feeling of self-worth the process gave me, but I had never realized just how much time self-publishing would take. Between writing, researching, editing, and attending to all the administrative and promotional tasks, I barely had time to breathe..

Kyle had suggested that I hire an assistant, but I wasn’t sure one person would be able to alleviate the pressure I had unwittingly created for myself. My hand went to my mouse, seemingly of its own accord, and I opened my email, staring at the name on an email I had received yesterday. It was from Sienna Grant of Gilcrest and Logue, a well-respected publisher of commercial fiction. Sienna asked if we might meet, and that could mean only one thing. Gilcrest and Logue wanted to sign me, so the proverbial ball was in my court. I did not respond to the email immediately, as I was wont to do. I needed time to think and be sure of what I really wanted. Just then, I wasn’t so sure, so perhaps hearing what Sienna had to say wasn’t such a bad idea.

On impulse, I responded to the email and sent if off before I had a chance to change my mind. Sienna responded almost immediately, asking if I was free for lunch tomorrow, or any day that week. I said I was, and we agreed on a time and place before I shut down my computer and hurried upstairs. I had a reading and book signing in less than two hours, and it was time to get ready.

Chapter 2

I paid the cabbie and climbed out, glad that the rain had stopped at last. The first stars of the evening were beginning to appear in the twilit sky, and the air smelled damp after the downpour. Before going in, I took a moment to admire the antique sign that was painted a rich green and embossed with gold letters: The Quill and Ink Book Shoppe. The shop was a new stop on my list of promotional venues, and I hoped the event would prove successful and attract some new fans, since attendance wasn’t guaranteed, and I could be reading to a nearly empty room. I had passed by The Quill and Ink a few times but had never been inside or met the owner, Deborah Dolan. Deborah had sounded lovely on the phone when we spoke last week, and I looked forward to chatting with her in person before the reading.

A bell jangled above the door when I entered the shop, and I stopped on the threshold, taking a moment to savor my first impression. The shop was distinctly Dickensian, with shelves and shelves of well-known books and several tables displaying more recent offerings. The antique checkout counter and wood paneling glowed with the patina of age, and the brass fittings gleamed with polish. The cash register had to be worth a few quid, since I hadn’t seen its like outside a museum. The brass till had to date to the beginning of the twentieth century and had a lever like an old-fashioned slot machine. There were Victorian light fixtures and even a cast-iron stove in the corner that would have kept the space warm during the winter months before the shop had been outfitted with central heating. If I were a writer of children’s books, I would have set my story right there in the shop, since it was the sort of place where magic was likely to happen and a secret portal to another world could be hidden among the well-stocked shelves.

Deborah Dolan wasn’t quite as old as the items in the shop, but the proprietress had an antique air about her as well. I couldn’t be sure if she dressed like a Victorian schoolmarm for effect or if this was her everyday style. Deborah smiled warmly and held out her hand in the way a lady would when meeting a gentleman, or like a monarch who expected their subjects to kiss the ring. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, so I gave her fingers a light squeeze and returned her regal smile.

“Thank you for inviting me, Deborah. I’m thrilled to be here.”

“And we’re thrilled to have you, Nicole,” Debora replied. She had a melodious voice perfectly suited for reading bedtime stories.

At first glance, I had put Deborah at around sixty, but now that I’d had a closer look, I realized she was much younger. Mid-forties at a guess. The outmoded hairstyle and Victorian shirtwaist dress made her look more mature, as did the pale strands that silvered her honey-blond hair and the feathery brows that matched her pale lashes. She wore no makeup and very little jewelry, only antique earrings and a brooch that was pinned to the high collar of her gown.

“Can I get you a cup of tea? We have some time until the guests arrive, and I thought we might have a cozy chat,” Deborah suggested.

“I’m always up for a cup of tea and a cozy chat,” I replied, and followed Deborah to a half-hidden alcove at the back of the shop.

There was a small round table flanked by two hardback chairs. A gold-fringed paisley tablecloth covered the table, and the only light came from an antique sconce that had been fitted with an electric candle. All that was missing was a crystal ball and a curtain of colorful beads to divide the alcove from the rest of the shop to give the impression that Deborah was about to divine my future. The kettle must have just boiled because Deborah reappeared in record time, and just like the woman herself, the tea tray looked like something straight out of a Victorian parlor. The teapot and cups were bone china painted with pink and blue flowers, and the teacakes looked and smelled amazing.

I accepted a cup of fragrant Earl Grey, added a splash of milk, and helped myself to a tiny fairy cake. It tasted as good as it looked, and I wondered if this was a ritual Deborah indulged in every day or only on special occasions. Her waist certainly didn’t speak to someone who ate cakes every afternoon, but I had a feeling she was wearing a corset beneath the stiffly starched fabric. Deborah Dolan clearly didn’t do things by halves.

“I have to confess,” Deborah said after taking a dainty sip of tea, “I had something of an ulterior motive for inviting you here, Nicole.” She smiled shyly, and I thought I noticed a hint of anxiety in her light brown eyes.

“Oh?”

“I loved all your books, but the Victorian theme in The Gilded Lily got me thinking.”

Deborah went quiet, so I took a sip of tea and waited. She would explain in her own time, and I saw no reason to rush her since we had plenty of time before the guests began to arrive. As if finally coming to a firm decision, Deborah went on.

“The shop has been in my family since the eighteenth century. We stocked first editions of books that are still considered classics today. Charles Dickens read from A Mutual Friend from behind that very podium.” She pointed to the stand where I assumed I would be reading. “We even hosted Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice, that was the book she read an excerpt from. And dear Jane did not accept just any old invitation,” Deborah said, beaming with pride.

“I’m honored to follow in the footsteps of the greats,” I replied, feeling truly humbled.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Deborah continued. “You mentioned in the notes that you like to base your books on real mysteries and go about investigating the characters in the manner of a forensic genealogist. Well, I have a mystery I’d like you to investigate, if you’re up for the challenge. Perhaps it can be the subject of your next book.”

Deborah wasn’t the first person to try to temp me with a family mystery. I received emails and handwritten letters all the time, the authors sharing a family legend or telling me about some illustrious ancestor, but I had to admit that none of them intrigued me as much as Deborah Dolan. Looking around me, I felt like Alice in Wonderland and almost expected a vial that said “Drink Me” to appear out of thin air and hurl me into an imaginary world.

“Please, tell me,” I invited. If the story was of no interest to me, I would turn Deborah down gently, after I was done with the reading and the book signing.

Deborah instantly perked up. “Have you heard of Edgar Hilliard?”

“Sorry, I haven’t.”

That was clearly the wrong answer, but although visibly disappointed, Deborah wasn’t deterred in the least.

“Edgar was my Victorian ancestor and a well-known playwright. He wrote his plays right there,” Deborah said, pointing to the polished counter, “in between helping customers. Two of his plays were staged at the Royal Victoria Theatre, as the Old Vic was called then.”

“What an achievement,” I said, duly impressed.

“Each play had a minimum of twenty-five performances. Had Edgar lived longer, I’m certain he would be remembered as one of the great playwrights of his generation, and perhaps he would even have become known as the Father of Science Fiction.”

“The Father of Science Fiction?” I repeated, unsure I had heard her correctly.

“That’s right. Edgar was working on a manuscript about a young man who builds a time travel device and flies through time. His manuscript predated H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine by decades,” Deborah exclaimed. “Had the novel been published, it would have become an overnight sensation.”

“Why wasn’t it?” I asked.

Deborah’s eyes misted with tears. “Because Edgar disappeared. He went out one night and never came back. His wife and sister reported him missing, but the police found no trace. Edgar simply vanished.” Deborah smiled through the tears. “I’d like to think that he found a way to travel through time.”

If Deborah wanted to believe that Edgar Hilliard had traveled through time, I wasn’t about to dissuade her, but I thought his disappearance was probably the result of something more mundane, such as a violent crime or a desire to reinvent himself and begin a new life elsewhere. It had happened more often than people realized, especially in a time when all one had had to do was invent a new identity. I often thought how much easier it had been to commit fraud before the invention of the internet. There had been no way to Google someone or stalk them on social media and track their movements. Even a police investigation had required considerably more legwork than it did today, when the investigator could learn everything they needed about someone without ever leaving their desk.

“Did Edgar vanish after leaving the shop or his home?” I asked, eager to learn as much as I could of what had transpired that night.

“This was his home,” Deborah replied. “These days, the upper floors are divided into flats, but in the 1800s, the entire building was occupied by the Hilliards. The kitchen, study, dining room, and parlor were directly above us, and the bedrooms were on the top floor.”

“So they were financially comfortable.”

“Comfortable but not wealthy,” Deborah replied. “They had a maid-of-all-work, which was really the bare minimum in those days. Most well-to-do middle-class families kept more than one servant.”

I nodded. I knew that, and the fact that the Hilliards had been able to afford only one maid helped me to narrow down their place in society.

“And Edgar’s sister lived here as well?” I asked.

“Yes. Grace lived here with Edgar and his wife, Venetia.”

I jotted down the names beneath the notes I had prepared for the reading in case I should need them.

“Someone murdered Edgar. I’m sure of it,” Deborah said, her voice quivering with outrage. “And I want you to discover who did it. You were able to solve those other mysteries,” she added. “Perhaps you can find something the police missed.”

“Who do you think would want to murder Edgar?” I asked, wondering if Deborah had a working theory.

“One of his rivals. They were jealous of his success as a playwright.”

“That would be rather Machiavellian,” I replied.

“Writers are a jealous lot, capable of unimagined savagery when they feel threatened by someone else’s success,” Deborah said. “Present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” I replied, and tried hard not to roll my eyes. Perhaps Deborah should have tried her hand at writing. She certainly had the flair for it.

“When exactly did Edgar go missing?” I asked, steering the conversation into safer waters.

“February sixth, 1850. I really need to find out what happened to him, Nicole.”

I glanced at my watch. The reading was scheduled for six o’clock, and it was a quarter of. I needed to prepare, but what I really wanted was to get away from Deborah’s intense gaze. She spoke of Edgar as if he’d disappeared last week, not nearly two hundred years ago, and I got the feeling she didn’t have much in her current life that was worthy of such passion.

“I would be happy to discuss this further,” I said. “Do you think we can talk after the event? I would like a few minutes to prepare.”

“Of course,” Deborah gushed. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. It’s just that this means so much to me. I would be truly grateful if you decided to take this on.”

“I will certainly think about it,” I promised.

“Please, go on,” Deborah said, gesturing toward the podium. “Make Charles Dickens and dear Jane proud.”

“I will do my best,” I said, and practically sprinted away.

Chapter 3

I spent the next two hours reading to a group of about thirty. It was mostly women, some middle-aged, a few in their twenties, and several ladies who had to be in their seventies and eighties. There were even two men, an older gentleman who had slept through the entire reading, then woke up with a start and ambled toward the door, and a younger man who was there with his mum. About a dozen newcomers arrived in time for the signing, which Deborah had advertised on the shop’s Facebook page. Having signed the final copy for a chatty lady who’d read all my books, including the nonfiction titles, I would have loved to slip away unnoticed, but that was not to be. Deborah made a beeline for me as soon as the woman headed for the door.

“Have you given any more thought to my request?” she trilled. Deborah was holding several thin volumes against her breast, her eyes shining with hope. “I wanted to show you these.” She handed over the stack with obvious reluctance, like a new mother who was allowing a friend to hold her baby but was afraid the numpty would drop the infant.

The first two volumes were the plays Deborah had told me about. The pages were slightly yellowed with time, but the covers were as good as new. Deborah probably kept them in a special container to prevent air and light damage. The third volume was a calfskin-bound notebook, the story within handwritten, the ink faded to brown. It had to be the first draft because there were crossed-out sentences, notes in the margins, and several inkblots that obliterated the words beneath.

“This is Edgar’s final manuscript,” Deborah said, following my gaze. “He had finished the first draft before he went missing. I expect he would have made a clean copy and would have shopped it around to a publisher, but alas, he disappeared before any of that could happen. I do wish his wife would have had it copied and published, but she obviously didn’t care that much about his life’s work.”

Obsessed much? I wanted to ask, but bit my tongue. Despite Deborah’s peculiar fixation on her ancestor, this was an interesting story, just the sort that left me both intrigued and excited, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to set my new book in Victorian London. I had just published The Gilded Lily, which although set about forty years after Edgar Hilliard’s disappearance was still a novel depicting Victorians, and some of the settings and societal norms would seem as if they were lifted directly from the previous manuscript and conveniently recycled. Readers expected something new and fresh, not a regurgitation of a previously published work. And there was another, bigger problem. If I took on this project, Deborah would expect me to depict Edgar in a way she thought fitting, and I wasn’t prepared to pen an ode to his sainthood. I would write the truth, and that meant creating three-dimensional characters who were tragically flawed, unflinchingly real, and completely human. There was no point otherwise.

“I don’t know, Deborah,” I demurred. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

I didn’t want to refuse Deborah outright, but I didn’t think this was the right project for me, at least not at this juncture.

“You can take these home,” Deborah gushed, and pushed the volumes into my hands. “Read them and see what you think. You can really get a sense of Edgar through his writing. He was brilliant, and a far better writer than most modern authors. I tell you, some bestselling books are absolute drivel. I’m embarrassed to stock them in my shop, but I have to cater to my customers, otherwise they’ll take their business elsewhere. Erotica, reverse harem, billionaire romance, and bondage. What’s next?”

“You must like some modern authors,” I said.

“I do enjoy contemporary romance, but only if they have a fresh twist on an old theme. And there are not many of those,” Deborah said with a grimace of distaste. “Same old plot devices dressed up in cringe-worthy modern slang and eye-catching covers. So, will you do it?” she pressed. “Will you read Edgar’s work?”

“Surely you don’t want to let these notebooks out of your sight,” I protested. I didn’t want to be responsible for something that was clearly so precious and irreplaceable.

“I don’t mind,” Deborah replied. “You’re my only chance of finding out the truth. And I know you’ll take good care of them. I can tell you’re a careful person.”

“I can’t promise anything,” I tried again.

“I realize that, but anything you can discover would be extremely helpful.”

“All right,” I said, and stowed the volumes in my satchel. “I will take a look.”

Deborah looked relieved. “You must think I am no better than some silly groupie.” She reached out and grabbed hold of my wrist, her gaze radiating intensity. “Nicole, if you take this on, you have my word that I will accept whatever story you choose to tell. You always handle the characters’ flaws with understanding and tact and never slander anyone without proof of wrongdoing. If Edgar decided to leave his wife and start a new life, I would not hold it against him, or you. I only want to know the truth and immortalize my ancestor’s name.”

“Can I let you know in a few days?” I asked, slowly backing toward the door.

The shop no longer felt magical but watchful and tyrannical, and I was more than ready to return to my own time and place. This Dickensian prison suddenly made me feel short of breath.

“Of course,” Deborah said. “And thank you for today. Everyone enjoyed the reading.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” I said again, and fled into the spring night.

Chapter 4

Anyone with an ounce of good sense would have immediately told Deborah Dolan that they weren’t interested in the project, but although I did pride myself on having sound judgment, I had also been blessed with a healthy dose of curiosity. And Deborah’s pitch had been sprinkled with words that got my spine tingling, a sensation I hadn’t felt since finding a photo of Lily Redmond in my study.

Kyle had already put Ava to bed and was watching a film on Netflix, so I decided to leave him to it and see what I could find out about Edgar Hilliard. A surprising number of hits popped up when I Googled “Edgar Hilliard Playwright.” Edgar had been well known in his day, and his plays had received glowing reviews from several critics. His work was hailed as clever, innovative, and imbued with wit and a subtle sense of humor. High praise for an author in any century. I couldn’t find anything about the police investigation into Edgar’s disappearance, but that was hardly surprising. The Metropolitan Police Service had been established only twenty years before and had still been in its infancy, even though Bow Street Runners had been established a hundred years prior and the Thames River Police had been around since the end of the eighteenth century.

Despite a history of organized policing in London, the Met detectives at the time had not received any formal training and had to rely on their own initiative and wits. There hadn’t been any data they could consult, such as forensics or the video surveillance the police relied on so heavily today, not to mention the ability to look into someone’s finances and check their whereabouts using satellite technology and cell towers. Nineteenth-century policemen had had nothing to go on but someone’s word and goodwill. It was a wonder they’d solved as many crimes as they had given that their only tool had been logic, not a gift every policeman was blessed with even today.

Still, it would have been nice to find something helpful that could be used as a starting point in my investigation. As it was, all I had were three names, two plays and an unpublished manuscript, and a star-struck descendant. I also had someone who could help me in ways no online search ever could. I didn’t want to take unfair advantage of Quinn’s psychic ability, but if I knew anything about Dr. Quinn Allenby-Russell, it was that she lived for this sort of thing and would at the very least like to be consulted.

I’d had many friends over the years. Some had genuinely cared about me and valued my friendship. Others had befriended me because they thought there was something to be gained from the association. Those friends had come later in life, once I had begun to make a name for myself and could be an asset to someone trying to succeed in publishing. And there were other pals, who had drifted away once the common denominators of school, work, or mutual friends were no longer there to connect us. One or two had even fit the definition of frenemy, but I had learned to weed such toxic connections out before I opened myself too wide and got hurt. Quinn didn’t fit into any of those categories because she was entirely unique and all the more special for it.

I valued this new friendship above all others because for the first time, I felt that I had met someone who truly understood me. Perhaps Quinn Allenby would have grown up to be a completely different person had she not discovered her psychic gift. She wasn’t impressed by material things or social standing because she understood just how easily those things could be stripped away. She’d seen people of all walks of life stumble, laid bare, and left to struggle for survival knowing that there would be no one to pick them up when they eventually fell. Quinn understood the true perils of the human condition in a way no one else did. And I trusted her as I had never trusted another woman of my acquaintance because she wanted nothing from me other than friendship, which I was more than happy to give.

I knew Quinn would be interested in Edgar Hilliard’s manuscript, and I would gladly show it to her, but I didn’t want to presume. Now that I knew her better, I fully understood why she had kept her ability secret all these years. It wasn’t because she was ashamed to admit she was psychic or because she feared people would try to discredit her, although that was always a concern when someone’s talent wasn’t quite accepted by a skeptical society. It was because once people knew, they wanted a part of it, either to learn about their own family’s past or to monetize Quinn’s unique ability for personal gain.

At first, I had thought that Rhys Morgan was one of those people. Rhys had produced three series of Echoes from the Past, a program where every episode was based on a real person whose fate Quinn had witnessed firsthand, and viewers were clamoring for more. I had thought he had exploited Quinn’s ability for professional and financial gain, but once I had learned more about their relationship, I had come to understand that Rhys was devoted to Quinn in a way that transcended the professional and he had done things to help her that no other person would ever willingly undertake. And that was why Quinn trusted him implicitly. The give and take was real, the friendship built on something unbreakable and wonderfully pure.

I didn’t want to cock things up with Quinn because I hoped we could become that kind of friend to each other, which was why the only way I would accept her help was if it was offered freely.

Chapter 5

Despite our busy schedules, Quinn and I tried to meet every week. We’d have a coffee, talk about nothing and everything, and then go home feeling lighter than before we had met and ready to meet the week’s challenges. This week, it was more of a show and tell than just a chat. Quinn listened without interrupting as I filled her in on my book signing at The Quill and Ink and Deborah Dolan’s request. Quinn’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment when I described the quaint bookshop with its antique till and mentioned Deborah’s vintage attire.

“That’s either a clever marketing strategy or a cry for help,” Quinn joked. “I wonder if she goes about dressed like that all the time.”

“Probably not, but she seems strangely fixated on this decades-old mystery.”

“Have you read the plays and the manuscript?” Quinn asked as she stirred a sachet of sugar into her coffee.

“I have. The plays are diverting, the sort of thing a respectable Victorian gentleman would feel comfortable taking his wife to see.”

“In other words, nothing that would overload her tiny female brain?” Quinn replied sarcastically.

“Exactly.”

“And the time travel novel?”

“A bit more risqué than the plays by virtue of its genre but quite tame by today’s standards. The main character, Damian, uses a device he’s invented to travel through time.”

“What sort of device?” Quinn asked. “In a time travel novel, the how is just as important as the when and where. Or why.”

“It’s an astrolabe.”

“Clever,” Quinn said, nodding approvingly.

“Damian is clever, but because he’s all too aware of the consequences should he be found out, he remains more an observer than a participant. He never engages with anyone on a deeply personal level and never winds up in a situation where he is chased by a pitchfork-wielding mob because they suspect him of all manner of sorcery.”

“What fun is that?” Quinn scoffed with an impish grin.

“These days, the story wouldn’t amaze anyone. Readers crave excitement, romance, and heart-pounding danger, preferably all in the same chapter, but in the mid-nineteenth century, this would have been groundbreaking stuff.”

“Does Damian ever travel forward in time?” Quinn asked.

“No, only backwards. I doubt Edgar’s imagination could stretch to a world he’d never seen.”

“It’s a real talent to be able to envision something entirely unique, especially in a time when there were no points of reference, such as films and books in the same genre, and every detail had to come from the author’s mind.”

Quinn took a sip of her coffee and studied me across the table. “Is your mind made up, then? Will Edgar Hilliard be the subject of your next novel?”

“I would like to figure out what happened to him or at least come up with a plausible theory.”

“I very much doubt he was murdered by one of his rivals,” Quinn said.

“So do I, but you never know, do you? You hear stories of individuals who went out for milk and never returned, leaving their family in limbo, and forever wondering if their loved one was alive or dead. The majority of those missing were either murdered intentionally or killed in a freak accident and not properly identified, but there are those who turn up years later, living under an assumed name and part of a new family.”

“So, you think Edgar Hilliard might have faked his own death?”

“He could have. How difficult would it be to get to Southampton, purchase a ticket, and board a departing ship?”

“And unless he traveled under his own name, there would be no record of his departure,” Quinn added.

“Even if he did travel under his own name, he could have sailed from any port in England or even Scotland or Ireland and could have gone anywhere in the world. We know from his time travel manuscript that he had imagined exploring other places.”

“The passenger manifests might be online, but you would have to check every ship that left Great Britian within at least thirty days of Edgar’s disappearance.”

“Deborah said that his disappearance was reported to the police. Maybe there’s a missing persons’ report that’s not available online.”

“Maybe, but Edgar was never found,” Quinn reminded me.

“It would be interesting to see exactly what the Hilliard ladies said in their statement. There could be a clue the police missed. Or ignored. Women weren’t exactly taken seriously at the time, and the policeman who took the report could have come to his own conclusions.”

Quinn grinned, the smile lighting her normally serious face. “You would be looking for a needle in a haystack that was blown away nearly two hundred years ago from a field in the middle of nowhere.”

“Essentially, yes, but I’m willing to give it a go. It’s not as if I have any better ideas at the moment, and I’m starting to get anxious. And the more anxious I feel, the fewer ideas spring to mind.”

Quinn held out her hand, her mouth quirking at the corners. “Can I borrow this?” she asked, jutting her chin toward the manuscript.

“I thought you’d never ask,” I gushed, and handed her the plastic sleeve.

“You knew I wouldn’t be able to resist,” Quinn teased.

It was my turn to grin. “I didn’t know, but I hoped. It’s too tempting a story to pass on.”

“Most historical mysteries are. Truth really is stranger than fiction most of the time, which is why so many books and films are based on actual events.”

Quinn stowed the manuscript in her tote and sighed resignedly. “It’s back to the trenches for me. I have several errands to run, and then I need to nip to the shops to get something for dinner before the school run. Happy as it would make the children to have pizza two nights in a row, it would probably not earn me the Mother of the Year Award.”

We finished our coffees and left the café, parting company at the corner. I couldn’t wait to hear what Quinn would see when she held the manuscript but didn’t dare rush her. She’d get to it when she was ready. I glanced at my watch. I’d go home and do a little more research, then meet Sienna Grant at La Dona for lunch.

Chapter 6

I had seen a photo of Sienna Grant online, but it didn’t do her justice. With her long blond hair, expertly made-up blue eyes, and elegant and no doubt bespoke trouser suit, she was absolutely gorgeous. We were probably around the same age, but I suddenly felt dowdy and underdressed in my off-the-rack black trousers and mauve and cream patterned silk blouse. Sienna smiled warmly and instead of offering her hand went in for a hug. She air kissed me, then hung her alligator Birkin on the back of the chair and sat down. I sat down as well and stowed my modest handbag next to my chair.

“I’m so excited to meet you,” Sienna exclaimed as she smiled into my eyes. “I told Rory I should be the one to speak to you, and he agreed.”

Rory had to be Rory Gilcrest, managing director of Gilcrest and Logue, and the way Sienna said his name made me think that they were more than mere colleagues. Sienna and I made casual small talk until the waiter poured us both Italian mineral water served with paper-thin slices of lemon, then delivered our glasses of wine and took our order. Once the waiter departed, Sienna instantly changed gears. She had an hour and a half to make her pitch, and she wasn’t wasting any more time on trivialities.

“Nicole, I know you’re happy to self-publish and you’re without question a savvy businesswoman. We all know what you have been able to accomplish. But ask yourself this. Is self-publishing what you really want to devote your time to?”

This was clearly a rhetorical question, so I took a sip of wine and waited for Sienna to continue.

“I know you weren’t happy with your former publisher, but our approach is very different, and we can offer you a more balanced and modern experience,” Sienna said. “Our team was handpicked by Rory and Jay, and every single person that would work on your books has their finger on the beating pulse of the current market.”

“Which means what, exactly?” I asked.

Sienna smiled confidently. She was obviously well prepared to answer any questions. “The industry has changed drastically over the past decade, and the tried-and-true methods no longer work as effectively as they used to. At Gilcrest and Logue, we focus on digital marketing, prime bookseller placement, and foreign markets. You’re well known in the United Kingdom, but how many people would instantly recognize your name in the United States, France, or Germany? We can not only expand your readership in the U.K. but open up new markets and make certain your books don’t languish in literary obscurity. Our expertly targeted marketing campaigns, edgy copy, and eye-catching covers will not only attract new readers but reinvigorate your current fanbase, and the top-tier actors we partner with on audiobook production will deliver their own fans and expand your story’s reach into hitherto untapped markets. And then there are foreign translations and film rights,” Sienna added, making the offer even more enticing. “I don’t believe your former publisher pursued any of those opportunities, did they?”

“No, but I have explored those avenues on my own, and with some success,” I added modestly.

Sienna smiled at me indulgently. “But wouldn’t it be nice to have someone else manage all that for you?”

“It would,” I admitted.

I had never realized how much work went into the business side of publishing. From creating targeted ads with catchy slogans, scheduling promotions, tracking results of campaigns in order to optimize sales the next time around, and reviewing all the inquiries that came in on a daily basis, there wasn’t much time left for writing and research. I had been working with Miranda McCray, who was a freelance digital marketer, but I wasn’t prepared to blindly trust her with my business. I used Miranda as a guide rather than a crutch, and although I had learned a lot from her and my newfound knowledge was proving helpful, I was also tired and overwhelmed.

“Nicole, you would be part of the process all the way,” Sienna promised. “Have a seat at the table, so to speak. We would welcome your feedback on all aspects of merchandising and production and provide you with a point-by-point marketing plan, not simply take the rights to your books and keep everything we undertake on your behalf shrouded in secrecy.”

Sienna waited until the waiter placed our salads before us and walked away, then reached into her bag, withdrawing a thin folder, which she handed to me. “It’s all in there. We are ready to offer you a three-book contract. Please review the proposal carefully and bear in mind that every aspect of the offer is negotiable. Every single one,” she emphasized. “If you decide to collaborate with us, this will be a true partnership, and you would never be made to feel like an underling whose input is of no consequence.”

She was belaboring the point, but I strongly suspected that Sienna knew a lot more about me than I had originally thought and believed that the way to my heart was to offer me a working relationship based on communication and mutual respect—unlike my previous publisher, who had indeed treated me as an underling and had always been quick to remind me that there were plenty of other authors who would kill to be in my shoes.

“And just think how much more time you would have to write and spend with your little girl,” Sienna added, her gaze warm with feeling at the mention of Ava. She was good; I’d give her that. “How old is Ava now?” she asked.

“Eighteen months.”

“Such a wonderful age. My nephew is nearly two, and he’s absolutely precious.”

I glanced at Sienna’s left hand. She wore an engagement ring with a diamond that could probably be seen from space but was still surprisingly tasteful. Sienna noticed the direction of my gaze and grinned.

“Rory and I got engaged at Christmas. It was such a romantic proposal. He popped the question in Bora Bora.”

I was sure I had read somewhere that Rory Gilcrest was married and had four children, but perhaps I had got that wrong. Or maybe he was now divorced. I really wasn’t all that interested in his personal life. Unless his relationships affected his business decisions, they had nothing to do with me, and I knew for a fact that Gilcrest and Logue were financially solid and well respected in the business. G&L wasn’t one of the big five, but a smaller publisher was able to pay more attention to their authors and devote a bigger slice of the budget to promoting their books.

Sienna and I talked about trivial things, and she showed me several breathtaking photos from Bora Bora. She was professional enough not to include personal shots of her and Rory sunbathing, frolicking in the water, or gazing at each other lovingly in the candlelight as their dinner was prepared by a private chef. That would have been inappropriate for a first meeting and would have instantly put me off. Once we finished our pot of Darjeeling and dainty chocolate cakes served with raspberry coulis, Sienna signaled the waiter for the bill.

To her credit, she didn’t bring up the offer again or ask me to ring her as soon as I was ready to discuss the proposal in greater detail. She’d said her piece, and the rest was up to me. For once, the ball was in my court, and I had to admit that I liked the feeling. A tiny, petty side of me envisioned my former agent’s reaction to the news. Angela had realized she’d made a mistake in allowing me to walk away and had reached out several times, but although our exchanges had been friendly and polite, I had made it clear that our business relationship was over and there was no way back.

Outside, Sienna gave me another hug and an air kiss. “Take as long as you need to think it over, Nicole. There’s no rush.”

“Thank you. I will,” I replied.

Sienna flagged down a taxi and climbed in, only the delicate scent of her perfume lingering on my coat to remind me of her presence. I had an hour before I had to collect Ava from Rita and Michael’s house, so I decided to go for a walk. I needed some time to process the offer before I even looked at the numbers. Sienna had made it very clear that the compensation was negotiable, so the real question was how I felt about surrendering control once again.

I headed toward the Embankment and walked at a brisk pace. It was overcast, but there were plenty of people about, running, walking, sitting on the benches and looking out over the Thames, which was a cool gray this afternoon and as busy as ever with maritime traffic. I had no interest in boats and tried to focus on the practicalities instead, mentally creating a list of pros and cons of accepting this new opportunity. I would, of course, discuss the offer with Kyle, but first I wanted to examine my own feelings and determine which way I was leaning.

Once I got started, the cons list was simple, but it was the pros side that surprised me. I’d thought I had made up my mind and would stick with self-publishing in the face of any attractive offer, but Sienna was a good saleswoman and had cleverly drawn me in with promises of a respectful partnership, an experienced yet modern team, and most of all, the prospect of having more time. Like any new mum, I felt overwhelmed with guilt every time I had to leave Ava to go to work. I wasn’t about to chuck in my career and become a stay-at-home mum, but perhaps I could streamline the process. There weren’t enough hours in the day to accomplish every task I set out for myself, and I readily acknowledged that I was stretched too thin.

I loved my work, but Ava was my first priority. She was growing and changing so quickly that I barely had time to enjoy the special moments before they were a distant memory and she was onto something new. To leave all the tedious admin to dedicated professionals and focus solely on my writing sounded like heaven just now, and I realized that perhaps it wasn’t self-publishing that had attracted me but the prospect of not having to kowtow to an agent who had played on my insecurities and a publisher that had always kept me at arms’ length when it came to any decisions pertaining to my work.

Would my experience with a new, dynamic publisher be any different? I didn’t have much to lose by accepting the offer, but I had much to gain, and I had to decide what was more important to me at this stage, family or professional success. With the right situation, I could have the best of both worlds. But first, I had to write a new book, because all this speculation was moot unless I had something exciting to offer.

Gilcrest and Logue were willing to give me the space I needed to come to a decision, but my new, as-yet-unstarted manuscript wouldn’t wait. Feeling energized and more positive than I had in days, I headed toward the Tube station. I would go home, knock out the blog post I had abandoned, then collect Ava. And tomorrow, I would make a start on my new novel. For the moment, that was enough of a plan.

Chapter 7

It was once Ava was in bed that I was finally able to discuss Gilcrest and Logue’s offer with Kyle. He poured us both a glass of white wine, and we got comfortable in the lounge, the light from the gas fireplace illuminating the room in a gentle glow and moonlight streaming through the window. Kyle listened carefully as I outlined the terms and my reaction to them, then asked, “Which way are you leaning?”

“I’m tempted.”

Kyle took a sip of wine, set the glass on the coffee table, and reclined against the back of the sofa, looking for all the world like someone who had nothing to say.

“Aren’t you going to help me make up my mind?” I asked.

Kyle smiled. “Of course I will, but first I want to hear what you really think.”

“I just told you.”

“You presented the facts and went over the pros and cons, but how do you feel?” Kyle asked.

“I feel uncertain. I find myself at a crossroads a lot sooner than I expected, and I don’t want to make a hasty decision based on my emotional needs.”

Kyle crossed his legs and tilted his head to the side, examining me as if I were a case study. “Nic, I think what you really need to ask yourself is what does literary success look like to you? Is it about awards, sales rank, ratings, reviews, or financial security?”

“All of the above,” I replied without hesitation.

“All right, but if you were to narrow it down to the two most important factors, what would they be?”

“I’m honestly not sure. I never really thought about it in those terms.”

“Okay. Let’s backtrack, then. Why do you read?” Kyle asked.

“What?”

“Why do you choose certain books over others?”

“Because they appeal to me, obviously,” I replied, somewhat irritably. Kyle wasn’t helping me decide by introducing elements that had no bearing on my decision.

“But why do they appeal to you?” he pressed. “Are you looking to broaden your horizons, learn about a particular subject, ponder societal forces that have the power not only to change the world as we know it but human beings at their very core, or simply be entertained?”

I sighed. It was a deep question that required serious introspection, and I wasn’t sure I liked the answer that had floated to the top of my mind. “Mostly, I read to be entertained,” I admitted at last. I didn’t think reading as part of my research really counted toward a reason. “I suppose that makes me terribly shallow.”

“Not at all,” Kyle replied. “I think many people read for the same reason. They want to be entertained and taken out of their immediate reality. Whether they want a heartwarming romance or a twisty thriller, what they want is to feel. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would, but I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at,” I replied, my frustration with this roundabout explanation mounting.

“There’s nothing wrong with creating stories that entertain and offer an escape from reality. That’s what we both do, and I think we’re good at it.”

“So, we write for commercial success?”

“We write books people like to read. We’re not likely to win the Booker Prize, but that doesn’t mean we’re not successful in our own right.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t see your point, Kyle.”

“My point is that in order to be successful, we need not only time to write but also an experienced team that will help our books stand out in genres that are oversaturated and in an industry that’s in a constant state of flux. We can tackle both, the creative and the administrative, but over time, we will get burned out and lose ground, both in sales and in customer satisfaction. Readers are clever. They can sense loss of confidence and bouts of writer’s block, and they don’t want to read a narrative you cobbled together from previously discarded projects. Direct your energy to where it will do the most good, which is crafting stories that not only entertain someone for a few hours but make them want to come back and live in the world you have created.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Meaning that I will never be an author whose name is synonymous with great literature, but I should make my little stories as entertaining as possible and milk my popularity while I can.”

“Nic, I’m not saying that at all,” Kyle replied, looking at me the way a parent looks at a disheartened child and wishes they could make the stubborn kid see their point of view. “If you look at the titles that top the bestseller lists, you’ll see that most people are not looking for stories of existential angst or an endless commentary on a social or political landscape that’s always changing but for all intents and purposes remains the same. They are reading romance, thrillers, science fiction, mysteries, and horror because those are the books that give them all the feels they need.” Kyle took a sip of wine and continued.

“Your books contain all the essential elements of a good story. There’s romance, suspense, unexpected twists and turns, social commentary on the time periods you write about, and the effect those conditions have on average women who are trapped by the limitations placed on them by a patriarchal society.” Kyle smiled. “People love a good story, and in the end, it’s all about whether your readers are able to connect with your characters and care about what happens to them.”

“So, what you’re saying, in a rather confusing and long-winded way, is that I should stick to what I do best and leave the rest to the professionals?”

“I am. I’m sorry if that’s not what you were hoping to hear, but you’ve been running yourself ragged, and it’s not only affecting your work but your relationships with those closest to you.”

I hated to admit it, but Kyle made a very good point. I was worn out and spending more hours than ever before on tasks that could just as easily be performed by others.

“Think about the offer carefully before you decide,” Kyle said. “I don’t want to influence your decision, but I also don’t want to tell you what you want to hear just to remain in your good graces.”

“Being honest will never put you at risk of losing my good opinion,” I said.

I finished my wine and moved toward Kyle, sliding into his lap and wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Thanks for always fighting my corner,” I said.

“You never have to thank me.” Kyle pulled me closer. “Want to go upstairs?” he asked, his voice turning husky with desire.

“Nothing wrong with right here,” I replied, and shut him up with a kiss.

Chapter 8

The following morning, I got going as soon as Ava and Kyle left. For the first time in weeks, I felt positive and excited about my goals for the day. In part, I was happy to have finally finished the blog post, but the greater part of my good mood was due to the fact that I didn’t feel like a sellout. I would take a few more days to consider the offer, but if I decided to accept, I would be doing so because it was the best way forward and not an admission of failure. In the meantime, I had a new book to write, and it was time I got down to business.

I began by focusing on general genealogical research to see if I could gather some basic facts. I had no trouble finding Edgar Hilliard, but the information was frustratingly scant. Edgar had been born in London in 1822, which made him twenty-eight years old at the time of his disappearance. His sister, Grace, was four years his junior. Edgar and Grace’s parents had been deceased for a number of years by the time Edgar and Venetia married in 1849. The two didn’t appear to have had any children, not surprising since the marriage lasted less than a year.

From what I could surmise, Deborah was descended from Grace, which helped to explain why she was so interested in Edgar’s story. It was his disappearance that had enabled Grace’s child to inherit all those years ago. Had Edgar had a child of his own, chances were the shop would have passed down Edgar and Venetia’s line and Deborah’s life would have turned out very differently. Perhaps she was worried that Edgar had started a new family and had living descendants who would have a claim on her inheritance. It didn’t seem very likely at this juncture, but given how invested Deborah seemed in the business, I could see how such an outcome would be absolutely devastating.

It would probably be a relief to her to be able to trace her lineage, but after checking all the usual genealogical sites, I couldn’t find any information on Grace. There was no record of her marriage or the birth of a child, which didn’t mean those events hadn’t happened, only that they either hadn’t been recorded at the time or hadn’t been uploaded to the sites. The latter would be unusual since the introduction of technology had made it easier to compile, cross-reference, and retrieve data.

Having found little of use, I decided to see if there might be any mention of Edgar Hilliard’s disappearance in the newspapers, but the only publication I could think of that might have mentioned it was The Illustrated London News, since The Telegraph had not appeared until 1855, and it wasn’t likely to warrant a mention in The Times. In 1850, The Illustrated London News would have been in circulation for eight years and might or might not contain something of note since the most successful marketing plan of the time was to publish as many lurid, attention-grabbing stories as possible to increase circulation. The unexplained disappearance of a playwright would not have garnered attention unless his corpse had been discovered and he had turned out to be a victim of foul play, the fouler the better. The fact that not much had changed when it came to the tabloids wasn’t lost on me. Shocking headlines sold papers or, in today’s world, got the clicks.

The Illustrated London News had been a weekly publication, so I logged into the online newspaper archive and pulled up the publication for February 9, 1850, which would have been the next edition after Edgar had vanished on February 6. There was nothing about Edgar Hilliard, so I checked the next week’s edition, and the one after that. Nothing. If I wanted to find out more, I would have to deal directly with Deborah. She was bound to have something in her possession—letters, photographs, even family legends—that might shed light on Edgar’s final days. I was hesitant to reach out to Deborah since asking for further information would in essence act as my agreement to write the book, but I hated to discard an idea for a potentially great story just because Deborah made me uncomfortable.

The more I thought about Edgar Hilliard, the more his disappearance intrigued me and made me want to discover what had happened to him. Having made up my mind, I selected Deborah’s number and made the call. Deborah was overjoyed to hear from me and promised that she would prepare everything she thought might be relevant. We agreed to meet at the shop tomorrow, and as I ended the call, I hoped I wouldn’t regret my decision.

Chapter 9

Quinn

Quinn had every intention of locking herself in the study with Edgar Hilliard’s manuscript after dinner, but that was not to be. No sooner had she finished loading the dishwasher than the doorbell pealed, and Rufus barked excitedly and wagged his tail, his huge brown eyes fixed on the door. That was the best indication that the visitor was not just a delivery man or the postman. This was a friend, and Quinn had a fairly good idea who that friend might be.

“Good evening,” Rhys chirped brightly when Quinn opened the door. He handed Quinn a storage container, shrugged off his jacket, and tossed it over the banister.

“What’s this?” Quinn asked as she studied the contents through the clear plastic.

“Homemade Napoleon.”

“Are you and Katya on some sort of quest to send us all to an early grave?” Gabe asked as he came down the stairs.

“Throw it away if you wish,” Rhys replied breezily, “but then you will have never tasted heaven.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Gabe said, and held out his hand for the container.

Since the lockdowns, Katya had been cooking and baking nonstop, and although anything she whipped up was absolutely delicious, it was also certain to clog one’s arteries. The normally health-conscious Katya turned to recipes from her homeland when she felt anxious or sad, and endless containers of beef stroganoff, potato vareniki, veal pelmeni, and sirniki had found their way to the Russells’ dinner table. Last week Katya had made ponchiki, which was balls of deep-fried dough sprinkled with sugar, but today she’d gone all out. Katya would never use store-bought custard cream, so the pastry was homemade in the true sense, and when Rhys promised Gabe a taste of heaven, he absolutely meant it.

“Shall I put the kettle on?” Gabe asked, and looked from Quinn to Rhys.

“Please,” Rhys replied. “But first, I’d like a word with Quinn.”

“I thought you might,” Gabe said, and walked off, Rufus trotting after him in the hope of getting a treat. Even he knew that a container delivered by Rhys was not to be ignored.

“Hi, Rhys,” Emma called from the top of the stairs. Her hair was damp from the shower, and she was wearing pink pajama bottoms and a white camisole. Quinn could hear Dua Lipa playing in Emma’s room.

“Hey,” Rhys called back. “You look fierce, Em.”

Emma smiled widely. “I know, right? I just did it.”

“What on earth?” Quinn exclaimed as she looked more closely. Emma’s black hair now sported a violently pink streak down the left side, and there was a rose tattoo on her right bicep.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Quinn hissed, and followed Rhys into the lounge.

Rhys sank into an armchair and waved his hand dismissively. “Let her be, Quinn. She’s just experimenting. A press-on tattoo is better than the real thing, and the pink hair will grow out.”

“It’s not the hair or the tattoo,” Quinn snapped. “It’s the fact that she did it without asking.”

“Did you always ask your parents before you did something you knew they would disapprove of?” Rhys’s eyebrows lifted comically, and Quinn felt some of her anger defuse.

“No, but Emma and I have a different relationship than I had with my parents. We’re mates.”

“Right,” Rhys replied. “And I’m mates with Vanessa, but I still check her phone every night, just to make sure she’s safe and she hadn’t downloaded any apps that would expose her to sexual predators.”

“God, what a world we live in,” Quinn said.

“There have always been adults who prey on young girls, only in centuries past they either raped or married them. Or both,” Rhys added. “Speaking of which, I’m here to talk business.”

Quinn settled across from Rhys and fixed him with a knowing look. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“It’s March, Quinn, so if we want to surprise fans of Echoes from the Past with a Christmas special, we have to lock it down now. We would be cutting it awfully close as is.”

“Rhys,” Quinn moaned.

“Quinn, speaking as your friend, I’m telling you that you need to do something. If you don’t want to commit to another series, then do this one episode and see how you feel. But do something. You’re languishing.”

“I’m working with Nicole Rayburn on her new book,” Quinn replied defensively.

“Splendid, but you need to do something for yourself. This moonlighting psychic gig can only take you so far.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you can be extremely annoying?”

“Yes. Katya sometimes calls me nudnik.”

“And what does that mean?” Quinn tried to hide her smile. If it came from Katya, it had to be good. Quinn had discovered that Russian was a very colorful language with insults so creative, no English phrases could ever compare.

“It means something like huge pain in the arse and originates from Yiddish.”

“I’ll have to remember that word. I have a feeling it will be very useful to me in the future.”

Rhys fixed her with a loaded stare, and Quinn was forced to look away from his piercing gray gaze. She had been stalling for months and stringing Rhys along with the promise of another series or at least a holiday special. Rhys wasn’t the nudnik, or whatever that term was. She was. The pandemic had been like a Pandora’s box that once opened couldn’t be shut again. A slew of new fears had come flying out of that evil little coffin and still held her in their grip, the ropy tendrils wrapping tightly around her and binding her like a mummy. In theory, she wanted to do it all, and she had thought she was ready, but in reality, she couldn’t seem to find the courage to commit to anything other than coffee with Nicole and the occasional feature in Archeology Today or National Geographic. But flattering as it was to be asked, writing articles about past discoveries wasn’t enough.

“There is something holding me back from fully committing to another series of Echoes,” Quinn said.

“Talk to me,” Rhys invited, and settled more comfortably on the sofa. He knew this would take some time.

“The circle of individuals who know about my psychic ability has widened considerably, and sooner or later someone will publicly accuse me of defrauding the public,” Quinn said. “The thought of that happening fills me with dread.”

Rhys tilted his head to the side and studied her. “What bothers you more, the possibility of being found out or the inability to control the timing?”

“I think what really makes me uneasy is not knowing when I will be faced with a social media lynching and how it will affect my family.”

Rhys nodded. “Any one of us can be accused and tried on social media at any time.”

“What do you mean, any one of us?” Quinn asked.

Rhys shrugged. “I’ve been in this business a long time, Quinn, and as you well know, the world has changed. And for the better, I might add. People are more tolerant and protective of those who need protecting, but there are also those who want to punish anyone who doesn’t see things their way or has said or done something in the past that today would be deemed inappropriate. Things I said and did years ago can come back to haunt me, even if those things are taken out of context or the person making the complaint did not object at the time. It used to be perfectly acceptable to flirt with one’s coworkers and make jokes that today would make one cringe. I would like to say that I’m now a better version of myself, but I’m sure not everyone would agree.”

“Are you referring to all the pretty production assistants that wound up in your bed?” Quinn teased.

“I never coerced anyone or made them believe that their job was in jeopardy, but they might have felt pressured all the same, given that I was their boss. I would never engage in that sort of behavior now, even if I wasn’t married, and I wish I could go back and practice more sound judgment. But we live, and we learn,” Rhys said with a shrug. “And you, my dear, need to consider Gabe.”

“What about Gabe?” Quinn cried. Did he have a cupboard full of skeletons she didn’t know about? She wanted to believe that she and Gabe had no secrets from each other, but that would be naïve. Everyone had secrets, little ones, and big ones, and sometimes, it really was better not to know what someone had got up to before they were one’s partner.

Rhys shook his head in disbelief. “Have you never considered the sort of fallout Gabe might face if word gets out that his wife is psychic? There are those who will question the authenticity of his work, and rightfully so.”

“Gabe put in endless hours of research and cited all his sources,” Quinn said, bristling.

“But you did help him in a way only you could.”

“I did, but does that make his work any less credible?”

“Not in my opinion. Just like it doesn’t make your contribution to history and archeology any less deserving of respect. You have a superpower, Quinn. Use it.”

“But there are those who will judge me for it and try to condemn me,” Quinn countered. “You just said so yourself.”

Rhys chuckled. “You are coming from a place of reason, but the mob is not rational, nor does it care about the truth. It’s all about taking someone down and inflicting the maximum amount of suffering on the poor sod they’ve targeted. But the one thing about mobs is that once people lose interest, they generally don’t come after the same person again.”

“Is this based on any specific data, or is this your own theory?”

“It’s just something I’ve noticed,” Rhys replied with a grin.

“And do you think my reputation as an academic would survive if I were publicly outed?”

“I do,” Rhys replied without hesitation. “Quinn, you didn’t come out of the woodwork, making claims, and spinning fantastical stories. You invested nearly a decade into your education, did your time in the trenches, and every story you brought to the public is based on fact and set during extensively researched and well-documented periods in history. The fact that you’re able to connect with an actual person, an average person viewers can identify with instead of historical figures whose lives have been studied and dissected for centuries, only adds to the credibility of their experience. The masses want to be entertained, and you give them something no one else can. They might feel cheated when they first find out, but their anger will evaporate as quickly as it had flared, their disbelief replaced by a desire for more.”

Quinn sighed. “You make it sound like something I can easily manage.”

“That’s because I think that the fear of being found out is actually doing you more harm than eventual exposure.”

“Could be,” Quinn conceded. “All right,” she exclaimed before she could change her mind.

“All right what?”

“All right, I will do a Christmas special, but on one condition.”

“And what’s that?” Rhys asked, trying to hide his excitement.

“That the story has an uplifting ending.”

Rhys’s mouth quirked at the corners. “Shall I forward some of the more intriguing tips from the Echoes from the Past hotline?”

“It’s still active?”

Rhys grinned broadly now. “Of course it is. And I had someone check out every one of those tips. Most are utter malarky, but there are a couple that look promising.”

“You are relentless,” Quinn said, affection for Rhys welling in her chest. She was old enough to know that few friendships were deserving of the name and very few people could be trusted implicitly, but Rhys Morgan was someone she’d always love, and she would rest comfortably in the knowledge that her devotion was returned.

“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Rhys replied with mock petulance. “I’ll email you the leads tomorrow morning, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Quinn said, and pushed to her feet.

“Tea’s ready,” Gabe said as he came into the lounge.

“Enjoy the Napoleon,” Rhys said.

“Won’t you join us?” Gabe asked.

Rhys shook his head. “I’ve already had three pieces, and my arteries are crying for mercy.”

“Where do you put it all?” Gabe asked as he cast an eye over Rhys’s trim form.

“At Katya’s insistence, I’ve taken up running. You’re welcome to join me.”

“No, thank you,” Gabe said. “I don’t fancy running down the streets of London. But I was thinking of joining a rowing club. I used to row at uni. I miss it.”

“Let me know if you do,” Rhys said. “I think I would enjoy that.” He put on his coat and walked to the door, then turned to face Quinn. “Christmas,” he said with a wiggle of his auburn brows. And then he was gone.

“What was that about?” Gabe asked as he followed Quinn into the kitchen.

“I have agreed to do a Christmas special.”

“Praise the Lord,” Gabe deadpanned, and reached for a piece of Napoleon, but Quinn playfully smacked his hand away. “Not until you speak to your daughter.”

“I can only assume you mean Emma. What am I meant to talk to her about?”

“You’ll know when you get there.”

“Oh, it’s one of those conversations?” Gabe sighed dramatically and headed upstairs. He returned a few minutes later.

“Well?” Quinn demanded, hands on hips.

“Mia now wants a blue streak in her hair, and Alex would like a tattoo of an owl riding the Nimbus 2000.” Gabe grinned, and the smile lit up his face. “Quinny, may this be the biggest problems we ever have with our children. They’re just being normal kids. Maybe I should get a tattoo,” he mused as he helped himself to a piece of pastry. “What would be a fitting symbol for an archeologist?”

“A coffin? You can throw in a shovel if the spirit moves you,” Quinn replied sourly.

“I’m going to give it some thought.”

“You do that. Since you’re the fun parent, you can get the kids to bed. I have research to do.”

“Off with you, then.”

“Don’t eat all the Napoleon,” Quinn called over her shoulder.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Gabe said, and reached for another piece.

Chapter 10

Having waited until the children finally went to bed and the house was blissfully quiet, Quinn settled on the sofa, the plastic sleeve containing the manuscript before her. She had enjoyed working with Nicole on her last book and hoped this new lead would prove just as interesting. Cold logic and knowledge of the time period suggested that Edgar Hilliard had most likely been a random victim. Victorian London had been a dangerous place where violent crime was commonplace, and the police had been virtually helpless. Vastly outnumbered and armed with nothing but wooden truncheons, the bobbies hadn’t stood a chance against the gangs that had carved up the East End and hungry orphans who banded together and mugged anyone they marked as a potential target. Even a thief who operated independently would know where it was safest to approach their victim and would be long gone before a constable was summoned.

No gentleman of means would be safe when out at night since a silver cigarette case or a pair of gold cufflinks if fenced could fetch enough to feed a family for weeks, or months if they were careful with their money. Petty criminals hadn’t generally been armed with guns, but they had carried knives and cudgels that they wouldn’t have hesitated to use if their victim fought back. If Edgar had been seriously hurt or killed, the most logical thing would have been to dispose of the body, since no one would want to find themselves facing the gallows over a stolen purse or a pocket watch.

The second possibility was that Edgar Hilliard had been deliberately targeted, but who would want to murder a playwright? Unless he’d ridiculed someone in his plays or somehow mortally offended an individual who wasn’t above resorting to vengeance. It didn’t seem likely, but anything was possible. And even if Quinn didn’t see anything particularly intriguing while holding the manuscript, Nicole could always write her own story. All she had to do was settle on a reason for his disappearance and weave a narrative around it.

Edgar might have been unhappily married and run off with his mistress, or he might have been homosexual and could no longer keep up the pretense. Or maybe he had committed suicide by jumping off one of London’s many bridges. There were plenty of scenarios in which a man might simply disappear. It happened all the time, even in modern times when a person’s every move was tracked by their cellular, banking, and online activity, and thousands of CCTV cameras that covered every corner of the vast metropolis. There were always those who found ways to get around a problem, so Edgar Hilliard might have been the victor rather than the victim Deborah Dolan believed him to be and shed his skin like a snake before starting a new life, his identity shiny and new.

Ready at last, Quinn reached into the sleeve and withdrew the notebook. Just before her surroundings began to fade as she traveled to Victorian London, Quinn felt a distinctly feminine vibe where a man’s echo should have been, and then she saw her.

Chapter 11

March 1849

Grace

The shop was quiet and dark, the tall shelves filled with weighty tomes hulking in the shadows, the only source of light the streetlamp haloed in a meager pool of light some way down the street. The clip-clop of hooves faded away as the hansom that had brought Grace home rounded the corner, leaving behind a dense silence.

Grace trudged up the stairs, walked into her bedroom, and shut the door, relieved to be alone at last. She didn’t bother to light the oil lamp and sat heavily on the bed, facing the only window. The night was windy and cold, wispy clouds racing across the inky darkness and columns of coal smoke obscuring the pale crescent of the moon. An icy draft seeped through the ill-fitting frame, but Grace was reluctant to draw the curtains or light a fire, even though Alice had arranged a hillock of coal in the grate before retiring for the night. Alice would have lit the fire and warmed the room had Grace not expressly told her not to waste precious coal on heating an empty house, since she hadn’t been sure when she would be back.

Grace had been the first to return, and she savored the solitude, the quiet and dark reflecting the gloom within. She couldn’t recall when she had begun to fear happy days, but instead of feeling joy when an occasion called for it, something inside her inevitably coiled until she felt so tightly wound, she thought her spine might snap. She supposed the reflex was the product of life experience. There had been the joy of the new baby brother, replaced mere days later by the sharp-edged sorrow of his sudden passing. There had been the happiness of her mother recovering from an illness, only to lose her a few weeks later to a raging fever. There had been the giddy excitement of a marriage proposal when she was seventeen, the engagement broken a month before her wedding day due to altered family circumstances. It seemed that every happy moment had ended in grief, and Grace didn’t think she could bear any more loss.

She was sincerely happy for Edgar and Venetia and wished them a lifetime of joy, but something had niggled at her as she’d watched her brother and his bride make their vows and pose for a wedding portrait, looking beautiful and a little nervous as they started out on their life together. The celebration hosted by Venetia’s parents had been lovely. Mr. Beecham had spared no expense, and the guests had enjoyed a delicious supper, punctuated by champagne toasts to the newly married couple. The guests had wished Edgar and Venetia everything from a long, happy life to a brood of children, but Grace had found that she hadn’t been able to enjoy the festivities. She had smiled and drunk and partaken sparingly of the lavish supper, but inside she had been tight as a drum, her head pounding and an unpleasant heaviness settling in her chest.

Perhaps it had nothing to do with the newlyweds and everything to do with her and the certain knowledge that nothing would ever be the same. Tonight, Venetia would sleep in Edgar’s bedroom, and tomorrow, she would assume her role as the mistress of the house, a position Grace had held since the death of their mother nearly ten years before and hated to relinquish. At least Venetia had no interest in the bookshop. That would remain Grace’s domain since Edgar came and went, leaving the day-to-day running of the business almost entirely to her. Grace didn’t mind. She relished the responsibility and thanked her lucky stars that Edgar had other aspirations.

Had the shop been more profitable, Edgar would have hired a male clerk, but as it was, Grace was all he could afford, since he didn’t pay her a farthing. But the work was thanks enough. What would she do if she didn’t help in the shop? She had no husband or children to care for. She had no aging parents who needed a companion in their twilight years. She didn’t even have any friends. The few friends she had made at school were all married, busy with small children and demanding husbands. They had no time for a spinster who had nothing to offer them save her loneliness and regret. Perhaps she and Venetia would become fast friends and spend time together in the evenings, when Edgar went out on the town and returned late at night, reeking of spirits and cigar smoke.

Grace had yet to get a real sense of Venetia. She seemed timid, but perhaps now that she was a married woman, she would begin to assert herself. And Venetia did like to read, so perhaps they would be able to discuss the new novels that were delivered to the shop directly from the printers, the covers new and bright, the print within fresh and bold. They might exchange ideas over cups of tea or take walks in the park on Sundays. Grace liked Venetia, but she would have liked her even more had the other woman not just usurped Grace’s place and in essence become her mistress.

Was this how it was going to be from now on? She would exist on the periphery of Edgar and Venetia’s life, the unmarried sister who added little value beyond filling in as a shopgirl and lending her voice to plays no one would ever associate with her, or perhaps be remembered as a meddlesome sister-in-law who had to be put in her place and constantly reminded that her opinions were neither needed nor wanted.

Too dispirited to wait up to greet the newly married couple, Grace undressed and climbed into bed, shivering as her skin came in contact with the frigid sheets. As she fixed her gaze on the distant stars, she told herself that this time things would be different. Edgar’s marriage would change their lives for the better, and instead of shrinking, their family would finally grow, the sound of children’s laughter filling the dreary old house and reminding them that life was full of new beginnings and memorable occasions. It was a beautiful dream, but Grace couldn’t seem to relax, her body as stiff as the spine of a new book. Perhaps there was something wrong with her that prevented her from finding a life of her own. She would end her days in this lonely room, forever dependent on her brother and ordered about by his young bride.

Chapter 12

Quinn

Quinn set the notebook on the coffee table and leaned back against the throw pillows, needing a moment to process what she had seen. She hadn’t expected to inhabit a woman, and she felt sorry for Grace and had felt her desperation keenly. Nowadays, the marriage of a brother meant nothing aside from an excuse to buy a new frock and enjoy a good party, but in Victorian England, it could have been tragic, especially if the unmarried sister did not care for her brother’s choice of bride. Grace was in her early twenties, but she might have been in her fifties for all the prospects she had if she didn’t marry. She would be an unpaid servant and a financial burden, especially if Edgar had stuck around long enough to have a large family. Every child was an added expense, one that would take precedence over his spinster sister.

What had happened to Grace after Edgar went missing? Nicole hadn’t found any information, but clearly the line had continued uninterrupted if someone had inherited the shop. Perhaps Venetia had borne a child, therefore bridging the gap between Edgar and the next generation of Hilliards. That was a likely scenario, but Quinn had learned early on not to jump to conclusions or assume she knew how a story would end. She was just at the beginning, and already she had been taken by surprise. Edgar’s notebook had clearly belonged to Grace. Quinn had not sensed anyone else’s imprint, but did that mean that Grace had written the time travel manuscript?

Quinn looked around until she spotted a biro Gabe had left behind after marking student essays. She used it to lift the cover and then flip a few pages without coming into physical contact with the book and getting whisked into the past again. The spidery handwriting within had a distinctly feminine quality, but perhaps Grace had simply taken dictation and the story had been authored by her brother. Or had it? Grace had been bitter about lending her voice to the plays and not being credited, Quinn now recalled. Was the sad, lonely woman she had just seen the true talent behind Edgar’s literary success? Lonely people often created alternative worlds to escape reality, and inside every successful author lived a sensitive child whose imagination had been their escape from the trials of life. And Grace’s life had been a trial, even by Victorian standards. The death of a baby brother, the loss of her mother, and probably worst of all, the dissolution of an engagement. She had clearly been excited and happy about her forthcoming marriage, and the news had obviously come as a shock, all her dreams for the future crushed in moments. Another woman might have made up her mind to find another prospective husband, but it seemed that Grace had been alone since the broken engagement, no new suitor on the horizon at the time of Edgar’s wedding.

The Victorians, who didn’t mince words when it came to female beauty, would probably describe Grace as plain, but many a modern woman would fare far worse if forced to part her hair down the middle and scrape it into a severe bun and then stuff herself into a corset and don an unbecoming, austere gown with nothing but a lace collar to brighten her appearance. Grace, once she had unpinned her hair and stepped out of her crinolines, had actually been quite attractive, with lustrous dark tresses that hung halfway down her back and luminous almond-shaped brown eyes. She had a lovely figure and a softness that had been revealed once her whalebone armor was removed and she could move about freely.

After her brief sojourn into the past, Quinn already felt an emotional connection to Grace Hilliard, but she didn’t think Nicole would be too pleased to discover that the object she was relying on hadn’t actually belonged to Edgar. Grace and Venetia had reported Edgar missing, presumably to their local police station, so Quinn wouldn’t be able to see what had actually happened to the man. On the other hand, she might be able to deduce something based on Edgar’s behavior and see if she could come up with a plausible theory as she observed him through the eyes of his sister, whose later whereabouts proved to be as mysterious as her brother’s.

When first touching an object that had belonged to the dead, there was no way to navigate toward a particular year or event, but over the years, Quinn had come to realize that the object always took her to a significant moment in the person’s life. Even though Quinn sometimes saw events that had happened months or even years before the person’s death, those moments were usually a turning point in that individual’s story and were not to be dismissed.

Quinn had seen Grace Hilliard on her brother’s wedding day, which had to be significant, especially since Grace was obviously worried about the future. Whatever had befallen Edgar might be connected to his marriage, or perhaps the marriage had no bearing on his disappearance and was simply a starting point in a narrative that would end in either death or an escape from a life Edgar had no longer wanted.

It was a wonder more people hadn’t walked away from their lives in those days, given how easy it had been to disappear, but Quinn supposed it was a case of choosing the devil you knew versus the one you didn’t. The unknown could be frightening, particularly for an unmarried woman who’d lived a sheltered life and had been protected and financially supported by her male kin. But for a young man who had some money, a marketable skill, and a dash of daring, the world could be an exciting place full of new opportunities.

Quinn had yet to meet Edgar Hilliard, but she was suddenly certain that he was nothing like his sister and the answer to Nicole’s inquiries would be anything but straightforward.

Chapter 13

Nicole

I arrived at The Quill and Ink at just past six o’clock. The shop was nearly empty, with one customer leafing through a book in the gardening section and a frazzled young mum paying for a book while her little girl whined that she was tired and wanted fish fingers for dinner. Deborah emerged from the back of the shop, looking distinctly Edwardian in a floor-length black skirt, a high-necked white blouse with loose-fitting sleeves, and a pompadour hairstyle. Perhaps if I came back again next week, she’d be in full 1920s flapper regalia. A young man with spiky black hair and dark eyes stood behind the antiquated till, his AC/DC T-shirt and tattoos completely at odds with his surroundings, his gaze defiant when it settled on Deborah.

“Good evening, Nicole,” Deborah said. Her voice was low and husky, and I got the distinct impression that she was playing a part. “Welcome back to The Quill and Ink. This is Blake, my son,” she said, the sidelong glance she gave the young man crackling with disapproval.

“Hello,” Blake said, and immediately turned away, picking up his mobile.

Deborah’s smile turned wolfish as soon as she took me by the elbow and steered me toward the alcove. “I knew you’d be intrigued by Edgar’s story. I would like to review the final version of the manuscript before you publish,” she added. Seeing my reaction, she immediately self-corrected. “Of course, you should write the story you want to write. I just want to be prepared, in case there’s something unexpected. You will do it, won’t you?” she wheedled, as if sensing my hesitation.

I was interested in Edgar’s story, I couldn’t deny that, but Deborah’s full-on approach gave me pause. She was too invested and wouldn’t accept any story that didn’t align with her version of Edgar Hilliard. The last thing I needed was to be accused of libel, so I decided then and there that I was going to decline and politely extricate myself from Deborah’s clutches. I couldn’t just turn on my heel and walk out. That would be rude, and I was curious to see the items Deborah had prepared. Perhaps I would spot something Deborah had missed. And I could always write my own story, one that didn’t involve Edgar Hilliard but ran along similar lines. I would treat today’s meeting as research so I didn’t feel that my time had been wasted.

The table in the alcove was already set for tea, with the same porcelain tea service Deborah had used before and a plate of carefully arranged digestives. There was also a platter of tea sandwiches made with cucumber, and egg salad with cress. A bud vase contained a single yellow rose, and a pretty Victorian biscuit tin sat on a shelf within arm’s reach. I shrugged off my coat, hung it on the back of the chair, and took a seat.

“The kettle’s just boiled,” Deborah said. “I won’t be a minute. Don’t look without me,” she added, wagging her finger at me when she saw me gazing at the tin.

She disappeared through a door in the back wall while I looked around the shop, debating if I had a few minutes to browse the titles. I could never resist books, even if most of my reading material was on Kindle these days. My decision was made for me when Blake approached the table. He looked tense, and his eyes radiated anxiety. He didn’t sit down but stood so close to me, and I instinctively leaned back a little and wished Deborah would return. Perhaps making people uncomfortable was a family trait, but I got the impression that Blake had been waiting for an opportunity to tell me something.

“Was there something you wanted?” I asked, looking up at Blake. He towered over me.

Blake’s gaze slid toward the door, then back to me. When he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. “This obsession with Edgar Hilliard began after my father died. At first, I thought it was a way for Mum to cope with her grief. She was so broken, so lost those first few weeks, but then she seemed to trade one tragedy for another. She never mentions Dad, but she constantly slips Edgar into the conversation. She’s obsessed with finding out what happened to him. Please, Ms. Rayburn, don’t turn her down,” Blake pleaded. “Maybe if you write the story, she will finally be able move on with her life.”

“I’m very sorry about your father,” I said quietly, my heart going out to the young man. He no longer seemed intimidating but desperate, seizing an opportunity to help his mum without her knowing.

“Don’t be,” Blake replied harshly. “My father chose his vanity over his family. He hanged himself. Right there.” He pointed to a crossbeam that ran the length of the ceiling. “A critic he admired had panned his play, and he couldn’t take the humiliation. He never gave a thought to how Mum or I would feel, but then again, we were never that important. She found him when she came downstairs in the morning to open the shop. She was catatonic for hours. Just sat there, staring into space. I had to call the police and answer all their questions and do the formal identification. It was the worst day of my life,” Blake added miserably. “The absolute worst.”

“I’m sorry.” It was inadequate, but what else could I say?

Blake’s gaze darted nervously toward the door, which swung open to reveal Deborah, a tray holding a teapot, sugar bowl, and milk jug in her hands.

“What are you two talking about?” she asked cheerily. “Books, I hope.”

“I was just asking Ms. Rayburn for some writing tips,” Blake replied. “She was kind enough to give me a few pointers. Excuse me,” he muttered, and returned to the till, where the customer from the gardening section was waiting to pay for his purchase.

Deborah poured the tea, then invited me to help myself to the sandwiches. “I’m usually here till eight, so I this is my dinner,” she said as she reached for a sandwich. “Blake is happy with a takeaway, but I prefer not to eat a heavy meal so late in the evening. A few tea sandwiches and a cup of tea is enough for me.”

I took a cucumber sandwich and set it on my plate. I didn’t really want it, but it seemed rude to refuse. I did want to see what was in the box. Now that Blake had provided context for Deborah’s fixation, I felt sympathy for her and her son and thought that perhaps Blake was right and a fictional account might help Deborah move on from real-life trauma. I couldn’t imagine what she must have felt when she had discovered her husband’s body. Even if it hadn’t been a happy marriage, one was still bound to feel horror, disbelief, shock, and most of all a profound sense of loss and the certainty that nothing would ever be the same.

I couldn’t help but remember the loss of my own father and my mum’s reaction to the news. My father had suffered a fatal heart attack while out for his morning run. Onlookers who’d called an ambulance said that he’d slowed down, clutched at his heart, then stumbled over to a bench and collapsed. By the time the ambulance arrived, it was too late. My dad was forty-seven when he died. He had been fit and strong and had no history of heart disease. He should have had years and years and grown old alongside Mum. He should have been there to give me away when I married Kyle and when Ava was born, but suddenly he was gone, and Mum and I felt orphaned, much like Deborah and Blake. At least we’d had the comfort of knowing that my dad hadn’t left us of his own free will. I couldn’t imagine how Mum and I would have felt if Dad had chosen to take his own life and to do it in a way that was not only brutal but cruel. To find one’s husband dead was awful enough, but to come face to face with a victim of hanging had to be absolutely devastating.

The man had robbed Blake and Deborah not only of his presence and love but also the chance to say goodbye and the belief that he had valued them above all else. If Blake had it right, then Mr. Dolan had chosen his pride over his family, and whereas his son was obviously still angry and bitter, Deborah had found an outlet for her grief. Would finding out what had happened to Edgar Hilliard bring her peace, or would she move on to a new cause, something to focus on that wasn’t her own heartbreak and no longer had the power to hurt her in any real sense?

Or did it? Would the truth prove to be painful if it was unpalatable? I had no way of knowing, but I suddenly saw Deborah in a new light. We drank our tea, and I ate my sandwich and took another one just to be polite. Once Deborah had finished her meal, she reached for the box, set it on the table between us, and carefully took off the lid. Inside were several notebooks and a silver-framed photograph, which she lifted out reverently and set on the table, facing us.

“As I’m sure you know, photography was still in its infancy in Edgar’s day, and having one’s picture taken was considered something of a luxury. This is the only photo of Edgar and Venetia. It was taken on their wedding day,” Deobrah said proudly. “They were a lovely couple, weren’t they?”

“May I?” I asked.

Deborah nodded, and I reached for the photograph, bringing it closer so I could study the details. The portrait was typical of the Victorian period, with the bride and groom standing side by side but not touching, their posture so stiff, they could have been hewed from stone. Venetia wore a fussy veil and held a small bouquet, while Edgar had his hand inside his coat, as if he were checking if he still had a heartbeat and wasn’t quite sure.

Although Edgar had been in his mid-twenties and only a few years older than Blake when the photo was taken, he looked considerably older, as people had tended to do in those days. The somber clothes, unflattering hairstyles, and a rigid stance contributed to the illusion, but their unsmiling faces did the rest. I supposed it was the fact that they’d had to remain unmoving for the amount of time it took to expose the plate, but people in Edgar’s day had not been encouraged to smile for fear of looking foolish.

I couldn’t help but be reminded of the other type of photography popular during the Victorian period. I had seen numerous examples of post-mortem portraits in which grieving families and a dead child or recently deceased relative had been posed as if they were still living. The photographs were disturbing, and it was clear that the individual was dead, but they had served an important purpose. Whereas today we took photos on a daily basis and had hundreds of mementos of our loved ones, during the Victorian time, portraits of the dead had sometimes been the only reminder the family was left with, and they wanted to remember their child, spouse, or parent, even if they didn’t look quite as they had in life. Thankfully, Edgar and Venetia looked very much alive, but my mind couldn’t help but supply a different image of Edgar—a dead man walking.

Despite the somber expression, Edgar Hilliard was a handsome man. He had dark, soulful eyes, delicately arched brows, and a sensuous mouth accentuated by a pencil moustache. A narrow face and high cheekbones gave him an aristocratic air, and his clothes appeared fashionable and well cut. He was slim and about a head taller than Venetia, his bearing erect and his gaze bullish as he stared into the lens.

Venetia must have had light brown hair since it appeared to be a few shades lighter than Edgar’s but not quite blond. Her eyes were either blue or green, and she had a full, pouty mouth. She was an attractive young woman, hardly more than a child really, probably no older than eighteen. She must have looked lovely when she smiled, but the tension in her face and shoulders gave the appearance of someone who was about to undergo a root canal. It was probably the first time she had been photographed, an intimidating experience if one wasn’t familiar with the process.

Had the photograph been taken recently, anyone who saw it would immediately assume that the newlyweds weren’t comfortable with each other and the marriage was not a love match, but given the time period, it was impossible to deduce anything about Edgar and Venetia’s relationship from studying the wedding portrait. Whatever feelings simmered beneath the surface were well hidden from prying eyes and would not have been openly discussed with anyone, not even family members or close friends, since discretion had been highly valued, particularly in a marriage.

“I don’t have a photograph of Grace,” Deborah said. “I wonder if she resembled her brother. If she did, she would have been a good-looking girl. Venetia was pretty, don’t you think? They would have had lovely children,” she said wistfully.

“Yes, I’m sure they would have,” I agreed.

“They don’t look unhappy,” Deborah mused.

They don’t look happy either, I wanted to point out, but refrained, allowing Deborah to cling to her illusions.

“And what are these notebooks?” I asked as I peered into the tin.

“These are Edgar’s notes and two unfinished plays. Perhaps he would have finished them, or maybe he had abandoned them in favor of something he thought was more interesting.”

“Are there any letters or journals from that time?” I asked.

Deborah shook her head. “They were either lost or destroyed. This is all that’s left, probably because someone had the foresight to store them in a tin.” Her gaze was pleading. “So, will you do it? Will you write about Edgar, Nicole?”

I sighed. If not for Blake’s heartfelt plea, I would have said no, thanked Deborah for the tea, and left, but now that I understood the desperation in her gaze, I didn’t have the heart to refuse.

“Deborah, you must understand that any story I write will be a work of fiction, so if you’re hoping for closure…” I let the sentence trail off, but Deborah instantly nodded.

“I understand. I suppose I only want to see Edgar’s name in print one more time. To know that his legacy lives on, even if it’s in a fictional account. After all, he wrote fiction, so I don’t think he would have minded. In fact, I expect he would be very flattered to know that he was still remembered and talked about in the twenty-first century.”

“The only way I can agree to write this story is if I have full creative control,” I reiterated.

Deborah nodded. “I understand. You might paint Edgar in a negative light, but I really don’t think he was a cad. He couldn’t have written those wonderful plays if he wasn’t a good person.”

“Fiction is just that,” I replied. “The ability to write a diverting play doesn’t make someone a saint.”

“I disagree,” Deborah said, shaking her head stubbornly. “Fiction reflects the personality of the author. Can you imagine Jane Austen writing The Woman in White or Oscar Wilde penning The Scarlet Letter? Can you write horror or a gruesome murder mystery?”

“I probably could, but I wouldn’t want to,” I admitted with some reluctance.

“Precisely,” Deborah exclaimed. “You write the stories that appeal to you and the sort of books you like to read. Therefore, Edgar’s charming plays had to be a study of his personality.”

I decided not to point out that Kyle wrote a murder mystery series in which he got not only graphic but at times downright sadistic. The books in no way reflected his personality and were written with commercial success in mind, but I also had to grudgingly admit that DI Kelly Shaw was based on Kyle’s mum and that he’d grown up hearing about her work at the dinner table. So perhaps Deborah was right and Edgar Hilliard had been a charming, witty chap who had wanted only to entertain and be admired for his craft.

“I’ll ring you in a few days,” I said, and pushed away from the table.

Deborah looked deflated, since she had clearly been expecting a firm pledge, but I wasn’t about to commit until I had spoken to Quinn and had a clearer understanding of what I was actually agreeing to.

“Thank you for the tea,” I said as I pulled on my coat.

“Would you like to take the photo with you?” Deborah offered, holding out the portrait to me. “You might want to see it again.”

“I won’t take it with me, but would you mind if I took a photo?”

“Not at all.”

Deborah set the frame on the table, and I snapped a photo with my phone. I thought Quinn would like to see it, and perhaps I could magnify it and study Edgar and Venetia more closely. From what I knew of Quinn’s gift, the physical photograph would be of no use to her since neither Edgar nor Venetia would have handled the frame often enough for it to be imprinted with their memories. Most likely, it was dusted by their maidservant and left on display until someone had it removed.

When I came home, I got settled in my study, emailed the photo to myself, then pulled it up on my computer screen. This was only the second time I had been able to see how the subject of my story had looked in real life. The first had been Lily Redmond, who had become the heroine of the Gilded Lily. A photograph did not necessarily make the subjects more real than the characters whose faces lived only in my imagination, but somehow it made me feel more responsible toward them. Looking into their eyes, I felt as if they were looking back and would hold me to account if I told a story they didn’t approve of. Perhaps I was becoming too emotionally involved with my subjects. Although to some degree it made my job harder, it also made it more rewarding since, like Quinn, I could give a person who was long gone a voice and tell a story that had been lost to time.

I magnified the photo as much as I could without distorting the facial features and studied the newly married couple. I was once again reminded how brief our time on Earth was and how little of us remained once we were gone.

Chapter 14

Grace

Grace made sure to arrive at the shop early the morning after the wedding. Saturday was their busiest day, and she had much to do before opening. There were new books to shelve and enter in the inventory ledger, displays to update, and orders to place. She had to order another two dozen copies of The Lancashire Witches by William Harrison Ainsworth from Henry Colburn Publishing. The book, which had been serialized in The Sunday Times last year, was proving surprisingly popular and was one of the shop’s current bestsellers.

Grace also needed to order at least two dozen copies of Shirley by Currer Bell from Smith, Elder, and Co. The previous novel by the author, Jane Eyre, had been an unprecedented success, and readers were clamoring for more stories by the mysterious Mr. Bell. Grace thought that the increased sales were driven by several reviews in which the critics claimed that the relationship between Jane and Mr. Rochester was improper. Any hint of scandal was like a spark to kindling when it came to book sales.

There was also ongoing speculation that the novel had been written by a woman and published under a pseudonym, which made Grace both proud and upset. She did think there was something distinctly feminine about the narrative, but if the book had been written by a woman, it made her furious to think that a woman had to pose as a man in order to get published. It was so unfair. A literary work should be evaluated on merit, not on a person’s sex, but of course, according to some, a woman’s intellectual shortcomings precluded her from understanding basic facts or reason like a man. Grace did not think that was even remotely true, but no one had ever asked for her opinion. Even Edgar believed as much, which didn’t prevent him from asking Grace for help again and again.

Grace hated to feel uncharitable toward her brother, but she didn’t think Edgar was a particularly gifted writer. He had some interesting ideas, but his prose was stilted, and the dialogue was utterly lacking in wit. No one wanted to sit through two hours of awkward discourse, which was the reason Edgar insisted that Grace edit the plays. And by edit, he meant rewrite almost entirely. Grace enjoyed the work and basked in Edgar’s wholehearted approval once the play was finished, but it was bittersweet to see him enjoy the success that should have been hers.

Edgar had invited Grace to the opening night of A Summer’s End, and she had been overcome with sentiment at the obvious enjoyment of the audience, but knowing that not a single person in that theater realized the play had been written by her had proved acutely painful. Most hurtful of all was watching Edgar boast to his friends about the success of the play and recount how he’d worked so hard on the manuscript without once acknowledging Grace’s role, even in private. He seemed to have conveniently forgotten that she was the author as soon as the play had been finished.

And now Edgar was working on a new project. He had talked about it yesterday during the wedding supper and had hinted that he already had a backer who would cover production costs once the play was ready to be performed. Edgar had shamelessly boasted about his success and even said that Venetia had been a bit starstruck to be courted by someone of his stature. When had Edgar become such a braggart? He had been such a shy boy, but the man he’d grown into was nothing like the earnest, gracious son their mother had hoped to raise. Perhaps if their mother had lived longer, she’d have shaped Edgar’s personality and done her best to point out Edgar’s less-appealing qualities, but without her guidance, Edgar had become something of a blowhard. Grace had heard the term from a customer and hated to admit that it had immediately put her in mind of her brother.

The chiming of the clock distracted Grace from her disloyal thoughts, and she was relieved that the day was about to begin in earnest. It was ten o’clock and time to unlock the door. Already two people were waiting outside, both Saturday morning regulars. There was Miss Manning, longtime companion to Mrs. Adler, who had lost her sight to trachoma and had poor Miss Manning read to her for hours every single day. They went through a book a week, and Miss Manning was at the shop every Saturday, searching for new material to please her discerning mistress. Miss Manning spent longer than was strictly necessary browsing the shelves, no doubt eager for a bit of time to herself and the company of other people since her daily interaction was limited to Mrs. Adler and her two maids.

The second customer was Mr. Greer, an American who enjoyed books of a ghoulish nature. He had introduced Grace to the works of Edgar Allan Poe when he lent her magazines in which The Cask of Amontillado and The Tell-Tale Heart had been published.. Repelled at first, Grace had come to appreciate the macabre imagery and the uncomfortable feelings the stories stirred within her, but Edgar had been angry when he saw the publications and called Mr. Poe some very unflattering names indeed. He had even wanted to have a word with Mr. Greer, but Grace had dissuaded him, fearful that Mr. Greer would take offense and take his custom elsewhere. It wasn’t his fault that Edgar felt threatened by his namesake’s unique vision and literary success.

“Good morning,” Grace said once Miss Manning and Mr. Greer entered the shop.

“Good morning, Miss Hilliard,” Miss Manning muttered, and made a beeline for the newly arranged display on the table at the center of the shop.

“Miss Hilliard.” Mr. Greer tipped his bowler. “I trust you’re well.”

“Yes, thank you. And how are you today, Mr. Greer?”

“Very well. Thank you for asking.”

Mr. Greer was in his mid-forties, a tall, barrel-chested man with blunt features and a directness Grace sometimes found disconcerting. Today, he didn’t appear to be in the mood for conversation, which was just as well, since Grace wasn’t inclined to idle chatter. She couldn’t help but wonder how the wedding night had gone and whether she should go check on the newlyweds or remain at the shop all day in order to give them their privacy. If there was a rulebook for such things, it wasn’t one they had on their shelves.

Mr. Greer purchased a volume of poetry, and Miss Manning settled on The Book of Snobs and Vanity Fair, both by William Makepeace Thackeray.

“I could have sworn you had purchased a copy of Vanity Fair already, Miss Manning,” Grace said as she accepted payment.

“I have, but this book is for me,” Miss Manning said shyly. “It’s my favorite, and I wanted a copy of my own.”

“A fine choice,” Grace said. “It’s one of my favorites as well.”

Miss Manning looked sad. “The story gives me hope.”

Grace nodded. She could understand Miss Manning’s sentiments only too well. Was there a lonely, disappointed woman who didn’t long for a happy ending?

“It gives me hope as well,” Grace said, and instantly regretted her words. She had meant to be supportive, but Miss Manning seemed peeved and looked down at her coin purse to avoid making eye contact with Grace.

Grace realized she had blundered, but to apologize would only make matters worse. She had a brother who cared for her, a home, and a family business that allowed her to lead a comfortable existence. Miss Manning was an orphan who was forced to spend what was left of her youth trapped indoors with an invalid who rarely let her out for a breath of air, much less gave her a day off. Miss Manning had one afternoon off every other week and spent it alone, walking in Hyde Park and then having a cup of tea at a teahouse she favored. She had no family, no friends, and no means of escape. They were hardly the same, and Miss Manning’s hurt expression told Grace as much.

“I’m sorry,” Grace muttered, despite her resolve not to apologize. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s quite all right, Miss Hilliard. I know what you meant,” Miss Manning said. She took her purchases and was out the door before Grace could wish her a good morning.

Grace spent several hours helping a dozen customers and was hungry and tired by midafternoon. She didn’t expect Edgar to relieve her, but it would have been nice if she had been allowed to break for luncheon. Alice had offered to bring her a bowl of soup, but Grace could hardly eat it in the shop in full view of the customers. She asked Alice to bring her a cup of tea and a few biscuits, which would have to last her till suppertime.

It was just after three o’clock when a short lull offered Grace the opportunity to finally sit down. She’d been on her feet since seven o’clock that morning, and the stool behind the counter, although not comfortable, at least allowed a brief respite from standing. She sprang back up when the bell jangled and a customer entered the shop. The man was around thirty, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and dressed in a caped greatcoat and top hat. He smiled at Grace in a way that was distinctly familiar, but she was sure she’d never seen him before.

“Miss Hilliard, good afternoon,” the man said, his gaze warm on her face.

Grace rested her hands on the counter and faced the stranger. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

The man seemed taken aback by her cool tone but instantly made up for his mistake.

“Forgive me, I should have introduced myself. I’m Julian Moore, Venetia’s cousin. I was meant to attend the wedding but was called out on a medical emergency. I’ll spare you the gruesome details,” he added in response to her quizzical gaze.

Grace nodded. She had heard the name from Edgar. Dr. Moore worked at the London Hospital in Whitechapel and also saw private patients at his home. For some reason, Grace had assumed that Julian Moore would be older, a stodgy gentleman with muttonchop whiskers, bushy eyebrows, and florid jowls. Perhaps this man’s father looked like that, but Dr. Moore was decidedly too young and well favored to deserve such a description.

“A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Moore. I’m afraid Edgar and Venetia are not receiving.”

“I didn’t think they would be, but I wanted to offer my congratulations and pass on a small wedding present.”

Dr. Moore took out a book-sized box from his medical bag and set it on the counter. “It’s a frame,” he explained. “For their wedding portrait.”

“How very kind,” Grace said. “I’m sure they will love it.”

Dr. Moore smiled. “I hope so. I must confess, I did not choose it myself. I asked one of the nurses at the hospital to pick a gift she thought my cousin would like. I don’t know the first thing about gift-giving, and I’m too busy with my patients to devote time to shopping.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Grace assured him.

“You have a lovely shop here,” Dr. Moore said. “Very well stocked. Do you by chance carry any medical journals?”

“We do have a small medical reference section, but we keep the volumes under lock and key.”

“You do? Why?” Dr. Moore looked shocked, but he clearly knew nothing of running a business and the pitfalls the proprietors often faced when dealing with highly sensitive patrons.

“We’ve had several complaints,” Grace explained. “About the illustrations.”

“Ah, I see,” Dr. Moore said. “Too shocking?”

“For some individuals, yes. Actually for most,” Grace said with a smile.

“But not you.”

“I was taken aback the first time, but I was quite young then. I was a curious child,” she explained.

“No doubt you were.”

“Which journal were you looking for?” Grace asked as she felt heat rise in her cheeks. What must Dr. Moore think of her?

“The British Medical Journal, the Lancet, and any publications from Scotland. I’m particularly interested in anything relating to surgery.”

“We do carry the British Medical Journal and the Lancet, but I’m afraid we don’t stock any of the Scottish publications.”

“I’ll take the latest editions of both,” Dr. Moore said. “Shame about the rest.”

“I can order them for you,” Grace offered. “It might take a while to receive the first volume, but then they will come regularly.”

“I would greatly appreciate that,” Dr. Moore said. “And I would be happy to cover any postage costs incurred.”

“There’s no need. If you’ll just jot down the names of the journals you require, I will endeavor to discover who the publishers are and place an order.”

“Miss Hilliard, you are a gem,” Dr. Moore said as he accepted the pen Grace offered, dipped it in ink, and wrote down two names on a sheet of paper.

“If you’ll leave your address, I’ll send a message once the publications arrive.”

“No need. I will stop in to check. It will give me a chance to visit my favorite cousin and an excuse get to know you and Mr. Hilliard better.”

“You must come to dinner,” Grace said. “Would Wednesday at seven suit?”

“I would be delighted,” Dr. Moore replied. “Until Wednesday, then.”

He tipped his hat, wished her a good afternoon, and walked out, leaving Grace feeling strangely empty. She would have liked to converse with him some more, but she supposed he had more important things to attend to and had to get on his way.

Chapter 15

When Grace finally went upstairs, Edgar and Venetia were in the parlor. Edgar looked pleased with himself, while Venetia looked like she wasn’t quite sure what they were meant to be doing. Grace supposed it was only natural. It was Venetia’s first day in her new home, and she had yet to establish a routine and attain a sense of belonging, not to mention grow comfortable in her new role. She had only seen Edgar a handful of times before he’d proposed, and then the wedding had followed shortly after. It had to be an awkward thing to transform from virtual strangers to intimate companions, and it would take more than one day.

“Thank you for looking after the shop today,” Edgar said, his gratitude quite unexpected. He rarely noticed how many hours Grace spent in the shop or how much she accomplished. “Do sit down. You must have been run off your feet.”

“You’re welcome,” Grace replied as she settled on the settee. “I hope you had a pleasant day together.”

“Yes, very pleasant,” Venetia replied shyly.

Grace longed to sit closer to the fire, but Venetia occupied Grace’s usual chair, and she could hardly ask Venetia to move. “It was rather busy,” she added. “And Dr. Moore stopped by to deliver a wedding gift.”

Venetia’s face instantly brightened. “Did he not want to come upstairs?”

“I’m sorry. I told him you weren’t at home to visitors, but I did ask him to dine with us on Wednesday, and he accepted.”

Despite Venetia’s obvious pleasure, Edgar shot Grace a look of deep irritation but thankfully didn’t rebuke her in front of Venetia.

“I look forward to meeting your cousin, my dear,” Edgar said instead. “He does sound rather an eccentric fellow.”

“Have you two not met?” Grace inquired.

“Julian was abroad for several months and has only just returned,” Venetia explained. “And he’s always so busy. I’m surprised he’s agreed to dinner.”

“Perhaps he will beg off,” Edgar said. He was probably still annoyed that Dr. Moore had not attended the wedding.

“I hope not,” Venetia said. “I long to see him. Julian was the older brother I never had. He always looked after me.”

Edgar smiled at Venetia affectionately, then turned to Grace. “Aren’t you going to change for dinner?”

Grace was tired and thought it was perhaps best that she leave the newlyweds to themselves on the second night of their married life. “I have rather a bad headache,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll take a tray in my room.”

“That sounds wise,” Edgar said. “You need your rest. Allow me to escort you upstairs.”

“There’s really no need,” Grace protested.

“There’s every need,” Edgar said, and smiled at her indulgently.

“I do hope you feel better, Grace,” Venetia said.

Venetia seemed disappointed to see her go. Perhaps the newlyweds had already run out of conversation and needed the distraction of a third party, but Grace was too worn out to sit through an awkward meal that was sure to last several hours. Edgar liked to take his time and had instructed Alice not to bring out the courses too close together, which meant that Alice finished up in the kitchen that much later and hardly had any time to herself at the end of the workday.

“Thank you,” Grace said, and headed for the door, Edgar right behind her.

“Well, goodnight,” Grace said as soon as they reached her room, but Edgar took her by the elbow before she could disappear inside.

“Grace, I won’t make an issue of it this time and demand that you send your apologies to Dr. Moore, but in future, I would appreciate it if you would consult Venetia before inviting someone to dine.”

“Venetia was glad I invited Dr. Moore,” Grace protested.

“That’s really not the point. You are no longer in a position to issue invitations. There’s an established custom to these matters, and Venetia is now the mistress in this house.”

“Do forgive me, Edgar. I wasn’t thinking,” Grace said, her sarcasm lost on him.

“There’s nothing to forgive. You forgot yourself is all,” he said magnanimously. “It will take time for everyone to get accustomed to the new order of things, but we will be very happy. You’ll see. You and Venetia will become the best of friends. She will be the sister you never had,” Edgar promised.

“Yes, I’m sure she will be. I really do feel unwell, Edgar.”

Realizing he still had hold of her arm, Edgar allowed his hand to fall away, giving Grace a chance to escape.

“Goodnight,” she shot at him as she shut the door in his face.

Relief washed over Grace once she was alone. Edgar was right, she would get used to their new living arrangement, but it would take more than a few hours, and Edgar’s highhanded demeanor was uncalled for. It was as if she were suddenly of no account, just someone Edgar and Venetia had to tolerate and support. Grace let out a deep sigh and settled in a chair by the hearth.

It stung to be reprimanded by Edgar when Grace had done nothing wrong. Dr. Moore was a close relative, so it was only polite that she extend an invitation, especially when he had come by specially to bring a gift for the newlyweds. What was she supposed to do, say thank you and ask him to leave? Venetia would have done the same had she been in the shop when Dr. Moore had called.

The room was chilly, so Grace lit a fire and sat staring into the flames, her pride at war with her common sense. Edgar wasn’t entirely wrong. This was his house and his shop, and now that he was married, his wife was above Grace on the social scale. She understood that and had known it would happen, but although she had been all set to accept this new reality, she still felt sadly diminished.

Perhaps that was why her friends had accepted the first proposal of marriage they had received. It wasn’t about the man but about the change in station. To have one’s own home and the respect that went with the title of wife was what mattered. It gave a woman as much power over her life as she was likely to have, and even if she was widowed, it was still preferable to remaining a spinster. People had respect for widows, and sometimes widows inherited their husband’s assets, which afforded them a degree of independence. If something happened to Edgar, Grace would be left destitute unless he had provided for her in his will or Venetia was kind enough to invite her to stay. Otherwise, she would be left alone in the world, with no income of her own to see her through old age.

For the first time, Grace wondered if she had made a mistake when she rejected an invitation from George Leslie. They had met in the shop when Edgar invited Mr. Leslie to read from his new book of poems. The shop had been packed, a few ladies practically swooning at the sight of the renowned poet. Mr. Leslie was handsome in his way, but there was something in his manner that Grace had found intensely off-putting. Perhaps it was his air of self-congratulation or his habit of name-dropping. She supposed he’d earned the right to boast about his accomplishments, but Grace thought it was in bad taste and had politely refused when he’d asked if they might go for a walk or visit an art gallery. The thought of being alone with him had sent Grace into a panic, and she had fought bitterly with Edgar, refusing to be bullied into a courtship she hadn’t sought.

Her feelings about George Leslie had not changed, but perhaps her attitude toward a marriage of convenience was undergoing a transformation. What Grace wanted above all else was to be her own mistress, and there was no way for her to accomplish that without giving up her freedom. She supposed everything in life came down to a choice between two evils.

“Are you all right, miss?” Alice asked when she delivered the supper tray more than an hour later. “Shall I bring you a headache powder?”

“Thank you, Alice. I’m all right. Just tired.”

Alice nodded in understanding, her eyes warm with sympathy. Not for the first time, Grace realized how lovely Alice was, with her wide blue eyes and golden ringlets that peeked from beneath her linen cap. Had Alice been born into a well-to-do family, her life would have been very different, but such was the nature of life’s lottery. Grace was grateful that Edgar had always acted the gentleman when it came to Alice, unlike so many other masters, who thought the female servants were theirs for the taking. Alice felt safe and looked on the Hilliards as her family.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you in the shop, miss, but Mrs. Hilliard asked for a bath, and then Mr. Hilliard wanted poached salmon with dill mayonnaise and potatoes for their luncheon, so I had to run out to the market.”

“I know you were busy,” Grace hurried to reassure the girl. Alice looked as exhausted as Grace felt.

“What you need is a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep,” Alice ventured. “I brought you a lovely chop, and fruit compote for after.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Grace was grateful to Alice for her thoughtfulness but wished Alice would go and leave her in peace.

“Just leave the tray outside the door, so I don’t have to disturb you when I come for it. Goodnight, Miss Hilliard.”

“Goodnight, Alice,” Grace said, and settled to her lonely dinner.

Chapter 16

Nicole

I had received a text from Quinn asking if we could meet, but as much as I longed to hear what she had learned, I had another book event scheduled for that afternoon at a popular bookshop in the Strand. I hoped to capitalize on the lunch crowd and had scheduled it for noon.

My mind was still on Edgar Hilliard when I arrived at Bolton’s Books. The shop was narrow and long and had a quaint café at the back decorated with mismatched chairs and sofas and antique-looking mirrors. The café sold treats baked by the owner’s wife and made excellent coffee drinks. There was also tea, matcha, and lemonade, and I planned to grab a treat after the reading.

Rows of chairs had been set up at the center of the shop, with a small table and chair for the author at the front. I had sat at that table a number of times, but this was my first time as an independent author. My heart swelled with pride at the stacks of my books arranged on a table by the door for attendees to purchase if they hadn’t come with their own copy for me to sign. I sat at the table, took out my own copy, from which I would be reading, and placed a bottle of water to my right.

The reading and book signing were slated to last ninety minutes, but most people hoped for a chat and tried to establish a personal connection, which meant the event would go on for two hours at least. I didn’t mind. I loved talking to fans and answering their questions, and unlike at The Quill and Ink, I felt no pressure from the owner. Mark Bolton was a pleasant man who invited me every time I had a new release and advertised the event well in advance, so there was always a decent-sized crowd.

About fifty people showed up, and the reading went well. I didn’t stumble or lose my place, and no one called out any comments or questions until I had finished. I knew it was silly to feel nervous, but few authors I knew enjoyed public speaking. We were a reticent lot, most comfortable in our own heads, and reading our words aloud in front of people who watched with unblinking concentration could be daunting.

Once I had answered all the questions, a queue formed, snaking all the way to the front door, and looping around almost as far as my table. Some people had purchased more than one book, eager to have the entire series signed, and I took my time, speaking to them all and thanking them for their continued support. Given the number of books published each year, I was grateful for every single person who had taken the time to read my work and felt invested enough to come to the signing on a Saturday afternoon.

I could almost taste the lemon scone I planned to get and was more than ready for a cup of tea by the time the last person approached the table. The woman was in her early twenties. She was short and slight, with very dark eyes and a pale face framed by a curtain of straight black hair that fell to her shoulders. Her eyes were expertly lined in black, and her lipstick was such a dark shade of red as to appear nearly black. She wore black jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, combat boots, and a motorcycle jacket in a glorious shade of purple. A copy of The Gilded Lily was pressed to her chest, and she seemed transfixed by me for a moment before finally handing me the book.

“Did you want me to make this out to anyone?” I asked. Usually people told me their name, but the woman remained silent, watching me in a way that was beginning to make me uneasy.

“Dove,” she said. “My name is Dove.”

Raven would have been more fitting, but I didn’t suppose many mothers pictured their daughters as goths when they were handed an adorable infant. I signed the book and handed it back, smiling at Dove. She didn’t smile back. Instead, she hugged the book to her chest again and fixed me with a dark stare. “Can we talk?”

I waited for Dove to explain, but she just stood there, watching me. She was probably an aspiring writer hoping for advice. She wouldn’t be the first author to approach me, and although I wanted to help, I was reluctant to engage. Some authors were grateful for the tips, while others grew prickly and defensive and thought I was judging their process. I wasn’t one to judge, since my own process could be a bit chaotic, but I found that it was best to wish them the best of luck and move on.

“I’m sorry, but I really must get going,” I said at last, and Dove’s face sagged with disappointment.

“Let me buy you a coffee,” she said, revealing a chink in her armor at last. “Please, I really need to speak to you.”

“What about?” I asked. I didn’t want to have coffee with Dove. In fact, I no longer wished to linger and was eager to leave.

I could see the owner of the shop out of the corner of my eye and hoped Mark had realized that I was uncomfortable. I had never encountered a stalker or a fan that made me feel cornered, but this woman was giving off some very strange vibes. They weren’t belligerent exactly, just really intense. Almost desperate.

“Please,” Dove said again. “I only need a few minutes of your time, and this is not a conversation to be had in public.”

“All right.”

I gathered my things and followed Dove to the café. We ordered drinks and sat at a table in the corner. I no longer wanted a scone, but Mark brought me one anyway since he knew it was my favorite.

Dove took a sip of her coffee and set the cup down, her hand trembling. When she failed to explain, I asked, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Dove sucked in a shaky breath. “My mother died recently,” she said, her gaze fixed on me once again. “Her name was Lark Mitchell.”

I simultaneously registered two things. The first was that both women had bird names. The second was that I had heard her mother’s name before.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said.

Dove nodded. “She died two months ago. Stroke,” she added.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. My mind was furiously sifting through people I had known in an attempt to figure out in what context I had known Lark Mitchell, but nothing came to mind. Perhaps I had heard something on television or had read about her in the news. I didn’t think I had known her personally.

“You don’t remember her, don’t you?” Dove asked.

“Sorry, no.”

Dove nodded, as if her suspicions had just been confirmed. “Your mother would remember her.”

“I lost my mother too. A few years ago now.”

“I’m sorry,” Dove said, but the comment lacked sincerity.

We sat in silence for a few moments, drinking our coffees. Mark passed by and gave me a sidelong glance. He could tell something wasn’t quite right and would probably remain in the vicinity in case I should need his help.

“My mum worked as a loan officer at Sovereign Bank and Trust in Leadenhall Street,” Dove said, still watching me intently. And then I knew where I’d heard the name. A memory crystallized, and I felt a pang of sorrow.

“She worked with my dad.”

“Yes. They worked together for nearly ten years.”

Now that I was able to place Lark Mitchell, I could recall a slight, dark-haired woman with soulful brown eyes. I thought she had been of either Spanish or Italian descent. Mitchell was her husband’s surname, and she had kept it after the divorce. My father had worked closely with Lark, and I had met her several times when I had stopped by to see my dad. She’d always had a tin of chocolate biscuits in her drawer and a dish of limoncello hard candy next to her computer.

“I was four when your father passed away,” Dove said. “Our father, I should say,” she added, her gaze never leaving my face. A cruel little smile tugged at her lips, and I stared at her, wondering if I had heard her correctly.

“That’s right,” Dove continued. “My mother and your father knew each other quite well,” she said, driving the point home.

“Are you suggesting they had an affair?”

“I’m not sure how I’d label their relationship. My mother never spoke of him to me, at least not in any personal way. I knew they worked together and met him a few times. I only found out he was my father after she died.”

“How did you find out?” I asked woodenly.

“I found my birth certificate when I cleaned out her flat. My mother never gave it to me, and I never had reason to ask for it, since I’d never applied for a passport.”

Dove took out her mobile and showed me a photo of her birth certificate. “I didn’t want to bring the original,” she explained.

I stared at the picture, my gaze going straight to my father’s name in the column marked Father.

“I’m sorry,” Dove said, her tone more sympathetic now. “I know this must come as a shock, but it seems you’re the only family I have left. I went back and forth for weeks, but then decided I had to meet my sister.”

That word was like a stab to the heart. I had always longed for a sister, especially in those awful first months after my father’s death, and then when my mum had been sick and I had felt so alone. I had longed for love, support, and companionship. A person who understood what I was feeling and felt the same way. But this woman was a stranger to me. I knew nothing about her and saw nothing of my father in her angular features. She had taken after her mother in looks, but there had to be something of Tony Rayburn in her genetic makeup, didn’t there?

“Can we get together sometime?” Dove asked when I failed to say anything. “I’d like to meet your family.”

“No.” The word was out before I had time to consider my answer. It came from a place deep inside me, that inner sanctum where gut instinct lived and sent cerebral shock waves when it was trying to protect me.

“No?” Dove looked like I had just slapped her. As someone who had been taught good manners, I felt sorry to have been so blunt, but I wasn’t ready to reverse my decision.

I pulled out the notepad I always carried and handed it to Dove, along with a pen. “Please write down your mobile number, and I will get in touch when I’m ready.”

“And when will that be?” Dove asked, her hurt on full display.

“Look, I’m really sorry, Dove, but I need some time to process this news. Surely you can understand that.”

“All right,” Dove said, but I could see that beneath the forced expression of understanding, she was still angry.

I supposed she had imagined this meeting turning out very differently, and maybe I was being unfair, but I couldn’t pretend that Dove hadn’t just taken a sledgehammer to my emotional sanctuary. Her sudden revelation had changed everything, and I couldn’t begin to understand what this would mean until I’d had ample time to reflect and cast the father I had adored in the role of adulterer.

Dove scribbled down her number and pushed the notepad back toward me, then got to her feet and walked out of the shop without saying goodbye. She left her copy of The Gilded Lily on the table, a silent gesture of retaliation for the rejection she had suffered at my hands.

I instinctively reached for the book and stowed it in my bag, feeling as if it were a part of my soul and I had to protect it at all costs. I knew I should leave. I wanted to leave, but my legs suddenly felt boneless, and I was trembling, my hands shaking violently. My body was processing the shock and physically reacting to the news Dove had sprung on me. I couldn’t imagine standing up and walking to the door until I felt a bit steadier.

“Are you all right?” Mark asked as he approached the table. “That looked rather tense.”

“Thank you. I’m fine. Budding writer,” I managed to explain. I was surprised I had been able to articulate the words, but at this stage, my body had moved from fight to flight, and all I wanted was to get away and examine my feelings in private.

“Not a happy bunny, is she?” Mark asked, his gaze on Dove, who was still visible through the window as she waited for the light to change so she could cross the street. Her shoulders were hunched, and her head was pulled in like a turtle’s, her elbows sticking out sharply when she shoved her hands into her pockets.

“No, she isn’t,” I replied, and tried to smile. It must have come out like a grimace, but Mark didn’t seem to notice. He was still watching Dove, who had just crossed the street and fumbled for her purse as a bus pulled up to a stop. Mark and I watched her board, then saw her appear on the top deck and take a seat by the window, leaning her head against the glass, her shoulders still pulled up about her neck.

“I’m going to go. Thank you for today,” I muttered.

“My pleasure,” Mark said. “It was a good turnout.”

“Yes,” I replied, but my mind wasn’t on books or fans.

All I wanted was to get home and throw myself into Kyle’s arms. I knew he’d hold me while I cried and then hear me out and try to put the whole sorry episode in perspective.

Chapter 17

I barely registered the taxi ride home. All I could think of was my mum, and for the first time since her passing, I was glad she wasn’t there. Dove’s revelation would have broken her heart, and I was glad she had been spared the awful knowledge that my father had fathered a child with another woman.

As a teen, I hadn’t really known what my parents’ relationship was like behind closed doors and hadn’t been interested enough to pay close attention, but I knew Mum loved my dad, and I was sure he loved her. I recalled Mum’s grief when Dad died and the haunted look in her eyes as his casket was lowered into the ground. She knew her Tony was gone, but she was always looking for him, her head whipping about when a man who bore even a slight resemblance to my father happened to pass by or when she heard a similar voice or smelled the aftershave he had always worn.

Had she known about Lark? Or Dove? Had she been oblivious to my father’s affair, or had they battled about it in private? Could it be that my father’s heart attack had been brought on by the knowledge that life as he knew it was unraveling? Had he intended to leave us and make a life with Lark and Dove? Would he have had he lived? I would never know the answers to any of those questions, and it seemed neither did Dove since her mother had kept her paternity a secret. Why had she done that? Was Dove the product of a one-night stand? Had my father rejected Lark and by default their daughter? Had my mum given him an ultimatum, and had he chosen us, and to punish him for that decision, had Lark kept his daughter away from him?

How could I not have sensed any turmoil? The answer was simple. I had been a selfish young girl who was wrapped up in her own problems and consumed by teenage angst. I wouldn’t have noticed if the roof had caved in, so busy was I with my daily dramas and delusions of self-importance. And perhaps my parents had loved me too much to lay their marital troubles on me, unlike so many other parents who damaged their children for life with their squabbles and needless spite. My parents had seemed solid, happy. They’d had their routines, their hobbies, and their friends. They had done what parents were supposed to do, and I had taken it for granted, thinking life would go on that way until I was an adult and had a life of my own.

But now that I was older and wiser, I knew that nothing was ever really as it seemed. So much happened behind closed doors, or behind closed expressions. People cheated, lied, stole, and abused. Sometimes they did it knowingly, while at other times they never realized the pain they were inflicting until it was too late. Few families came together the way the Walshes and the Cadogans had done when Kyle discovered that the man who’d raised him wasn’t his biological father. They had all decided to put aside their differences and focus on their son and granddaughter.

But this situation was vastly different. Or was it? Did this seem more tragic because it had happened to me? Had Kyle been the bigger person when he’d embraced his new sisters and worked hard to become their friend instead of rejecting them out of hand because they had never been part of his life? I didn’t have the answers, and at the moment, I had no energy to figure it all out. All I wanted was to hide from the world for a little while and sulk. Surely I was entitled to feel angry and betrayed, if only for tonight. Tomorrow, I would try to act like an adult, but today, I was nothing but a hurt, disenchanted child.

Chapter 18

“Nic, what’s wrong?” Kyle asked as soon as I walked through the door. “Did something happen at the book signing?”

I shook my head, not quite ready to explain. “I just need a moment.”

I went upstairs, changed out of my dress, pulled on jeans and a hoodie, and washed my face. Then I twisted my hair into a topknot and came back downstairs. Ava was running around the lounge holding her favorite toy, a microphone that flashed bright lights and magnified her singing to concert arena levels. She was warbling a song but hurled herself into my arms as soon as I walked through the door.

“Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,” Ava cried.

I buried my face in her silky hair and instantly felt better.

“Nic, what’s going on?” Kyle asked again, meeting my gaze over Ava’s head.

“I’ll tell you later. Let’s have a sing-along. Ava, you go first. What are you going to sing for us today?”

Ava loved the idea and positioned herself in the middle of the room, watching me and Kyle as if we were judges on Britain’s Got Talent. She went with “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” We sang a few of Ava’s favorite songs, watched a Disney film, then had an early dinner. Spending time with Kyle and Ava grounded me, and by the time I came downstairs after putting Ava to bed and filled Kyle in on what had happened, I felt calm and composed.

“You saw the birth cert?” Kyle asked once I had finished.

I nodded. “It was a photo of her birth certificate, but it looked legit.”

“As someone who recently gained two siblings, I can honestly say that it can be a very positive thing.”

“Yes, I suppose it can, but when Dove told me, I got so angry.”

“Why were you angry?” Kyle asked, taking on the role of therapist.

“For one, Dove ambushed me at a work event. She might not think a book signing is work, but for me it’s a professional opportunity and not the right place to detonate such a bomb. For another, I was completely blindsided. I couldn’t believe that my dad would betray my mum in that way and was glad that she isn’t here to face this. And then it occurred to me that maybe she knew and chose not to tell me in order to protect me.” I sucked in a shaky breath. “And then I became cross with myself for getting angry and for allowing this woman to destabilize me to such a degree.”

“I think Dove went to the signing because she was sure she’d get your attention. If she had emailed you or tried to contact you via Facebook or your author website, you wouldn’t have responded to her.”

I nodded. That was probably true. I received all sorts of messages every day, and although the majority were lovely and filled with praise for my books, some were quite disturbing. No one would think that an author of historical mysteries would be a target, but I received everything from death threats to messages that threatened to tear down everything I had built if I didn’t pay into some anonymous account within twenty-four hours. I had learned to ignore and delete.

“There’s no way to know if your mum knew,” Kyle said, his expression thoughtful, “but if she did and didn’t tell you, it was because she didn’t want to destroy your good opinion of your dad. And you don’t know what really happened between your father and Lark. There are degrees of betrayal.”

“Sorry?” I asked, staring at Kyle. “Are you seriously saying that there are levels of cheating?”

“Of course there are,” Kyle replied calmly.

“Do I even want to hear this?” I wasn’t at all sure this was going to make me feel better, but now I had to know.

“Flirting with someone at a club is not the same as kissing them, and kissing them is not the same as taking them home. And having a one-night stand is not the same as having an affair,” Kyle said.

“Isn’t it?”

“No. Shagging someone once is generally a spur-of-the-moment decision, one people frequently regret in the cold light of day. Conducting an affair involves planning, lying, and sneaking around. It’s premeditated and intentional, and there’s no remorse. Or at least not lasting remorse if they go on to do it again.”

“Are you saying you’d feel no lasting remorse if you had an affair?”

“Nic, don’t make this about us,” Kyle said wearily. “I’m just saying that not all betrayals are equal. You don’t know what went on between your parents. Children never do. Just look at my mum and dad. Cassie and I didn’t have a clue.”

“My parents were happy,” I exclaimed.

“Maybe they were. It could have been a one-off, a terrible mistake that your dad regretted for the rest of his days.”

“Kyle, you’re not making this any easier.”

“I’m sorry, but there’s not much else I can say. Having gone through a similar situation myself, I can only tell you that knowing that my mum was not having a full-on affair with Sean made me feel better.”

I leaned against the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling. I knew Kyle had a point, but this had all been much easier to accept when it was someone else’s parents. Kyle had found a way to make the situation work for him. He couldn’t go back and undo what had been done, but he’d made the best of things by building a relationship with Sean and his half-sisters. He saw it as a gain rather than a loss. If any of the players in my drama had still been alive, I might have sought the answers I needed, but at this stage, all I could do was speculate, and it was driving me mad.

Chapter 19

Eager for a distraction, I rang Quinn, who picked up on the second ring.

“Well, you took your time,” she said with a chuckle.

“I had an awful day.”

“Why? What happened?”

I filled her in on my conversation with Dove and Kyle’s take on the situation, and waited for Quinn to weigh in. She’d had her share of surprises when it came to parental shenanigans and was more qualified than most to offer an informed opinion.

“I can certainly understand how your feel,” Quinn said. “I remember how angry and betrayed I felt when I found out the truth about my birth parents, but once the initial shock wore off, I realized that life had handed me a unique opportunity.”

“How so?” I asked, but I could anticipate what Quinn was going to say since I’d just heard it from Kyle.

“There are very few people in this world who truly belong to us, especially when you’re an only child and don’t have a large extended family. I always longed for siblings and imagined that we would be the best of friends for all the days of our lives. It didn’t quite work out like that, but I now have people in my life who love me and love my children, which means the world to me. Whatever happened between your parents, Dove is not at fault, so perhaps the best thing to do is treat her like an unexpected gift. Unwrap it and see what’s inside.”

“You sound like a Christmas card,” I quipped.

“Sometimes the best things in life come from unexpected places.”

“Thank you, Quinn.”

I could tell Quinn was smiling on the other end. “You won’t be thanking me when you hear my surprise.”

“You saw something?”

“I did, but it wasn’t quite what we expected. The notebook did not belong to Edgar Hilliard. It was his sister’s.”

“Did Edgar use Grace’s notebook to write his manuscript?” I asked, not sure I had understood Quinn correctly.

“I don’t think so. The impression I got was that Grace was the author.”

“Are you kidding me?” I cried.

“Perhaps subsequent generations assumed that Edgar had written the book since he was the writer in the family, but it seems Grace had talents of her own.”

“Does this mean we won’t be able to find out what happened to Edgar?” I asked, the reality of Quinn’s discovery finally sinking in.

“I will see where the notebook takes me, but maybe Deborah has something that belonged to Edgar. Like a pen or a pocket watch, or even a button from his coat.”

“I’ll ask. I think she’ll be surprised to hear that the manuscript was written by Grace.”

“I have a feeling that won’t be the only surprise Deborah will be getting.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The starting point is the day of Edgar’s wedding, and I have to assume that’s significant. I have yet to delve deeper into Grace’s memories, but I got the feeling that a rivalry was brewing between Grace and Venetia. Which is not surprising given that after years of domestic independence, Grace now had to defer to a newcomer who was several years her junior.”

I sighed. “Given the social issues prevalent in Victorian England, I don’t think being a spinster was the worst by any means, but I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to depend entirely on one’s male guardians or married female relatives. An unmarried woman had no voice, no rights, and all too frequently no money of her own. For most, the only means of survival was to either go into service and earn a wage or marry anyone who asked,” I said, recalling what I had learned while researching the era. “Did Grace have a suitor, by any chance?”

“Not that I saw, but it’s early days. I just wanted to warn you that you’re about to get a wholly different viewpoint.”

“If Grace was also a writer, chances are her observations are worth noting.”

“Without a doubt,” Quinn agreed. “I will have more for you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

“And Nicole,” Quinn said, her voice softening. “Don’t let what you’ve learned from Dove taint your memories. Your experiences are real and precious, so try to forgive your father if you can. I sometimes wish I had tried harder to forgive, but it’s too late now.”

“I don’t think I’m quite there yet,” I said. “but I will certainly work on it.”

Chapter 20

Grace

On Wednesday, Grace resolved to go down to the shop early so as not to unwittingly interfere with Venetia’s plans for dinner. Grace had the perfect menu in mind, but Edgar had made it crystal clear that entertaining was no longer her responsibility, and since Dr. Moore was Venetia’s cousin, she was bound to know what he liked.

Grace had to admit that she was looking forward to seeing Dr. Moore again. It had been a long while since Edgar had invited anyone to dine, and Grace longed for company. She preferred a small party, where the guests could all speak to each other rather than follow the rules of a large gathering and only converse with whoever was seated on their right or left. Dr. Moore seemed like he would be a diverting dinner companion, and having him there would balance the numbers, making Grace feel less like a third wheel at a time when Edgar and Venetia wanted to be alone.

The day would have been pleasant if it weren’t for Edgar. He came down around eleven o’clock to help with the midday rush, then settled at the small table in the alcove with his notebook as soon as he could decently get away. Grace knew exactly what he was up to. He was working on a new play, or more accurately, pretending to work on a new play and waiting for her to help him.

Grace sighed with frustration as she stole a peek at Edgar, his dark head bent over a mostly clean page. She used to love and admire him. Edgar was her older brother, her protector, and her girlhood confidant. Grace hated to admit even to herself that more and more, Edgar made her feel small and used. He mined her ideas, bullied her into writing the plays, and left her on her own in the shop more often than not, claiming he had more important things to do.

The one time Grace had tried to talk to Edgar about his behavior, he’d reminded her that his continued success was for the greater good of the family and in turn the shop since it brought in customers who wished to meet the author and discuss his work. Grace had not encountered many patrons who wished to meet Edgar but wasn’t about to tell him so because Edgar was right. The success of the plays benefited them both, so she had to swallow her pride and continue as the silent partner because although the shop was frequented by a number of regulars, custom had fallen off sharply in recent months, and their daily takings were dwindling.

Grace hoped now that Edgar was married, he would help in the shop and spend more time at home. In the months prior to the wedding, he had frequently gone out in the evening and not come home until the early hours, but when Grace had asked him where he’d been, he would become annoyed and accuse her of prying.

“I’m a playwright, Grace. How can I write plays that are relevant to my audience if I have no experiences to draw on?” Edgar had demanded in a tone so haughty, Grace had wanted to slap the smugness from his face.

How could he write relevant plays, indeed? He wasn’t the one writing them, was he? She was, and Edgar didn’t so much as take her for a walk in the park or escort her to an exhibition at the British Museum, or even take her out for a cup of tea. If not for their weekly outing to church, Grace would hardly leave at all, bound as she was to the household and the business. Deeply wounded and feeling rebellious, Grace sometimes dreamed of pursuing prospects of her own. She could write a novel and submit it to publishers under a nom de plume. No one had to know she was a woman. Several female writers had done it and had managed to not only get published but done so to great acclaim. Edgar would never have to know. How delicious it would be to put her own book on display and listen to Edgar praise the talented new writer and pontificate about the depth of their characters, the freshness of their viewpoint, and the eloquence of their prose to the customers, even if he was green with envy in private. Edgar called every new author they stocked either mediocre or downright talentless and raged about their success as if it were a personal insult to him.

Grace had an idea for a book that had been percolating in her mind for weeks now but had serious reservations about how such a story would be received. She had never read anything like it and thought the concept might be entirely unique. The main character, a young man of no great importance who wouldn’t be missed if he suddenly vanished, would fashion a device that enabled him to travel through time. Grace’s mind teemed with ideas at the prospect of setting her story on paper. How exciting it would be to have her hero travel through the centuries, going further and further back until he was no longer the same person and couldn’t possibly return to his own place.

Grace thought it would be even more novel to send her protagonist to the future, but her imagination didn’t stretch to inventing a world she had not yet seen. Depressingly, anything she came up with mirrored her own staid reality. Such a future would neither intrigue nor astound her readers, and she chided herself for her lack of ingenuity. She wished she could break through the wall of societal restrictions to create a world that didn’t resemble the present in any aspect and would shock her readers with the boldness of its vision.

“Stop woolgathering and help me,” Edgar whined petulantly, cutting across Grace’s thoughts. “I must have a new play finished by Christmas if I hope to see it performed next year. It takes time to put on a play, you know.”

“Yes, I’m aware how long it takes to mount a production,” Grace replied. “Have you an idea for a new play?”

“I thought I’d write about a man who sells his soul to the devil to attain power and riches,” Edgar said excitedly.

“It’s been done,” Grace replied. “A number of times.”

“What? By whom?”

“Chritopher Marlow, William Beckford, and Nathaniel Hawthorne, to name a few.”

“Well, there you have it,” Edgar exclaimed. “The idea doesn’t have to be unique. It’s what happens after that has to differ from other works.”

“I suppose,” Grace muttered.

“Come, Gracie. Help me. What would happen to a man who sold his soul to the devil in order to achieve his greatest desire?”

“Nothing good,” Grace replied, but found that her lips were twitching with amusement. Perhaps there was something to this idea.

“All I need is a unique twist on an old favorite,” Edgar insisted.

“All right. How about this? The devil allows the man to achieve his greatest desire and enjoy the fruits of his ill-gotten gains for a year, but when the man defaults on their bargain, the devil turns him into a woman.”

“That’s diabolical,” Edgar cried. “I can’t think of a worse punishment.”

“Can’t you?”

Oblivious to her sarcasm, Edgar was grinning like a child, his mind no doubt already conjuring up the insults and humiliations his character would have to endure once in his new guise. “You have to help me write it. If presented the right way, the play could be a runaway success. Imagine the accolades!”

That you would bask in. Grace hated that she felt so bitter but couldn’t seem to get her emotions under control.

“Let’s talk more tomorrow,” Grace said.

“Of course. You need time to work out the storyline,” Edgar said, all understanding now. “I won’t rush you.”

“Thank you.”

“What did you make of Dr. Moore?” Edgar asked as he closed the notebook with an air of a man who’d just successfully completed a day’s work.

“He was nice.”

“Nice? Is that the best you can say for him?”

“What do you want me to say? I only spoke to him for a few minutes. He was well spoken and polite.”

“Is he handsome?” Edgar asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“I suppose. Does it matter if he is?”

“It might matter to you.”

“Why would it matter to me?” Grace asked. Edgar had a talent for making her feel cornered.

“Oh, come now, Gracie. You can’t fool me. At your age, you must evaluate every man you meet as a potential suitor. Perhaps it’s time you lowered your standards.”

What do you know about my standards? Grace wanted to ask, but kept silent. The sooner Edgar moved on to another topic, the better.

“Do you know what happens to women who hold out for love? They end up being sad, dried-up spinsters,” Edgar announced. Angry heat rose in Grace’s face at Edgar’s cruel words, but he ignored her reaction. “I only want what’s best for you,” he added, his tone maddeningly patronizing.

“I know you do, Edgar,” Grace replied sweetly. “But if I marry, I wager I’ll have no time to help you with your writing. I will have a household of my own, and a husband and children to care for.”

Edgar clearly hadn’t considered that because he blanched, his hand going protectively to his notebook. “But the stories come so easily to you. Surely you’d find time to help a brother who’s eternally devoted to you.”

“I didn’t realize we had another brother,” Grace replied airily. “I’d love to meet him sometime.”

“Your sharp tongue will get you into serious trouble one day,” Edgar snapped.

“Or out of it,” Grace replied, and forced a smile onto her face when a customer walked in.

Cheated out of having the final say, Edgar headed upstairs without another word, the set of his shoulders and his heavy tread on the stairs warning that he wouldn’t be coming back down and Grace was on her own for the rest of the day.

Chapter 21

Grace had just enough time to change for dinner after closing the shop before Dr. Moore arrived. Edgar, who’d barely come down to the shop since the previous week, was all effusive bonhomie as he offered Dr. Moore a drink and thanked him for the thoughtful wedding gift. And Venetia, who still looked a bit lost most of the time, seemed more at ease in her cousin’s presence and sat close to him, her gaze warm on his face. Dr. Moore reached out and took hold of her hand, and an unspoken conversation passed between them, whatever Venetia had conveyed clearly putting his mind at ease. Some part of Grace envied their bond, since she and Edgar had never enjoyed that kind of connection. They loved each other as only siblings could, but they were too different to truly understand each other.

“How is it that we haven’t met before, Dr. Moore?” Edgar asked once they’d gone in to dinner and taken their seats around the table.

“Please, call me Julian,” Dr. Moore said pleasantly. “I’m Dr. Moore to my patients.”

“Then you must call us by our Christian names as well,” Edgar exclaimed. “It’s Grace and Edgar, none of this Mr. Hilliard, Miss Hilliard.”

Grace wasn’t sure how she felt about adopting Christian names on such short acquaintance. It felt terribly familiar, and she was unaccustomed to calling any man but Edgar by his first name. But she supposed Julian Moore was family and through Edgar and Venetia’s marriage the closest male relative Grace had next to her brother.

“Thank you,” Julian said. He smiled at Grace, then turned back to Edgar. “I have been abroad for nearly eight months. I’ve only just returned last week.”

“Where did you go?” Grace asked, intrigued. Julian Moore didn’t strike her as someone who would go on an extended holiday. There was a sense of purpose about him, and something else that she had yet to identify.

“I started in Russia, then traveled to Hungary, Austria, Germany, and spent the final few months in France.”

“A belated grand tour?” Edgar joked. His sardonic smile seemed to imply that Julian was too old for such frivolous pursuits.

“I suppose you could call it that,” Julian replied.

Venetia appeared shocked by Julian’s answer and fixed her gaze on him, seemingly willing him to reveal the truth. He was noticeably reluctant, but after a small nod, he turned back to Edgar.

“I lost my wife eighteen months ago,” Julian said. His voice was calm and steady, but Grace saw the pain in his eyes and noticed his Adam’s apple bob above his cravat as he swallowed hard. “Helen died in childbirth, our daughter with her,” he finally added. “Some people find comfort in mourning. It’s a time to reflect and heal, but being alone in the house we had shared…” His voice trailed off, and he looked down at his plate, staring as if he’d never seen soup before.

Venetia’s gaze was warm with sympathy, and she reached out and laid a gentle hand on Julian’s wrist. “We all miss her,” she said softly.

“I suppose a spell in a foreign country can be a welcome distraction,” Edgar said, visibly uncomfortable but making an effort to be supportive. “Did you do a lot of sightseeing, Julian?”

“Not really,” Julian replied.

Edgar’s smile turned sly. “Or were you more interested in gentlemanly pursuits?”

Julian shot Edgar a look of revulsion, but his reaction was lost on Edgar, who clearly didn’t think he’d said anything wrong. As far as Edgar was concerned, a year of mourning was long enough, no matter the relationship. He couldn’t quite grasp that for some people, the first year was only the beginning, and they often continued to mourn for another full year, followed by half-mourning for another six months to a year, before they were ready to fully rejoin society.

“I visited the hospitals and met with several well-respected doctors to discuss recent advances in medicine,” Julian explained.

“I don’t know why you would bother,” Edgar replied. “England is the most civilized country in the world. What could you possibly learn from backward places like Russia and Hungary?” he scoffed. “And the French…” Edgar made a dismissive gesture. “I wouldn’t trust them with anything but champagne and certain forms of art,” he added with a wink directed at Julian, who pretended not to notice. “How did you even communicate with their so-called doctors?”

“Julian speaks several languages,” Venetia interjected, clearly riled on her cousin’s behalf.

“Do you indeed?” Edgar asked, looking impressed. “Surely you don’t speak Russian. I heard it spoken once, and it sounded as if the poor man were choking. Horrible, guttural sounds that reminded me of barking.”

“No, I don’t know Russian. But I do speak German and French.”

“Julian’s mother was German,” Venetia said. “Aunt Elsa was always my favorite. She told the most wonderful stories about enchanted castles and children lost in the forest,” she added dreamily.

“Germany sounds like a frightfully dark and primitive place,” Edgar said. “I wager your mother was glad to relocate to England.”

Julian seemed to take renewed interest in his soup, and Grace fixed Edgar with a narrowed stare, hoping he’d heed her silent warning. Could he not see how boorish his behavior was? What did he know of Germany? He’d never even been abroad. In fact, he’d never been further than Bath.

“Germany is quite beautiful,” Julian said when the silence stretched on for a beat too long and some sort of comment became necessary. “As were the other countries I visited. I was especially impressed by St. Petersburg, if not by its hospitals.”

“Why did you visit the hospitals?” Edgar asked.

“I’m interested in immunology.”

“Immuno-what?” Edgar scoffed.

“Immunology, Edgar,” Julian enunciated. “Currently, we as doctors endeavor to cure diseases and infections that have already attacked the body. But what if we could prevent those illnesses before they happened?”

“How on earth could you do that?” Edgar asked. He seemed genuinely interested, and Grace hoped that the conversation would take a more amicable turn.

“By introducing certain elements into the body,” Julian replied.

“Forgive me, but I don’t understand,” Edgar said.

Venetia glanced at Julian with pride, as if she knew precisely what he was talking about.

“The concept of immunization is not new. A vaccine for smallpox was developed by Edward Jenner in 1786. The problem is that unless the vaccines are mass produced and administered to the majority of the population, they’re not much use. And currently, there is very little research into new ways to protect the public from infectious diseases.”

“So your trip was a waste of time?” Edgar inquired.

“Not at all. I met a doctor in Vienna who’d expressed an interest in partnering in our research, and I also spent a few days in the company of a French scientist, Louis Pasteur, whose groundbreaking research might finally convince the medical community of the need for more aggressive measures.”

“Sounds like a passing fad to me,” Edgar said dismissively.

“I assure you, it isn’t,” Julian replied.

Edgar’s expression was mocking. “It would be nice if science could finally find a cure for the common ailments, especially those that plague us during the winter months. I have been feeling under the weather for weeks,” he complained. “In fact, I’m almost glad Venetia and I have decided to postpone our honeymoon until the summer. I am certain I will feel more myself then.”

“What are your symptoms?” Julian asked, then turned to Grace and Venetia and smiled apologetically. “I do beg your pardon, ladies. This is not a suitable topic for the dinner table, but if you would indulge me for just a moment.”

“Of course, Julian,” Venetia replied. “I’m sure I speak for Grace as well when I say that we only want Edgar to feel better.”

Edgar’s hand went to his throat. “My neck feels a bit swollen, and there’s a rash, and I have been experiencing frequent headaches and fatigue these past few months. I even felt feverish one day last week. I was worried we’d have to postpone the wedding, but thankfully, I felt much improved by the following morning.”

“Oh my dear, you should have said,” Venetia admonished him.

“I didn’t want to worry you, my love,” Edar replied sweetly.

Julian’s gaze swept over Edgar and appeared to linger on his neck. “Have you experienced any weight or hair loss?”

Edgar looked taken aback by the question. “Not that I’ve noticed. I appreciate your concern, old chap, but I really am much better.” He smiled uncomfortably. “Perhaps we should move on to something more pleasant.”

The mention of hair loss had clearly upset Edgar. He was vain about his looks, and Grace knew he wouldn’t want his wife to focus on faults in his appearance, especially so early in the marriage.

“My dear, why don’t you tell us about your new play,” Venetia invited, her eyes glowing with admiration as she smiled at her husband.

“It’s going to be about the devil,” Edgar announced.

“Really?” Julian asked. “I would love to hear more about it.” He seemed more than happy to talk about something else as well.

They spent the next hour discussing Edgar’s as-yet-unwritten play and recalling other works that featured the devil. Venetia had clearly not read any of them and appeared shocked by the idea of such wickedness, but Grace enjoyed the conversation and even made a mental note of a few possible ideas for the plot.

Grace was sorry when the meal came to an end. Edgar asked Julian if he would like to join him for coffee and a cigar while Venetia and Grace adjourned to the parlor, but Julian made his excuses, claiming an early start at the hospital. Grace thought that Julian had little interest in spending more time with Edgar and offered to see him out. She didn’t want Julian to go. He was good company, and with him there, she didn’t feel like such a third wheel.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Julian said once they reached the door. “It’s been a long time since I dined with family.”

“I hope you’ll come again,” Grace said, but didn’t dare issue an invitation.

“I would be delighted,” Julian replied. “In the meantime, I will look forward to your message.”

For a second, Grace had no idea what he was referring to, then remembered the medical journals she had ordered.

“I will see you soon,” Julian said. He bowed from the neck and was gone, leaving Grace to watch as he strode down the darkened street until he disappeared from view.

Glad that she wasn’t expected to join Edgar and Venetia, Grace wished them a good night and escaped to her room. Tonight she had seen Edgar in a new light, and although she would always be devoted to him, she found that she was embarrassed by the way he had behaved toward Julian. Edgar had always been a bit full of himself, even as an adolescent, but his recent fame had gone to his head, and he seemed to imagine himself superior to a mere doctor.

As Grace undressed for bed, she wondered if Julian would accept another invitation to dine or if he would beg off, citing work commitments as an excuse. She had to admit that in his place, she probably would. The only thing that would induce Julian to come back would be his desire to see Venetia, a realization that was as reassuring as it was sad. Would anyone ever think Grace was reason enough to come back?

Chapter 22

Grace was surprised when Dr. Moore stopped by the following week. He asked if the shop carried some obscure medical text, but Grace thought the inquiry was a pretext to call again and was secretly glad. She had enjoyed Julian’s company and hoped they would see more of him now that he was back in England.

“Are you well?” Dr. Moore asked once they had established that the book he wanted wasn’t hiding on one of the harder-to-reach shelves.

“Very well, thank you. What about you, Dr. Moore?” Grace asked.

“Julian,” he remined her with a teasing smile.

“Julian,” Grace repeated obediently.

“I’m rather busy these days,” Julian said in response to her earlier question. “Aside from my work at the hospital, I’m in the process of moving out of my home.”

“Oh?”

Julian’s gaze grew unbearably sad. “The house holds too many memories, and it’s too big for one person. I found lodgings closer to the hospital, and I think the new location will better suit my needs.”

“That’s very wise,” Grace said. Dwelling in rooms that had once been filled with love and laughter but now echoed with silence had to be agonizing.

“And how’s Edgar feeling?” Julian asked.

“He’s well,” Grace said, but Julian didn’t appear satisfied with her answer and gave her a long, searching look.

“I think you’re a very observant woman, Grace. Did you happen to notice how long Edgar has had a rash on his neck?”

Grace shrugged. “I really don’t know since the area is normally covered by his cravat. Why do you ask? Is there cause for concern?”

“No, not at all. Please don’t be alarmed,” Julian hurried to reassure her. “It’s an occupational hazard, I’m afraid. I tend to notice these things.”

“Well, I hope you do not see anything wrong with me.” As soon as the words left Grace’s mouth, she realized that the comment had come out all wrong, and it sounded like she was fishing for a compliment. Grace felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment when Julian studied her face, his expression grave.

“You appear to be in fine health,” he said after a long moment. “And may you remain that way for all the days of your life,” he added with a smile. “And do you know what’s highly beneficial for continued good health?”

“No.”

“Fresh air and exercise. Do you enjoy walking?”

Grace smiled wistfully and shook her head. “I do, but I rarely make it to the park, since I can’t leave the shop unattended.”

“Does Edgar not look after the business?”

“He’s so often out,” Grace said. “I’m here from opening to closing time and can only take a break when Alice can spare the time to cover for me.”

“Alice, the maidservant?” Julian asked.

“Yes. She quite enjoys working in the shop. She has an aptitude for numbers and enjoys interacting with customers.”

“She’s a very pleasant young woman,” Julian agreed. “And probably more intelligent than is required for being a domestic servant.”

“She is,” Grace replied, “but Alice grew up in an orphanage and had no character references. She was happy to accept any position.”

“And I wager Edgar saw an opportunity to hire her for a pittance,” Julian said, unable to hide his distaste.

What Julian said was true, and Grace felt terribly guilty for paying Alice less than the going rate, but Alice had been lucky to find a position. Girls like her frequently ended up working in sweatshops or textile mills, where they were expected to work for twelve to fourteen hours a day. Those who couldn’t cope often fell into prostitution, and although they worked fewer hours, their prospects were far worse.

“Alice is like one of the family,” Grace said defensively. “We do our best to ensure that she’s happy.”

“That’s kind of you,” Julian said. “It’s not easy to live alone in the world, especially for a lovely young girl.”

Julian’s comment took Grace by surprise, and she wondered if he might have designs on Alice, but then she admonished herself. Alice was young and pretty, and Julian had taken notice, as any man would. He had simply spoken the truth, but Edgar often pointed out that Alice needed protection and a firm hand to make sure she remained respectable. Perhaps he was right and Grace should pay more attention to where Alice went on her afternoons off.

“I hope you don’t think it too forward, but perhaps you would agree to join me for a walk one day. It’s much more pleasant to walk with an erudite companion,” Julian said with a smile. “And maybe Edgar or Alice can mind the shop for an hour.”

Grace felt a glow of pride at his description. Julian must have realized that she passed the time in the shop by reading, and some of the material she chose was not strictly appropriate for a woman.

“I enjoy learning things,” Grace said, and hoped she didn’t sound defensive.

“As well you should. I don’t see why half the population should be relegated to spending their time on painting watercolors and doing boring needlework. Helen was one of the most intelligent people I have ever met, and I sought her advice in all things. Perhaps you can give me the benefit of your counsel on matters pertaining to my female patients.”

“I would be happy to,” Grace replied. “Although I’m not sure how much help I would be.”

“I simply need a female perspective from time to time, and I’m sure you’re more than capable of offering that.”

“Of course,” Grace said.

“Would you be able to get away on Saturday? That’s my only day off from the hospital.”

Grace felt crestfallen. “Saturday is our busiest day at the shop, and Edgar is so seldom here.”

“What about Venetia? Can she not help?”

Grace shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Venetia had never spent more than a few minutes in the shop and could hardly be left alone, and Grace didn’t want to ask Alice since she had much to do on Saturdays if she hoped to attend church on Sunday.

“It would benefit Venetia to have something to keep her occupied, and it’s not fair of Edgar to expect you to man, or I should say woman, the shop singlehandedly.”

“Edgar’s been a bit short-tempered lately,” Grace confessed. “He has much on his mind.”

“All the more reason to spend his time productively,” Julian said.

Grace was beginning to suspect that Julian didn’t care for his cousin’s husband and seemed to think him lazy and boorish. Grace had never allowed herself to entertain such judgments against her brother, but she could easily see how Julian would feel differently, given that he owed Edgar no allegiance and the things he had heard about him didn’t do Edgar much credit.

Julian must have sensed that Grace was becoming upset and hurried to apologize. “Forgive me. I have no right to interfere. I’m just disappointed since I had hoped to lure you away for an hour or two. No matter. Please, send me a note if you change your mind.”

Julian asked for a sheet of paper, pen, and ink and copied out the address. “Send for me anytime, and I will do everything in my power to make myself available.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Grace folded the paper and pushed it into the pocket of the pinafore she wore over her gown while in the shop. Julian tipped his hat and left, and not a moment too soon because two ladies had just entered the shop and were looking around helplessly.

“Can I be of help?” Grace asked, plastering a smile of welcome onto her face.

“Ah, yes,” the older woman said. “Would you have A Treatise on Domestic Economy by Mrs. Beecher?”

“I’m sorry, but that particular book was published in America, so we don’t carry it,” Grace replied. She had heard of it and had even seen a copy, but it was too cost prohibitive to order stock from the United States. “I would be happy to recommend something similar.”

“Oh, would you?” the woman exclaimed. “My daughter is to be married, and I thought a well-respected manual on a wife’s responsibilities would be helpful to her.”

“Indeed,” Grace replied as she stepped around the counter. “If you would follow me, I will show you where the housekeeping manuals are kept.”

She spent the next half hour in conversation with the ladies, discussing the two volumes Grace had on hand and their merits.

It was only once the ladies had left, having purchased both manuals, that Grace wondered about the true purpose of Julian’s unexpected visit. Had he come by to buy a book, invite her for a walk, or learn more about Edgar’s health? He had been disappointed on all three counts, but perhaps he hadn’t had a wasted journey.

Chapter 23

Nicole

It was several days after my unexpected conversation with Dove that I saw her again. I had just done a radio interview for a popular afternoon program devoted to new historical fiction and had stepped outside when I saw her waiting by the radio station entrance. She smiled shyly and moved toward me, but I instinctively stepped back. Despite Kyle’s and Quinn’s well-meant advice to give Dove a chance, I felt cornered by her antics and wished she would see how uncomfortable she made me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to speak to her, but I would have preferred to do it on my own terms.

“What are you doing here, Dove?” I demanded. “Are you stalking me?”

“No, of course not,” Dove cried. “It’s just that you never rang.”

She was wearing the same leather jacket she’d worn to the signing, torn jeans, and a black jersey, but today her face was devoid of makeup, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She looked about twelve, and I felt as if I were rejecting a child that desperately needed me.

“I was going to ring, but I wasn’t ready,” I said, making a conscious effort to soften my tone. “You have to allow me some time to come to terms with all this, and hounding me will not make that happen any faster.”

“I’m sorry.” Dove looked like she was about to weep. “Please, can we get a coffee or something?”

I really wasn’t in the mood to do this again, but I had a feeling she would show up at my next public engagement and keep following me until I agreed to speak to her.

“All right,” I said. I glanced up and down the street. There was a Costa on the corner, and I nodded toward the familiar logo. “How about there? I can stay for half an hour.” I was about to add that I had to collect Ava from Sean and Carla’s but then realized I didn’t want to bring Ava into the conversation.

“Thank you.” Dove looked relieved, and I had to acknowledge that this had to be difficult for her.

We walked to Costa in near silence, then Dove went to place our order while I scouted an empty table. The café was crowded with people who craved an afternoon caffeine boost, and I was more than ready for one myself. I found doing live interviews tiring since I had to be one hundred percent on and couldn’t go back and edit my answers. It was always a relief to finally finish and acknowledge that it had gone well and I hadn’t made any embarrassing mistakes or tripped over my words.

I slid into a chair as soon as an elderly couple got up to leave and dropped my satchel on the opposite chair to prevent someone from taking it. It took nearly ten minutes for Dove to get our drinks, but the barista finally called her name, and she sashayed to the table with two cups of coffee.

“Sugar?” Dove asked before she sat down.

“No, thank you.”

Dove took the lid off her cup and watched steam rise from the scalding beverage, her eyes fixed on her coffee. “It’s too hot,” she said unnecessarily.

“Dove, why were you waiting for me? And how did you know where I would be?” I asked. I tried to keep the reproach out of my voice, but it was difficult not to sound accusing.

Dove smiled ruefully. “I set a Google alert for your name, and the station mentioned your upcoming interview several times. It wasn’t difficult to find the address or work out what time you’d be finished.”

“That’s very enterprising, but surely you understand how uncomfortable it makes me to be tracked down that way.”

“I’m sorry,” Dove said again. “It’s just that I was so anxious. My therapist calls it intrusive thoughts. They plague me, especially when I try to go to sleep, and I can’t rest until I come up with a solution.”

I wanted to point out that she was managing her anxiety by making me anxious but decided not to get combative. Dove obviously had her reasons for tracking me down, and the sooner I heard her out, the sooner I would be free to leave.

“I also wanted to show you something,” Dove said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a plain white envelope, from which she extracted a small photo. It looked old, the colors faded and the glossy image marred by fine lines, like it had been carried in a wallet and become tattered and dogeared over time. The photo was of Lark Mitchell, who held a dark-haired toddler in her lap. They appeared to be at the park, the sun shining brightly on the two heads and the swings visible in the background. My father sat next to Lark. He looked happy and relaxed and smiled into the camera. I even recognized the shirt he was wearing. It had been one of his favorites, a navy-blue polo-neck jersey with a pale blue stripe across the chest. I had seen him wear that shirt many times.

“I found this in Mum’s purse. I think it was the only photo she had of the three of us.”

“May I?” I asked and reached for the photo.

Dove handed it to me, and I could feel her intense gaze on my face as I studied the photograph. I kept my eyes down in an effort to hide my gnawing resentment. My anger wasn’t directed at Dove but at my father, who looked so at ease with his second family. I examined his face, searching for traces of discomfiture, but couldn’t see an ounce of shame or remorse. He was exactly as I remembered him, a warm, easygoing man who went out of his way to make others feel comfortable.

I handed the photo back, and Dove slid it into the envelope and replaced it in her bag.

“I was wondering,” she said shyly, “would you have any photographs I could have? I would like to frame it, and this one is so tatty.”

“I’ll take a look,” I promised. I would have to give Dove a photo of Dad on his own, since she would hardly want a picture of my mum.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it. I know this must be difficult for you. That’s why I didn’t show you the photo right away. Knowing is one thing, but seeing can be something of a shock.”

“Yes, it is,” I admitted. Words could get into one’s head, but an image went straight to the heart.

Dove hung the bag on the back of her chair and took a sip of her coffee, then set the cup aside. “I really shouldn’t be drinking coffee. I keep forgetting.”

“Forgetting what?” I asked.

Dove’s eyes radiated misery when her gaze met mine. “I’m pregnant,” she said. “Fourteen weeks.”

I waited for her to continue, since I didn’t want to make assumptions about Dove’s feelings or relationship status.

“My partner left as soon as he found out,” she choked out.

“I’m sorry.” I felt genuine sympathy for her since she seemed so lost and unhappy.

“Tyler doesn’t want to be a dad. He made it clear that he would not want to be part of our child’s life or contribute financially.”

“Are you resolved to being a single mum, then?” I asked. I wasn’t sure how to phrase the question in a way that wouldn’t offend or sound judgmental.

Dove nodded. “I always wanted a family. This is not the way I thought it would happen, but I don’t believe in terminating a life just because the timing isn’t right. Or the person.”

I took a sip of coffee, using the pause to frame my next question. I was about to ask Dove what she did for work and how pregnancy would affect her job when her phone buzzed, and she grabbed it off the table. Whatever she saw clearly alarmed her, and she jumped to her feet.

“I’m so sorry. I have to go. Please, ring me, Nicole,” Dove said, both her voice and her expression pleading with me not to abandon her.

“Is everything all right?” I asked, and although Dove nodded, she looked frantic.

“I have to go. I’m so sorry,” she said again, and then she was gone.

Chapter 24

On any other day, I would still be reviewing my performance on the radio and worrying about my lack of progress into Edgar Hilliard’s story, but as I left the café, all I could think about was Dove. I hoped she was all right and that whatever had happened was some minor obstacle and not a problem that would have a lasting effect on her life. Dove seemed very vulnerable, and it was hard to imagine her as a mother. It was equally difficult to accept that the child she carried was my niece or nephew. I had nephews by Kyle’s sister Cassie, and his sister Emily was expecting her first, but any addition to my side of the family was completely unexpected since my only living relatives were Mum’s cousins in Australia, whom I had never met in person. Meeting Dove had stirred up all sorts of feelings and questions, and I knew that I would have to address at least some of them before I saw her next.

Unbalanced by the meeting and Dove’s sudden departure, I texted Kyle and asked him to collect Ava, then headed home. As soon as I got in, I went straight for our bedroom, where I dug out a shoebox I had inherited from my mum. Inside was a plastic bag that held the items Mum had brought back from the hospital the day Dad died.

There wasn’t much, but the few possessions were the ones he’d treasured most. The watch that had been a gift from Mum on their twentieth wedding anniversary, Dad’s wedding ring, and the Blackberry he’d refused to give up when iPhones first appeared. There was also his wallet. It still held his credit and bank cards, which Mum had canceled and were now expired anyway, a few small notes, and several business cards. Inside the clear compartment meant for his license was a photo he’d carried for years. It was of the three of us, taken when I was about eight. He had loved that photo, probably because we were all laughing and clearly enjoying the moment.

Some part of me wanted to take the items to Quinn and beg for her help, but the rational part warned me not to do it. For one, I would be putting Quinn into an uncomfortable position since she would either have to refuse or tell me things that were sure to be painful and awkward for us both. For another, I had no right to put my father’s private life under a microscope. Just because he was gone didn’t mean he wasn’t entitled to privacy and respect, both of which I would be violating if I asked Quinn to divulge feelings and actions that had never been meant to be examined by me. Some things were better left alone, and the most effective course of action was to deal with the present rather than the past.

I wasn’t the first or the last child to discover that their parents’ personal life wasn’t as they had imagined. For better or worse, my parents had remained married, so perhaps they had worked out their problems, or maybe my mum had never known there were problems to begin with and had remained blissfully unaware of the affair till the day she died. People didn’t only cheat because they were unhappy in their current relationships. Sometimes they simply needed a bit of excitement or a reminder that they were still interesting and desirable.

Lark Mitchell had been a few years younger than Mum but not the sort of woman that would appeal to a man going through a midlife crisis. She had seemed quiet and unassuming, the sort of person that was easily overlooked. Perhaps Dad had made an emotional connection with her, or maybe Dove had been the result of a mistake that had been acknowledged by both parties. That would explain why Lark had never told Dove who her father was or waxed poetic about the great love they had shared. Regardless of what had happened between the three players in this drama, they were all gone, and I could no longer hold them accountable or ask for their advice on how to deal with a sister I’d had no idea existed.

When Kyle came back and saw me sitting on the bed, the box before me, he gently took Dad’s wallet out of my hands and replaced it in the box, followed by the other items. He closed the lid and returned the box to the top shelf, then sat down on the bed and reached for my hand.

“Nic, I know you want answers, but the truth can be as destructive as it can be healing.”

I nodded. Kyle was trying to help, and what he was trying to tell me was that my situation was different from his. He had been able to connect with a father he’d never known and get to know and love him, which had helped to defuse some of the anger he’d felt at being kept in the dark all those years. I could no longer ask my dad for an explanation and had only two choices. I could either invite Dove into my life and see where it took me, or I could shut the door on her and her child forever. The choice was mine, and although the answer seemed obvious, I still wasn’t sure which way I wanted to go. Perhaps I was being unreasonable, cruel even, but I didn’t feel ready to open myself up to Dove.

“Dove was waiting for me after the interview. She’s pregnant,” I said. “And her partner left her, so she’s all alone.”

Kyle nodded. “Does knowing that change how you feel?”

“Yes and no. My first instinct is to offer support, but a part of me doesn’t want to get involved.”

“Why?”

“Because when it comes to Dove, I am not given a chance to act, only to react. I feel like she’s calling the shots, and it makes me uncomfortable. I need some time to examine my feelings.”

Kyle nodded in understanding. “Have you given any more thought to your new book?” He was trying to distract me, and talking about work usually helped, but I couldn’t seem to gather my thoughts, and my gaze kept straying to the box, the contents still beckoning to me as if they could help me make up my mind.

“Not really,” I muttered.

“What about Quinn? Has she seen anything that might explain what happened to Edgar Hilliard?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. Since the notebook belonged to Edgar’s sister, all Quinn could see so far was Grace’s attitude toward Edgar’s marriage and her feelings about her diminished position within the household. People often romanticize the Victorian period, but although it offered great freedom for men, it was one of the most restrictive historical periods for women, especially unmarried women. Grown women were treated like children and had little say in their own lives,” I said, warming up to the subject. “I can’t imagine feeling so helpless and ignored.”

“Maybe Grace was the one who killed him,” Kyle joked. “He finally crossed the line, and she lost her rag.”

I chuckled. “I doubt it. If Grace killed Edgar, she’d be left with nothing. Everything would go to Venetia, and unless Venetia was feeling uncommonly generous, Grace would spend the rest of her life employed as a governess or a companion to some demanding old woman. Or if she wasn’t able to support herself, she might have wound up in a workhouse, which in those days was a fate worse than death.”

“What became of Grace after Edgar died?” Kyle asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied with a shrug. “She must have had a child, but I haven’t been able to find any record of a marriage or a birth.”

“Nic, I know you need to process what happened in your own way, but I have always found work to be an antidote to whatever ailed me. It allowed me to step away from the problem for a time and ultimately gain a more realistic perspective.”

“Reality is overrated,” I grumbled, but I knew Kyle was right. Writing had always been a balm to my soul, and I had to get back to work and allow my feelings about Dove to untangle themselves.

“I could murder a cup of tea,” Kyle said. “Want one?”

“Why not?” I said and followed Kyle downstairs. I would let my father’s ghost rest, at least for today.

Chapter 25

I would have liked to spend some time with Ava, but she’d fallen asleep in the car, and Kyle had managed to transfer her to her cot without waking her. An amazing feat of parenting, as far as I was concerned. I stopped by the foyer and grabbed my bag instead. I had left my mobile and thought I’d check my messages while Kyle made us tea. There was a missed call and a voicemail from my solicitor, Martin Stillwell. Martin asked that I ring him. I called back, but Martin had already left for the day. His PA didn’t know why he had contacted me but hurried to reassure me that it couldn’t be anything too concerning, or he would have mentioned it to her.

I had a fairly good idea why Martin had called. He was getting on in years and was probably thinking of retiring. Perhaps he’d taken on a younger partner, or maybe he wanted to refer me to another law firm. I would be sad to see him go. Martin had been my parents’ solicitor and had helped me a great deal when my mum had died and I’d had to make arrangements pertaining to her estate.

On a whim, I decided to ring Martin on his mobile. Normally, I wouldn’t bother him, but he’d always encouraged me to ring him if I had any questions, and I didn’t think he’d mind. Martin answered on the first ring.

“Hello, Martin,” I said cheerily. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all,” Martin said. It sounded like he was in the car and talking to me on speaker. “Actually, I’m glad you called.”

Something in Martin’s tone put me on my guard. Perhaps it hadn’t been a courtesy call after all and Martin had something to discuss with me.

“Nicole, I was wondering if you could stop by the office this week,” Martin said.

“Why? Has something happened?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he replied rather cryptically.

“Martin, whatever it is, please just tell me.”

“All right,” Martin said with a heavy sigh. “I had a call from a solicitor of my acquaintance regarding Dove Mitchell. I trust you’re familiar with the name?”

“Yes.” I could already guess what was coming but fervently hoped I was wrong and Dove hadn’t gone and done something underhanded.

“Ms. Mitchell wants to make a claim on your father’s estate.”

“Is that even legal?” I exclaimed.

“It is. Naturally, the case is complicated by the fact that your father died sixteen years ago and his estate is no longer valued at what it was at the time of his passing.”

“But Dad didn’t leave a will or acknowledge Dove in any way” I protested. “Surely she has no claim on his assets.”

Martin sighed again, which did not bode well. “Normally, when someone dies without leaving a will, the court must adhere to the rules of intestacy, which protect the rights of all the children equally, regardless of the relationship. Dove’s legal representative can make a claim on half of everything you inherited. I was wondering what your position might be.”

“What are my options?” I asked, utterly stunned by this turn of events. It was shocking enough to learn that my dad had fathered another child, but to be informed that said child was going to take half my inheritance was devastating, especially since Dove hadn’t mentioned anything when we’d met. Granted, our conversation had been cut short, but this was important, and she could have warned me that she had lawyered up. For her solicitor to have called Martin, she must have decided on this course of action some time ago, possibly before she had approached me at Bolton’s Books.

“You can resolve this amicably or go to court,” Martin said.

“You mean I should simply hand over half the assets I inherited from my father?”

“In essence, yes.”

“My father’s money is gone, Martin. I used it to put a deposit on my flat.”

“Which you then sold at a profit. And the interest on Dove’s half of the inheritance would be considerable after all these years. I would have to figure it into the final settlement.”

“That seems rather unfair.” I was really angry now, and the fact that Martin didn’t seem to be on my side was upsetting me further.

“If Dove is your father’s daughter and has a valid birth certificate, then she has an iron-clad case. And your present circumstances are bound to sway the court in her direction.”

“You mean if I was a single mum living on government assistance, I would be able to fight it, but because I make a good living, I don’t have a legal leg to stand on?” I snapped.

“I’m sorry, Nicole. There’s no easy way to resolve this. I doubt Dove will simply go away. Nor should she,” Martin added gently. “She is entitled to compensation. Surely you must see that.”

“I do,” I replied grudgingly. “But my father should have provided for her future. She shouldn’t be my responsibility.”

“I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be, but becoming emotional is not going to change the outcome. Shall I meet with Dove’s solicitor and hammer out an agreement?”

“I would rather not go to court,” I said, feeling utterly defeated.

“All right. Leave it with me.”

I said goodbye and rang off.

“Well, that escalated quickly,” I said once I had relayed the conversation to Kyle. “Do you think Dove gave her solicitor the go-ahead because I didn’t ring her?”

Kyle shook his head. “Your reaction might have expedited the process, but I think that was the plan all along. Perhaps the call Dove received was from her solicitor, who informed her that he had already spoken to Martin. She probably legged it because she didn’t want to be there when you got the call.”

“I really don’t know how to feel,” I confessed.

“It’s natural for you to feel angry and betrayed, but Dove is not the one who betrayed you.”

“I know, but she is the one that turned my world upside down.”

“Perhaps you should speak to Jonah,” Kyle suggested. “After all, this is his area of expertise.”

I didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me, but it was a good idea. As a minister, Jonah could help me put this situation in perspective. It wasn’t just about the money but about any future relationship I might have with Dove and how to establish a dialogue without giving in to rancor. Unsure of Jonah’s schedule, I decided I’d send him an email explaining the situation. He’d ring me when he had time to talk, and then we’d hash this out. And in the meantime, I would concentrate on work and see where I could get with my inquiries into the disappearance of Edgar Hilliard.

Kyle’s earlier crack about Grace having killed Edgar might have been a joke, but I needed to discover what had happened to her and who Deborah Dolan was really descended from. The conversation with Martin got me thinking about inheritance, and what I knew of the Hilliards so far just didn’t add up. After Edgar had disappeared, the shop and all Edgar’s assets would have gone to Venetia as his widow, and if Venetia had died without issue, her assets would most likely have passed to a relative of hers rather than Grace. If that was the case, then Deborah Dolan was no relation to the Hilliards at all, unless Venetia had deeded the shop to Grace, who would have had to have a child in order for the shop to remain in the family.

Chapter 26

Quinn

The house was quiet, the children in their rooms, presumably doing their homework, and Gabe still at work. Quinn was meant to be preparing dinner, but she had plenty of time. She was going to make pasta with the Bolognese sauce she’d purchased from the Italian market. It was absolutely delicious and better than anything she could whip up on short notice. She’d even bought gelato. Strawberry and chocolate for the kids and pistachio for Gabe. She planned to skip the gelato since her jeans felt uncomfortably snug. It seemed Gabe wasn’t the only one who should think about taking up some sort of exercise. Walking wasn’t doing the job anymore now that she was older and her metabolism seemed to be slowing down.

Nipping into the study, Quinn took out the plastic sleeve containing the manuscript and settled in the comfortable leather chair. She would set the alarm on her phone and do a quick dive into the past before making a start on dinner. Nicole hadn’t rung and probably didn’t want to pressure her, but given everything that was going on in Nicole’s life, Quinn was eager to help. Truth be told, she was curious herself. Deborah’s story was intriguing, and Quinn had told enough of her own stories to sense a cover-up. People didn’t just vanish. They had to have good reason to leave, and if they were a victim of a crime, the truth came to light sooner rather than later.

If Edgar Hilliard had been murdered, his remains would have turned up, unless someone had made sure they didn’t. Perhaps Grace had never known what had happened to her brother and wouldn’t be any help, but Quinn had to see for herself and examine Grace’s memories. She might be able to spot something important when looking backward through the lens of time or at the very least help Nicole figure out what had happened to Grace and Venetia after Edgar had failed to return.

Quinn set the alarm on her phone and took the manuscript out of its sleeve, the room around her fading to black and the bookshop taking shape around her as if by magic.

Chapter 27

Grace

The next happy day found Grace a lot sooner than she had expected. She had just become accustomed to the new living arrangement and thought that perhaps she and Venetia could find a way to happily coexist. Grace was up at seven o’clock and in the shop by nine. Venetia didn’t rise until ten and rarely took luncheon before one, so their paths hardly ever crossed until Grace came upstairs in the evening. Grace thought Venetia was lonely on her own and might have liked to help in the shop, but Edgar didn’t want his wife to work and encouraged her to focus on more acceptable pursuits.

Venetia approved daily menus written out by Alice, who was run off her feet with everything else she had to do, embroidered endless samplers, and wrote letters at the small desk in the parlor that Grace had used until Venetia took it over. Grace had no idea who Venetia was writing to, since she didn’t seem to keep in contact with anyone but her parents, whom she and Edgar visited every other Sunday. Grace was invited as well, but after the first two luncheons, she had invented a splitting headache and spent her time off happily reading in the parlor. Venetia’s parents were kind people, but the conversation around the table was so unbearably dull, Grace thought she might fall face first into her soup and drown.

Venetia occasionally came down to the shop, claiming she wanted to borrow a book, but Grace thought she was desperate for company since Edgar was usually out when Venetia appeared. Venetia would browse the shelves, settle on a book she would probably never finish, and then spend the rest of the time chatting to Grace. The torrent of words spoke to Venetia’s need for companionship and was at odds with her near-silent presence at dinner. Venetia allowed Edgar to dominate the conversation and happily agreed with everything he said, but when on her own, she was actually quite opinionated and amusing. Grace would never dare to ask her outright, but she thought Venetia was disappointed in her husband and was glad when he left since she had to keep up the pretense of the dutiful wife when Edgar was around. After a time, Grace began to relax and enjoy Venetia’s visits, and sometimes they even had a cup of tea in the alcove when business was slow.

It was during one of those visits that Venetia confided in Grace that she was going to have a baby. Grace was sincerely happy for the parents-to-be, but the prospect of a child seemed to push her deeper down the well of melancholy that had opened when Edgar had married. Grace was lonelier than ever, her fears for the future multiplying with each new change. She didn’t think Edgar would evict her, not even if the shop wasn’t doing well and could barely support a growing family, but the thought of becoming a burden or watching her life shrink while Edgar’s life expanded made her unbearably sad.

She sometimes woke in the night, her cheeks wet with tears and her heart aching to hold a child of her own. She wanted a life, a future, a purpose. The thought of working behind the counter of the shop for the rest of her days while Edgar basked in the love of his family made her feel as jealous as it made her feel ashamed. It wasn’t Edgar’s fault Grace had never married, nor was it Venetia’s responsibility to worry about her sister-in-law’s prospects. Many a woman failed to marry and had to depend on her male kin to offer her a place. Grace was lucky to have a home and a family that cared for her, but no matter how often she rebuked herself or reminded herself how fortunate she was, she couldn’t help but long for something more than this barren existence.

There were times when she even blamed Edgar. As a single woman, Grace could hardly go out looking for eligible men. It was up to the menfolk to facilitate the domestic happiness of their daughters and sisters. Edgar made no effort to introduce Grace to unmarried men, even though he was only too happy to remind her of her spinster status. Grace was a tool, a crutch Edgar had leaned on since he was a boy, and he wasn’t about to set his meal ticket free. If Grace weren’t there to write his plays or mind the shop, where would he be?

The only thing that marred Edgar’s happiness during those first weeks of Venetia’s pregnancy was her sickness. She felt unwell from morning till night and could only stomach dry toast and tea for breakfast and clear broth and steamed fish for dinner. If Venetia’s pallor and obvious misery were not a constant reminder, Grace thought Edgar would crow like a cock, proud to have impregnated his wife so quickly. He had mentioned at the dinner table that his publisher, Mr. Mason, had no children to inherit the business, and Edgar had implied that the man clearly didn’t know what he was about. Grace wasn’t sure what Edgar meant and wasn’t about to ask for an explanation, but Edgar seemed to suggest that the fault lay with the man, which was unusual, since it was usually the woman who got the blame when a couple was childless.

As the days passed, it became evident that Venetia’s ongoing sickness irritated Edgar and he blamed her for feeling ill, as though she were somehow at fault for giving in to indisposition. Venetia would shrink into herself when Edgar spoke to her that way, her gaze fixed on her untouched meal and her mouth quivering as she tried to hold back tears. Grace had even heard her weep in the night while Edgar snored away, oblivious to his wife’s distress.

Were all couples so ill-suited behind closed doors? Grace didn’t think so, but what did she know of marriage? Relations between men and women were an unexplored country she wasn’t likely to visit, but no matter the harshness of the marital landscape, it was still preferable to the barren desert that was spinsterhood.

Chapter 28

May

Grace’s feelings of displacement were replaced with a growing sense of concern when Venetia’s illness took a turn for the worse. One morning, Grace found her on the bedroom floor. Venetia was still in her nightdress, her eyes closed and her forehead resting against the cool floorboards. She looked positively green, and her face was gaunt, her skull clearly discernable beneath the tightly stretched skin. Venetia moaned pitifully and had just enough time to grab for the chamber pot before vomiting. She had clearly been ill for a while, and all that was left in her stomach was bile that dribbled down her chin and filled the room with an awful smell. Edgar must have gone out early, since he was nowhere to be found, and Alice was in the kitchen, unaware of Venetia’s distress.

“Oh, dear,” Grace exclaimed, glad she had come upstairs to fetch her notebook and was on hand to help. “Let’s get you into bed,” she said as she helped Venetia to her feet.

“I don’t feel well,” Venetia moaned. “I can’t take this anymore, Grace.”

Grace tucked Venetia into bed, making sure her head was sufficiently elevated to stave off nausea, then brought her some water. Venetia brushed damp hair away from her clammy face and smiled in gratitude, but the smile looked pained, and Venetia’s eyes were dull and glassy.

“Sleep now,” Grace said softly. “You need to rest.”

Venetia nodded, her eyelids fluttering with fatigue. “Don’t leave me,” she mumbled.

“I’ll stay right here until you fall asleep,” Grace promised, and settled in a chair by the bed.

She couldn’t remain upstairs much longer, since there was no one in the shop, but Grace could hardly leave Venetia on her own. She wondered where Edgar had got to, but it didn’t really matter. She didn’t expect him to care for his ailing wife. He’d say that nursing was women’s work and holler for Alice, who barely had enough hours in the day to do everything from shopping, cooking, and washing up to cleaning, laundry, and serving at table.

Grace waited patiently until Venetia dozed off, but as soon as her breathing grew even, Grace hurried downstairs and unlocked the door. She was relieved to see that no one was waiting outside and wondering why the shop was closed during business hours. Grace found a sheet of paper behind the counter and penned a quick note, then stepped outside. There were always children hanging about at the corner, hoping to earn a few pence by sweeping the crossings, delivering notes, or helping old ladies carry their shopping baskets.

Grace waved over a boy named Paul. He was about eight and was smaller than other boys his age. He wore his older brother’s castoffs, and the trousers were so long, he had to roll them up several times to keep them from dragging on the ground. Paul’s cap slid into his eyes, but he smiled happily when he approached Grace, eager to undertake whatever task she needed help with. All the children were desperately poor and could use a few coins to buy a hot meal or pass on to their parents, but Paul needed it more than most, and Grace was sure to pay him more than was required.

“Please deliver this to Dr. Moore at the Royal London Hospital right away.” Grace handed the child a sixpence. “And hurry.”

Paul nodded solemnly and took off, weaving through the traffic until he disappeared from view. Grace was sure he’d get the job done. Paul was clever and seemed to know London like the back of his hand. Grace went back inside, but she could hardly leave Venetia on her own with no one within hearing distance should she feel ill. Grace locked the shop door once again and made her way to the kitchen. Alice was in the process of filling a tub with hot water but turned when Grace entered.

“Alice, I know you’re very busy, but could you possibly mind the shop for an hour?” Grace asked. Alice could be trusted to help the customers, who responded to her sunny smile and eagerness to be of service.

“What about the dishes, Miss Hilliard?” Alice asked, her gaze going to the steaming tub. She had been preparing lunch, and there was a mound of dirty crockery.

“Let’s leave the dishes for now. I will try to give you a hand later, if I’m able to get away.”

Alice smiled happily. She loved the shop and enjoyed perusing new titles in between helping customers. Unlike many domestic servants, Alice could read and write, having been taught both at the orphanage where she grew up.

“Take off your apron,” Grace reminded her as Alice headed for the door. It wouldn’t do to have a maidservant waiting on customers. They might take offense, but as long as Alice wore her unassuming gray gown, they took her for a shopgirl.

“When Dr. Moore arrives, please send him to Mrs. Hilliard’s bedroom,” Grace called after her.

“Yes, miss.”

Grace could have asked Alice to sit with Venetia, but she thought she should be there when Venetia woke. After all, they were now sisters, and it was her responsibility to look after Venetia when she was ill. Besides, since Venetia got so little support from Edgar, it was important that at least one member of the family take the time to care for her.

Venetia was awake when Grace entered the bedroom. The room smelled of sickness and was too dark. Grace drew back the curtains and opened the casement window just a crack to let in some fresh air. Gentle spring sunshine dispelled the darkness, and a fresh breeze wafted through the window, bringing with it the sweet smell of distant flowers and the tang of the river. Edgar would probably scold her for exposing Venetia to cool air and the polluted breath of the Thames, but anything was better than the reek of vomit.

Grace covered the chamber pot with a linen towel and left it in the corridor, then brought in the clean pot from her own room, in case Venetia was sick again.

“Thank you,” Venetia said, her voice weak and a bit hoarse.

“Do you feel any better?”

“A bit.”

“Think you could eat something?”

Venetia looked alarmed at the prospect, but Grace hurried to calm her. “Just a bit of toast and some tea. You need to eat, Venetia.”

“Maybe a little later,” Venetia replied. “If I lie perfectly still and don’t eat anything, I can keep the nausea at bay, and right now, that’s all I care about.”

“It must be awful,” Grace said.

“It really is. If I knew this was normal, I could bear the sickness, but every time I feel ill, I think I’m going to lose the baby, or die,” Venetia confessed. “It’s the not knowing that’s so hard.”

“I’m sure it’s perfectly normal,” Grace said, although she really had no idea.

No one talked of such things, much less discussed the details openly. Grace’s school friends who now had children had never even acknowledged they were pregnant and referred to anything to do with their condition using socially acceptable euphemisms. They were “anticipating a happy event,” or if they had suffered a loss of pregnancy or a stillbirth like her friend Nancy had, they referred to it as a “sad event” rather than a searingly painful, heart-breaking loss. Last Grace had heard, Nancy’s husband had sent her to a sanitorium to recover, which could be yet another euphemism, this time for an asylum for hysterical women.

“I’ll look after you, Venetia,” Grace promised. “Always.”

Venetia tried to smile. “You’re not nearly as unfeeling as Edgar said you were.”

“Unfeeling?” Grace almost choked on the word. Was that what he thought of her when she had devoted nearly a decade to looking after him and his needs?

“Don’t tell him I said that,” Venetia pleaded.

“I won’t say a word.”

Grace didn’t think of herself as an overly sentimental person. She always tried to be sensible and pragmatic, but to hear that Edgar thought her distant and cold cut Grace to the quick. As did the knowledge that Edgar had so casually shared his judgment with Venetia, not caring that Venetia might become predisposed against Grace before she had a chance to really know her. Or maybe that was what Edgar wanted, to drive a wedge between the two women in his life in case they formed an alliance that might leave him at a disadvantage in his own home. It was a troubling thought, and not what Grace would have expected of her brother, but things were changing quickly, and if she wasn’t careful, she just might find herself in a very difficult position.

“Would you like me to read to you?” Grace asked and reached for the book Venetia had left on a bedside table. She didn’t want to share any more confidences, and it would take time for Dr. Moore to make his way across London. Reading was always a companionable way to pass the time without having to carry on a conversation.

“Please,” Venetia said quietly. “Anything to take my mind off the discomfort.”

Grace was surprised to discover that Venetia was reading The Lancashire Witches. It wasn’t the sort of thing she would expect Venetia to be interested in, but what did she really know of her sister-in-law? Grace found Venetia’s place and began to read. She hadn’t read the book herself, but perhaps she should.

“They tried to take control,” Venetia suddenly said.

“Who?”

“The witches. All they wanted was a say in their own lives.”

Grace wasn’t sure that was how the story was meant to be interpreted, since the Pendle witches had been accused of murder, tried, and hanged, but Grace wasn’t about to argue the point. Perhaps Venetia had not got to the grimmer parts of the story.

Venetia folded her hands on the coverlet and shut her eyes. Grace might have thought she’d gone to sleep, but she could tell from Venetia’s breathing that she was very much awake and listening carefully.

Chapter 29

Grace felt an immense sense of relief when Julian finally arrived, and she left Venetia to meet him at the top of the stairs, closing the door to the bedroom behind her. Julian looked tired, and his shirt and cravat had the rumpled appearance of garments that had been worn for longer than a day. He had probably spent the night at the hospital, but despite his obvious fatigue, Julian had an air of quiet competence, and his gaze was alert. As he took off his hat and shrugged off his coat and handed them to Grace, he was already asking her about Venetia’s symptoms and seemingly drawing conclusions about her condition.

Venetia looked wan and miserable when Julian entered the room but managed a small smile of welcome. As Grace set Julian’s things on a chair, she noted that the room smelled much fresher and hoped Julian wouldn’t reprimand her when he spotted the open window. His gaze flitted toward it, but he didn’t say anything or ask Grace to shut it.

“Julian,” Venetia murmured. “It’s so good of you to come.”

“Of course I came,” Julian said gently as he perched on the side of the bed and reached for Venetia’s wrist.

He made casual small talk while he performed a cursory examination, then kissed Venetia on the forehead and left her to rest.

“She can’t seem to keep anything down,” Grace said once they were safely out of earshot. “I’m very worried for her.” Grace wanted to make sure Julian understood the severity of Venetia’s condition, since he hadn’t asked Venetia many questions about her health and didn’t seem overly concerned.

Julian nodded. “It’s not uncommon to experience bouts of nausea in the early stages of pregnancy, but Venetia’s case seems rather extreme. She’s lost a considerable amount of weight.”

“Is she in danger? What about the child?” Grace exclaimed.

“I don’t believe the child is in danger, but although no one has died of morning sickness that I know of, it’s up to us to make sure Venetia feels better and gets the sustenance she needs.”

“What do we do?”

“I suggest strong peppermint tea with dry toast and a hard-boiled egg first thing in the morning, followed by several light meals throughout the day accompanied by ginger tea with lemon. The tea will help with the nausea and allow Venetia to keep down what she’s eaten.”

“What should she eat?” Grace asked, unsure what Julian meant by light meals.

“Bland foods are best since anything with a strong flavor might bring on a bout of nausea. Also, have her eat a slice of bread first.”

“Why?” Grace asked. It seemed a strange thing to do.

“The bread acts as a sponge and absorbs the bile collected in the stomach.”

Grace nodded. That made perfect sense, and she felt foolish for asking.

“I would like Venetia to go outside at least once a day. Fresh air and exercise will help to restore her appetite and invigorate her. Please send for me if she doesn’t begin to feel better in a few days.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Grace said.

Julian stopped at the top of the stairs and smiled at her, his dark eyes warm with concern. “When was the last time you went outside yourself, Grace?”

Grace smiled guiltily. “I honestly can’t remember. I’ve been so very busy.”

“That’s no excuse. You must take some fresh air every day. You’re nearly as pale as poor Venetia.”

Julian studied Grace intently in the light from the landing window, and heat rose in her neck and spread to her cheeks. She could hardly tell Julian that Edgar barely set foot in the shop these days and had done little to help when it came to caring for his wife. The running of the business and the household had been left entirely to Grace since Venetia had been unable to cope for several weeks, and Grace was struggling to manage, particularly when Edgar kept asking if she had started on the new play and rebuking her angrily when she admitted she hadn’t.

“I can’t leave the shop unattended,” Grace said, hoping that was explanation enough.

“The shop is closed on Sunday, is it not?” Julian replied.

“Yes.”

“What time is Sunday lunch?”

“One o’clock,” Grace replied, nonplussed.

“Then I will collect you after church and take you for a walk in the park. I will have you back in time for luncheon. Be ready by half past eleven,” Julian said.

“All right, but only if you join us for lunch,” Grace said, not caring what Edgar might say. He’d forfeited his right to rebuke her when he’d left her in charge.

“That strikes me as a fair bargain,” Julian replied.

“Oh, your journals finally arrived,” Grace said, and followed him down the stairs. “I set them aside so no one would try to purchase them.”

“At last,” Julian said with a smile. “I had quite given up.”

“It took an inordinately long time, but now that the publishers have a standing order, they will send them regularly,” Grace promised. She looked up at Julian once they reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’m afraid the issues they sent are woefully out of date.”

Julian shook his head. “Medicine doesn’t evolve that quickly. In fact, it takes years to convince the medical community to embrace a new idea. Most doctors would rather lose hundreds of patients than admit they might have been mistaken.”

“That’s horrible,” Grace said. “How can we trust our physicians if they’re deaf to any convincing argument?”

Julian smiled ruefully. “Trust yourself, Grace. No one knows more about your health than you do. And if something ails you, please don’t hesitate to send for me.”

The thought of Julian examining her was highly embarrassing, but Grace supposed it was no worse than seeing Dr. Glenwood, who was seventy if he was a day and had long, yellow nails that reminded her of talons, and breath that reeked of decay. Dr. Glenwood’s answer to most ailments seemed to be to purge, so Grace had learned to diagnose herself and treat the symptoms accordingly.

“Thak you,” Grace said. “I will keep that in mind.”

“Until Sunday, then, and please don’t spend from now until then trying to think up an excuse. I will take you for that walk whether you like it or not,” Julian replied with a teasing grin. “Doctor’s orders.”

“All right,” Grace promised. “I will be ready and waiting.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Julian accepted the package containing his journals, tipped his hat, and walked through the door, leaving Grace feeling rather warm, even though the day outside was cool for May and the sunshine had been replaced by menacing-looking clouds that threatened to release their load at any moment.

Chapter 30

Ginger and peppermint were not magic remedies, but they did help. Venetia still subsisted mainly on toast, eggs, and beef broth but was slowly adding items to her list of tolerated foods and experimenting with boiled fowl and mashed potato by Saturday. Although Venetia was still fragile, Grace felt comfortable to leave her in Edgar and Alice’s care on Sunday and stepped outside five minutes before the appointed time.

The air was fragrant with the fresh smells of spring, and the sky was clear and blue. Grace was glad she’d worn her burgundy velvet cape rather than the plaid wool she wore during the winter months and had settled on the drawn crape bonnet she wore to church. Her walking dress was of burnt-red and olive-green striped silk, and soft leather boots and kid gloves completed the ensemble. Her clothes were not new or even very fashionable, but she looked presentable enough.

Julian was precisely on time. He arrived in a hansom and stepped down to help Grace. Today his cravat was dazzlingly white, and his shirt freshly laundered. He wore a low top hat and a well-cut frock coat over a waistcoat of navy satin picked out in a pattern of silver vines. He was clean-shaven and looked well rested and unexpectedly striking.

“Where are we going?” Grace asked, both a little flustered and secretly pleased to be going out with such a handsome man.

“St. James’s Park, unless you’d rather walk someplace else.”

“No, St. James’s would be lovely.”

It felt strange to sit so close to Julian in the confines of the hansom. When the carriage swayed and Grace was pushed up against him, she could feel the warmth of his leg through her skirts and the firmness of his bicep through the fabric of her gown and cape. Grace realized that she had never shared a cab with a man who wasn’t either her father or her brother and had always been chaperoned during her brief engagement.

Grace was actually surprised that Edgar hadn’t raised any objections to her going out with Julian, but she supposed he viewed Julian as a relative and could hardly refuse. Besides, Julian’s manners were impeccable, and he had been nothing but solicitous and respectful when they met. Still, it was a novel experience to arrive at St. James’s with a man and stroll together along the park’s avenues. Grace alternated between feeling awkward and shy and enjoying a newfound sense of sophistication as passing pedestrians regarded her and Julian as a couple.

Was this what it was like to suddenly become visible after years of being virtually ignored? It seemed all she needed was a dashing man on her arm to shed the cloak of invisibility that seemed to shroud her when she was on her own. And how wonderful it was to be spoken to rather than spoken at and asked for her opinion as if it actually mattered and Julian wasn’t just being polite. They covered several different topics, but the one they discussed the longest was books. Julian didn’t just read medical journals. He enjoyed a variety of books and had some very definite opinions on the popular books of the day. With any other man, Grace might have just agreed with his opinions to avoid offense, but Julian made her feel comfortable enough to disagree with him, and he took her arguments seriously instead of dismissing them as Edgar would.

“Do you stock Edgar Allan Poe?” Julian asked after Grace confessed her admiration for the author.

“No. Edgar disapproves of Poe and refused to order even a single copy of the magazine his stories are published in for the shop,” Grace replied. “A customer lent me his copy, but I have since returned it to him.”

“Shame. I would have liked to read something of Poe’s after your impassioned endorsement.”

“I’m sure other shops carry his work,” Grace said.

“They probably do, but I don’t have the time to go searching for it. By the time I leave the hospital, most shops are closed anyway. If not for my landlady, I’d probably starve,” Julian joked. “She feeds me regardless of when I come home.”

“That’s kind of her.”

Julian nodded. “I’m always amazed by some people’s boundless kindness and other people’s capacity for cruelty.”

“That’s the enigma of human nature, isn’t it?” Grace said. “A person might be loving to one person and viciously cruel to another. Makes one wonder which side of them is the real one.”

“Both,” Julian replied. “The side that emerges largely depends on how the individual can profit from their behavior and how they perceive the other person. People are kind to those they need, and cruel to those they don’t because they can be easily dismissed without fear of consequences.”

“That’s rather a bleak view,” Grace said.

“Yes, I suppose it is, but after the things I have seen, both at home and abroad, I’m afraid I can’t afford to be too idealistic.”

There didn’t seem to be anything she could say to that, so Grace asked, “Did you have a good week at the hospital?”

“No,” Julian replied.

Grace hoped he might elaborate, but his gaze was fixed on the other side of the lake, his shoulders stiff with tension.

“Julian, are you quite all right?”

Julian turned to Grace and smiled apologetically. “Forgive me. I was thinking about something my father said not long before he died.”

Grace waited patiently and was finally rewarded with an explanation.

“I come from a family of shopkeepers,” Julian said. “My great-grandfather had a stall in Cheapside that sold pots and pans. His sons opened a shop that went on to become Moore’s Household Emporium.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Grace said. She hadn’t realized that Julian was one of those Moores, but Moore was a fairly common name.

“When I told my father I wanted to study medicine, he said that tending to the sick would break my spirit and if I wanted to help people, I should offer them well-made goods at reasonable prices.”

“Why would he say a thing like that? Yours is a noble calling,” Grace protested.

“That’s what I always believed, but I’m beginning to think that perhaps some patients are better off without medical intervention, and certainly without hospitals.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t understand,” Grace said, wondering if she had mistaken his meaning. How could he work in a hospital and think that hospitals were the root of all evil when it came to curing the sick?

Julian smiled sadly. “Commerce is simple. You find premises, acquire stock, and sell it at a profit. The money goes to support your family and, if you can afford it, gets reinvested in the business, and allows for steady growth. If you’re fair to your customers and offer good value, they will come back again and again. An honest day’s work allows you to sleep at night. Medicine doesn’t quite work the same way, though. I always thought that science would allow us to cure those who are ill and prevent sickness in those who are healthy, but modern medicine kills as many patients as it cures. Just last week, I had a young patient, just ten years old, who fell from scaffolding to the ground at a work site. Tomas broke his arm and suffered a mild concussion.”

“The poor child,” Grace exclaimed.

“I set Tom’s arm and monitored him for a time, but he seemed to have suffered no lasting ill effects from hitting his head. I was going to release him, but Tom had contracted scarlet fever while waiting to be seen and died.”

“I’m so sorry,” Grace said softly, and touched Julian’s arm in a gesture of support.

“So am I,” Julian said. “That child did not need to die. And there are many others who die needlessly because hospital supervisors refuse to listen to reason and separate patients with virulent illnesses from the rest of the patient population.”

“But surely they understand the danger of such a decision,” Grace said.

“In theory, but in reality, they’re not prepared to do anything to minimize contagion, which boggles the mind since even in centuries past, people understood that the only way to slow down and stop the spread of disease was through quarantine. The patient who was ill with the fever might have been moved to isolation once he was admitted, but he could have infected a dozen people while waiting to be seen, especially children, who are more susceptible to scarlet fever than adults.” Julian sounded angry when he said, “People put their lives at risk when they go to the hospitals.”

“And that crushes your spirit,” Grace said softly.

He nodded. “I feel utterly powerless and at times personally responsible.”

“Was there anything you could have done to prevent Tom’s death?” Grace asked.

“Tom was already infected by the time I saw him.” Julian stared into the distance. “I’m thinking of leaving the hospital.”

“What will you do?”

“I would like to focus on research, but I’m afraid I cannot afford not to work.”

“What about your family?”

Julian let out a bark of laughter. “My cousin, who inherited the family business, said I was welcome to work at the Emporium. He promised to pay me a fair wage but will not give me a stipend, even though he took over my share of the business when I decided to study medicine and has not paid me a farthing for it.”

“Family can be trying, can’t it?” Grace said.

“It certainly can.” Julian’s gaze was thoughtful when he looked down at her. “I read Edgar’s most recent play.” That surprised Grace, since he hadn’t mentioned it earlier.

“Really? What did you think of it?” she asked.

Clearly Julian wanted to change the subject, and perhaps he felt a little guilty for revealing so much of his inner turmoil. Grace was happy to hear him out and offer whatever support she could, but he had probably decided that such a morbid topic wasn’t appropriate to an outing with a woman he barely knew and thought he should backtrack.

“I enjoyed it,” Julian replied carefully. “It was…surprising.”

He was watching Grace in a way that made her self-conscious, and she looked away, her gaze settling on a duck that dove underwater, it’s webbed orange feet sticking straight up like two little umbrellas. It would have been amusing if not for the sudden twinge of apprehension in Grace’s belly. Julian’s dark gaze seemed to penetrate her very soul, and she was suddenly worried that he discerned far more of her reality than she had first imagined.

“The play received a number of positive reviews,” Grace said at last. “Edgar is very proud of it.”

“He should be. It’s quite an accomplishment. I’m sorry I wasn’t here during its run. I would have enjoyed seeing it performed.”

“Perhaps you will see his new play. Once it’s staged.”

“You mean the one about the devil?”

Grace nodded, not wishing to discuss a play she had yet to write.

“And what is Edgar’s heart’s desire?” Julian asked. He was still watching Grace in that unnerving manner that made her want to hide from his probing gaze.

“I don’t know,” Grace confessed. “Edgar keeps his most cherished dreams to himself.”

Julian looked out at the lake and chuckled at the antics of the duck that was now splashing happily, its green head the color of emeralds in the spring sunshine. The female duck that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere wasn’t nearly as magnificent, but there was definite potential for courtship as the two circled each other.

“Do you think it’s possible for a person to totally change their personality through composition?” Julian asked.

“What on earth do you mean?” Grace asked, her unease intensifying.

“I don’t pretend to know Edgar well, but having spoken to him for several hours, I find it hard to believe that play was written by him.”

“What are you suggesting?” Grace demanded, her cheeks growing warm.

Julian turned and fixed her with a gaze that was unapologetically direct. “I think he had help. A lot of help.”

“Who from?”

“From you. I recognized several turns of phrase you regularly use in your speech, and the tone is more suited to a woman. Having conversed with Edgar, I don’t think he’s capable of either the insight or the effortless eloquence that comes so naturally to you.”

Grace’s mouth fell open. No one had ever made the connection between Edgar’s writing and her, probably because no one paid her much attention or cared to memorize frequently used turns of phrase. Then again, Grace had never met Edgar’s publisher and had only spoken to the theater director for a few moments when Edgar introduced her. It would take quite a leap to assume the shy younger sister was the true author of the play that was about to be performed.

“I don’t—” Grace began, but she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. She had to keep Edgar’s secret, but she was also deeply flattered by Julain’s astute observation and realized that she wanted not only his respect but his approval as well. She longed for him to know the truth and to thank him for the compliment he had paid her. And to hear more of his thoughts on her work. He was the first person to refer to her as “effortlessly eloquent,” and the praise warmed her inside. She didn’t think she was particularly eloquent in her daily speech, but when she picked up a pen and ran her fingers over the creamy smoothness of a blank page, something happened, and suddenly she wasn’t just plain Grace Hilliard anymore. It was as if a secret door materialized in her mind and only she had the key, the only thing of value that truly belonged to her and could be deployed at will.

“It’s all right, Grace,” Julian said, and smiled tenderly. “Your secret is safe with me. Although I don’t think it’s fair that your brother gets all the credit.”

“Do you think many people would bother to read the play or pay to see it performed if they knew it was written by a woman?” Grace asked and heard the acrid bitterness in her tone.

“Probably not, and it would be their loss. I think all plays should be written by women.”

“Now you’re just poking fun at me.” Tears stung her eyes, and Grace turned away, wishing she could leave, but walking away from Julian in a huff would cause a scene, and she didn’t have enough money for cab fare. All she had in her reticule were a few coins and a clean handkerchief.

“My dear Grace, I meant no offense,” Julian hurried to assure her. “I thought your play was brilliant.”

Grace turned to face him and was relieved to see no derision in Julian’s eyes. He seemed sincere in his admiration and wanted her to know that.

“Women are so much more astute than men,” Julian said, taking Grace by surprise, so much so that her mouth fell slightly open again. “Maybe it’s because they spend more time listening and observing while men are always voicing their opinions and grasping for attention. I mean no disrespect to your brother, but Edgar is not that analytical, whereas you are a student of human nature.”

“You hardly know me,” Grace pointed out, but she couldn’t help but bask in his approval. No one had ever praised her so generously before, and the compliments she had received in the past had all had to do with her appearance, not her disposition or abilities, since no one had ever bothered to discover if she had any.

“That’s true. I don’t know you very well, but I come in contact with many different people from all walks of life. I have learned to trust my instincts.” He smiled playfully. “So, what is it, my dear Miss Hilliard, that your protagonist is willing to sell his soul for?”

“Freedom,” Grace said without thinking.

Julian nodded approvingly. “Freedom is the only thing in this world that’s worthy of such a high price.”

“Not love?”

“Definitely not.”

“Why?” Grace asked, taken aback.

“Love should never be purchased with sacrifice, because then the feelings will sour and turn into resentment. Possibly even hatred.”

Grace didn’t bother to point out that most women sacrificed more than Julian could possibly imagine in order to have love in their lives. They kept silent, suppressed their own feelings and needs, and gave up all control over their own bodies, submitting to unwanted marital intimacy and bearing child after child, sometimes with fatal results.

“I know what you’re thinking, Grace. It’s written all over your face, and that brings me right back to my initial response. Freedom. Freedom from having to conform, to pretend, or to appease. Freedom to do as you please and have the ability to refuse without fear of consequences. Freedom from oppression, and freedom to believe what you will, regardless of what you have been taught by your parents and indoctrinated into by the Church. Freedom to be completely, unapologetically yourself.”

Grace had never heard anyone verbalize what was in her heart so succinctly, and her vision blurred with bitter tears. Julian Moore was wonderful, strange, unexpectedly unconventional, and utterly unattainable. Not only was he still mourning his wife and child, but he saw Grace as nothing more than a distant relation, someone who was in need of his help rather than a woman he could come to love. If he found her the least bit attractive, he would be more careful in what he revealed for fear of shocking her or ruining his chances, but if he saw her as only a casual friend, he could say what he pleased and not worry about the consequences, since there was no one in whom she could confide.

Julian was a man, and all doors were open to him no matter what he believed. His life was a series of choices and options that he could make without fear of judgment. He wasn’t exempt from suffering tragedy or disappointment, but there were so many more things he could do, not only to help his heart to heal but to seek contentment and purpose. How could he truly understand what it meant to be a woman, whose choices were limited entirely to the choices of others? All a woman could do was pray to be chosen and then choose every day to push down her own thoughts and feelings in order to please whatever man was in charge of her life.

“My wife was very outspoken,” Julian said, as if able to read her most private thoughts. “She wasn’t afraid to make herself unpopular.”

Because she had you to shield her, Grace thought.

Julian offered her his arm, and they walked toward the park exit. Julian had promised to deliver her home in time for lunch, and even though he had agreed to join them, the conversation at the table would be vastly different with Edgar and Venetia present. As Grace climbed into the hansom, she felt as if a door had just shut, and this wasn’t a portal to which she possessed a key.

Chapter 31

Nicole

I was incredibly pleased when I saw Jonah’s name on an incoming call the following morning. Speaking to him always brought me comfort. Maybe because he was a vicar and I imbued him with an added layer of trust, or maybe because I knew him to be objective and fair. Jonah was the sort of person who actually cared and took the time to listen and support, unlike so many of my university friends with whom friendship had whittled down to the occasional text or email. The only time we saw each other was when someone got married or had a baby and we were invited to the christening. I no longer felt I could confide in any of them, but I didn’t suppose that was so uncommon. Life had moved on, and the people we had known had moved on with it. I was no longer the same person I had been at uni, and neither were my friends, and I was all right with that as long as I had people in my life who’d taken their place and actually showed up for me.

“Jonah, how have you been?” I asked, eager to hear his news. “How is your new church?”

Jonah had recently accepted a transfer to Chesterfield so that Tanya could follow her dream of opening a brick-and-mortar bakery. Tanya’s online business had grown by leaps and bounds the past few years, and she was ready for the next step, but opening a shop in a small village had not been part of the plan. Tanya had chafed at the restrictions placed on her by Jonah’s vocation, more so of late because Jonah had been assigned two additional parishes due to a shortage of clergy. A life that had seemed picture-perfect when they married had no longer held the same appeal, and Jonah had been given an ultimatum. He could either choose his parishioners or his marriage and give Tanya a chance to pursue a career of her own. To move to a new parish was the only way to preserve his family, and although I knew Jonah felt guilty about leaving the communities he’d served for years, he would do everything in his power to avoid the breakdown of his family.

“It’s good,” Jonah said. “Different.”

“Different how?”

“In my old parishes, I knew everyone. I could tell you exactly who would attend, where they would sit, and what they would say afterwards. Going to church was part of the routine, and the people came because it brought them comfort, even if they only made an appearance on Christmas and Easter Sunday. My new parish is nothing like that. For one, there are those who simply wander in. Tourists, individuals who don’t normally go to church but happen to be going through something at that moment and feel an emotional need to connect with God, people who need a place to sit for a while or to get warm on a cold day. I never know how many people will attend the service on any given day. Sometimes there are dozens, and sometimes there are only five or six.”

“And how do you feel about that?” I asked.

“I suppose I see it as a win when there are bodies in the pews. Whether they’re true believers or someone who walked in on the spur of a moment, it gives me a chance to reach out to them and maybe offer whatever it is they need just then.” I could hear Jonah smile across the miles. “In some ways, it’s actually more rewarding than simply being a part of someone’s Sunday routine. It’s a chance to make a real difference.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I was afraid you’d be pining for village life and the vicarage.”

“I do miss the vicarage. It was such a lovely old house. The house we’re renting now is new, modern, and completely devoid of character.”

“I’m sure Tanya will make the house a home,” I said. Tanya wasn’t just a baker, she also had a good eye for home décor and had turned the dusty Victorian vicarage into a cozy, welcoming home that had always smelled of cake and lemon polish.

“If Tanya ever actually spends any time in it, she just might throw down a rug or hang a print,” Jonah joked, weariness in his voice.

He was walking on eggshells these days, and whereas before he could have made a crack like that in Tanya’s presence and she would come back with a witty retort, now he had to think twice. The joke might be perceived as an insult born of the patriarchal values that had been drummed into Jonah at the seminary and an attitude that was contrary to what Tanya was trying to accomplish in her own right. Although I felt protective of Jonah, I could understand how Tanya might feel. She was tired of playing the happy homemaker and had realized she needed a purpose beyond that of wife and mother. Plenty of women had careers and were still caring partners and devoted mothers. It wasn’t easy, especially when the children were small, but it was achievable as long as the partner respected and understood the other’s needs and made an effort to support rather than detract. I was sure Jonah was doing everything in his power to support Tanya in her new venture, and I longed to tell him I was proud of him but didn’t want to sound patronizing.

“And how’s Natalie?” I asked instead. Natalie was too young to put up much of a fight about moving to a new place, but even a toddler could sense a change in her surroundings and the shift in her parents’ relationship.

“Natalie has settled in well. She’s attending a nursery school near Tanya’s shop. And the business is thriving. Tanya now has several employees and hundreds of positive reviews online. She’s happy, Nicole, and our relationship has improved dramatically since the move.”

“Happy wife, happy life, right?” I quipped.

“Truest adage I’ve ever heard,” Jonah said. “Now tell me about this sister you knew nothing about.”

It was clear he didn’t want to talk about himself anymore, and I was eager to hear what he made of the situation with Dove. I had outlined the basics in the email, so there was no need to rehash our aborted meetings or to fill him in on Dove’s legal maneuver.

“Jonah, I feel so torn,” I said. “A part of me wants to welcome Dove into my life, and both Kyle and Quinn have advised me to give her a chance, but there’s another, less accepting part of me that wishes we’d never met.”

“Is it because you feel angry with her for destroying the perception you had of your parents?”

“Well, let’s face it, she did take a sledgehammer to everything I thought I knew of my mum and dad.”

“That’s not really her fault, though, is it?” Jonah pointed out gently.

“No, it’s not, but it hurts all the same. And she has this sense of entitlement. Like I owe it to her to embrace her and simply turn over half my inheritance.”

“Does she have any proof?” Jonah asked.

“She showed me her birth certificate. My solicitor is satisfied that her claim is legitimate.”

“Is there no statute of limitations on making a claim against a deceased person’s estate?”

“Apparently not. If she’s only just found out the truth of her paternity, then I suppose she’s well within her rights.”

“I see,” Jonah said, drawing out the words as if he were still processing everything I had said. “Nicole, I know you feel angry and hurt, and you have every right to be. We all have a story we tell ourselves about who we are and where we come from, and those stories help us to cope and understand our place in the world, but if this woman is your sister, I would advise you to reach out to her. It’s not her fault your father was unfaithful, or that her mother kept the truth from her all these years. Dove is looking to make a connection, and as you’re all that’s left of your families, perhaps it would make sense to try to bond. And maybe you can resolve the other issue without involving the courts.”

“I know you’re right, Jonah, and I told myself the very same thing, but I can’t seem to embrace the idea.”

“The idea that you have a sister or that you will have to settle a sum on her?” Jonah asked carefully.

“Both, I suppose. I’ve never been comfortable with loss of control, and in this instance, I feel as if I have no recourse. I realize it’s probably selfish and petty, but I feel cornered, especially now that she has made things official by staking a claim against my father’s estate.”

“Did your father leave a will?” Jonah inquired.

“No. I expect he never imagined he’d die in his forties.”

“Few people do. Do you think he would have made a provision for Dove had he known?”

“I honestly don’t know. I have no idea how involved he was in her life. Maybe not at all. Dove might be the product of a one-night stand, or he might have been living a double life and going between two families. Dove was four when Dad died, so she might not remember the details clearly.”

“With both your father and Dove’s mother gone, there’s no way to get to the truth, so perhaps you shouldn’t bother to look for it. Just accept the gift you have been given and don’t fixate on the money.”

“Is it a gift?” I asked dubiously. I agreed with Jonah in theory but couldn’t wholeheartedly accept his advice.

“I believe it is. We have so few people in our lives who truly care about us and want to be a part of our daily existence. You and Dove might develop a casual friendship, or you might discover that you genuinely like each other and grow close. Don’t fight it so hard, Nicole. Let it develop organically.”

“Thanks, Jonah. I knew you’d talk me round.”

“I’m not trying to talk you into anything. I’m simply highlighting the positives.”

“And I appreciate it. Kyle said much the same thing, but given his own experience, he can hardly be objective.”

“Perhaps you should take a few days to think it over,” Jonah said. “You’re clearly conflicted.”

“There’s no sense putting it off. I’m going to ring her right now,” I said, suddenly certain of my decision. Jonah was right. I was being a total cow for refusing to give Dove a chance and worrying about the money. Dove had a right to her share, and I would give it to her without going through the courts. There was no point in wasting hundreds, maybe thousands of pounds on paying solicitors when we could put that money to better use.

“If you’re sure,” Jonah said, but I could still detect a hint of apprehension in his voice. Jonah wasn’t one to make hasty decisions, but the move to Chesterfield had served him well, and he would never have committed to it had he not been backed against the wall.

“I am. Thanks, Jonah.”

“Glad I could help. Are you working on a new project?” he asked. “I do miss research. I’ve been so busy of late.”

“I have a lead on an interesting story, but I’m still in the preliminary stages. There doesn’t seem to be too much information.”

“There never is,” Jonah replied. “Yet you always manage to uncover the truth.”

“Perhaps I just don’t feel as motivated this time. I’ve been awfully distracted by the situation with Dove, and there’s an offer from a publisher on the table.”

“Congratulations,” Jonah exclaimed. “Are you going to accept?”

“I’m mulling it over,” I confessed. “There’s a lot to consider, but I have some time to decide.”

“Then don’t put so much pressure on yourself. The story will come to you. It always does. And you will know what to do about Dove and the offer when the time is right. Perhaps everything you’re going through in your life is part of God’s plan.”

“I’ve never been a woman of faith, Jonah. I prefer to work with facts, and the facts don’t sit well with me this time around.”

“Faith, by definition, is believing in something you can’t see or touch. We all know that just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

I wasn’t convinced by Jonah’s logic, but I wasn’t going to argue the point. Faith meant different things to different people, and whereas some attributed every success and failure to God’s plan, others saw it as a consequence of their choices and either berated or congratulated themselves. I had yet to see which way things would play out, but it was time I started retaking control.

Chapter 32

Inspired by the conversation with Jonah, I decided to start by reaching out to Dove. It was time I set my feelings of betrayal aside and extended the hand of friendship. It would take time, and maybe we would never become close, but I had to try. For Dad’s sake, as well as my own. I texted Dove, asking if she was free to come round tomorrow around four o’clock. She replied instantly, thanking me for the invitation, saying she’d love to come and following up with several happy face emojis. I thought it was only fitting that I send an emoji of my own in response, then I set my mobile to silent and set it aside. I had research to be getting on with.

I didn’t think I would find anything more pertaining to Edgar Hilliard, but Grace had been in her early twenties and Venetia barely twenty when Edgar went missing, so maybe I would hit the jackpot with them. Two hours later, I was forced to admit defeat. Although I did find both Grace and Venetia Hilliard, the information provided did little more than confirm their existence, which was odd. I could believe that Grace never married and that neither woman had produced an offspring, but there wasn’t even a date of death for either of them. The more intriguing question was, who had inherited the shop after their deaths? Deborah Dolan had said that the shop had been in the family since the eighteenth century, so someone must have been left to carry the torch.

Seeing how tiny a footprint the two women had left behind was terribly depressing. It was possible that they had both died young, a common fate in Victorian England, particularly for women. The Victorians understood how fleeting life was; they were obsessed with death and had a long list of elaborate mourning rituals that were strictly observed and monitored. The rituals reassured the living that they would be genuinely grieved after their passing and that made them a bit less afraid.

To lose a child or a spouse had been all too common in the nineteenth century, and if Edgar Hilliard had died of an illness or even by accident, no one would have questioned his demise. It had been equally common to remarry soon after the mourning period was up, which left me curious about Venetia.

Even without a body, Edgar would have been declared legally dead after seven years. Venetia would have still been in her twenties and could have remarried and had a family. And what about Grace? How was it possible that none of her life events had been recorded? The only answer was that she’d had none. Plenty of women had lived sad, lonely lives, and were either dependent on their relations or found live-in positions in order to survive. Had that been Grace Hilliard’s life? Had she been forced to seek employment once Edgar was gone?

If I could find no tangible evidence of Grace’s continued existence, then the only source I could rely on was Quinn, and she had been ominously quiet the past two days. I didn’t want to harass her. She would give me an update when she had something to share, but even if Quinn discovered something important, how would I explain my findings to Deborah without revealing my source? I reached for my mobile and sent Deborah a text. Maybe she knew more than she realized about her family’s history.

If I failed to come up with anything I could use over the next few days, I would have to rethink my plan. I couldn’t afford to devote any more time to an idea that was proving to be a dead end, so I would have to either abandon it or fictionalize Edgar’s disappearance and come up with a story of my own.

Chapter 33

The following morning found me back at The Quill and Ink. Deborah was on her own this time, dressed in a tan and black tunic, leggings, and suede boots. I liked seeing her like that. In some strange way, it put us on a more equal footing and made me feel less like I was on an episode of Ghosts. A few customers were milling about, but no one seemed in need of Deborah’s help.

“Would you like tea or coffee?” Deborah asked as she leaned against the counter, looking relaxed. I wondered if it was the clothes. I couldn’t imagine leaning or slouching while wearing a Victorian gown, but a cozy sweater and leggings were practically a uniform for those who preferred to keep things casual. I had dressed comfortably as well in jeans, a cashmere hoodie, and thick-soled ankle boots.

“Thank you, no. I just have a few more questions.”

“Fire at will,” Deborah said, her tone that of a captain in command of a firing squad. She probably sensed that this visit didn’t bode well for the book she hoped I would write, and her disappointment was stamped on her face.

“I was unable to find any information on Grace or Venetia. Not even the dates of their deaths. It’s as if they vanished along with Edgar.”

Deborah nodded but didn’t reply, so I continued. “You told me that the shop has been in your family for centuries, so presumably you can produce a family tree, even if the tree is missing a few branches. Who inherited the shop after Edgar was declared dead?”

“I don’t know,” Deborah said with a shrug.

Her answer didn’t surprise me. If she had known, she would have told me already. So I tried a different tack. “Did the shop come to you via your mother’s or your father’s side?”

“My father’s,” Deborah replied, looking pleased this time.

“And who did your father inherit it from?”

“His father, Cal Hilliard, but that’s all I know. All the branches that came after Cal’s must have been lopped off and used for firewood,” she joked.

Seeing my frustration, Deborah hurried to explain. “Cal was killed in North Africa in 1941. He was twenty-one. My father was born a few months after Cal died, and my grandmother, Frances, raised him on her own until he was eleven. Frances remarried in 1952 and took her new husband’s name. My dad was very interested in family history, but the only information he was able to find was on Edgar, because Edgar had been a published playwright and there were a few obscure mentions of him in the periodicals from that time. My dad found the tin with Edgar’s plays and the photo in the cellar, but there was nothing else that might have belonged to the Victorian Hilliards.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“Sometime in the 1970s.”

“And did your father do any more genealogical research after the seventies?”

“He did, but he passed in 1996.” Deborah smiled sadly. “I wasn’t very interested in family history then. I was too busy with my own life, so I never bothered to follow up or to look over his notes. It was only after my husband died that I found myself curious about past generations.”

“I’m very sorry about your husband,” I said.

I didn’t know if Blake had fessed up to Deborah that he had spoken to me about his father’s death, but judging by Deborah’s closed expression, I didn’t think she realized I was aware of the facts.

“Thank you. Losing his father was hard on Blake. They were always close.”

It had clearly been hard on Deborah too, but she seemed the sort of woman who wouldn’t want to talk about her own grief. Perhaps she felt it was too personal to discuss with someone who wasn’t really a friend.

“I lost my father at a young age as well,” I said. “It took me years to deal with his passing.”

“Blake is lonely without his dad, the poor dove.”

Deborah’s words sent a chill down my spine. If I were a more spiritual person, I would have taken them as a sign from beyond, but I told myself it was just a coincidence. Selective perception. I would have given the turn of phrase no thought had she used it a few weeks ago, before I had met Dove.

“Deborah, have you ever tried going backwards?” I asked, steering the conversation back to my original purpose.

“How do you mean?” Deborah asked, looking perplexed.

“I wasn’t able to find any information by searching for Grace and Venetia, but perhaps it would be easier to start with Cal Hilliard and work my way back to see who his parents were and their parents before them. In terms of generations, 1850 is not so long ago. Edgar Hilliard came only a few generations before your grandfather, who would have been born in 1920 if he died in 1941.”

Deborah instantly brightened. “That’s a great idea, Nicole. I always knew you were clever.”

I didn’t think I was being particularly clever. It was common sense, but perhaps for someone who wasn’t accustomed to doing genealogical research, this was an option she had never considered. It would be much easier to find someone who was born in 1920 than someone who was born in the early 1800s. Recordkeeping in the twentieth century had been more advanced and not limited to parish records that were so often lost or destroyed.

Deborah reached out and laid a hand over my wrist. “I so badly want to know what happened to Edgar, Grace, and Venetia. It’s as if they were erased from history. Gone forever.”

“But they are not. They lived, and one of them must have had a child, or this shop would not have been passed down to you. And it’s a miracle in itself that it wasn’t destroyed during the Blitz. Your family legacy had been spared.”

Deborah gave me a watery smile. “It really was a miracle. The houses on either side of this building were reduced to rubble in the bombing, but the shop was hardly damaged.”

“There, you see,” I said, smiling at her.

“Do you really think you can find something by going backwards?”

“Your father did most of his research before the invention of the internet. He would have had to rely on archives and family lore. These days, the world is at our fingertips. With a few strokes of the keys, we can find information that would have taken years to unearth back then. We only need a starting point.”

“And that will be Cal?” Deborah asked, her eyes alight with hope.

“What else can you tell me? What was Cal’s full name? I will also need the name of your grandmother and your father. It will help me to narrow down the results.”

“Calvin Hilliard married Frances Maines in 1938. They were both eighteen at the time. My father’s name was Jacob. Jacob Marcus Hilliard. He married my mother in 1972. Her name was Heather Lang.”

“And do you have any siblings?” I asked. It wouldn’t change the outcome, but I was curious if Deborah was the sole beneficiary of her father’s estate.

“I have a younger sister, Lorna. She fell out with my parents and moved to the U.S. when she was nineteen. We speak occasionally, and Lorna has been back a few times, but we’re not close.”

“Is Lorna part owner of The Quill and Ink?”

“No. My father left the shop to me. Lorna was never interested in the shop or in family history. She wanted a fresh start. Lorna owns a yoga studio in Phoenix, Arizona.”

“Thank you. This really helps,” I said.

“I hope you find something,” Deborah said.

“Me too.”

Chapter 34

Quinn

Once Quinn had an hour to herself, she took out Grace’s book and settled on the sofa. Some part of her wanted to know more about Grace. A typical Victorian damsel did not spend her days authoring novels about time travel while simultaneously composing clever plays for her less-gifted brother. Quinn was impressed with Grace’s vivid imagination and obvious ingenuity, but she felt a familiar sense of apprehension. She’d delved into the pasts of many women, and although some had fared better than others, there was something about this story that disturbed her. Perhaps it was because she already knew that Edgar had met with an untimely and probably frightening end, or maybe because she simply couldn’t bear to witness any more tragedy.

There was enough going on in real life that frequently left Quinn wondering about what sort of world they were going to leave to their children and whether they might have to live through another pandemic, famine, or a world war. But that was the way of things. History repeated itself again and again. The players changed, but the stage and the stakes remained the same. The world congratulated itself on being more evolved, tolerant, and understanding of others, but centuries-old hatreds still bubbled beneath the surface, and rhetoric that was not acceptable in public still found an audience and fervent support behind closed doors. The sad truth was that although times changed, people didn’t. Human beings had been warring with each other since people lived in caves, and all it took was one match to light the fuse that would set the world on fire once again. Quinn rarely watched the news anymore since hearing the headlines, both foreign and domestic, caused so much anxiety she could barely sleep at night.

Had the world become a more frightening place, or was it because Quinn was older and a mother to young children? Every abused child, violent death, or story of a missing person now had the power to break her heart and remind her how helpless she was to protect those she loved. Did she have the emotional bandwidth needed to deal with historic murders on top of everything else she was coping with in her life? Quinn thought she did, but she wasn’t sure. Her hands trembled as she held Grace’s book, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t offered to help Nicole. She wanted to be of service, but she also needed to focus on her emotional well-being if she hoped to provide her children with stability and security. She was very tempted to do another series of Echoes from the Past after the Christmas special, but the wiser, more self-aware part of her warned her that it was time to walk away for good and find some other way to be productive.

Quinn studied the volume in her hands. Perhaps she should consider writing fiction and put her knowledge and experience to good use in a way she could manage rather than be forever held hostage by someone else’s memories and emotions. She understood the reality of her affliction and acknowledged that it was a double-edged sword, one that cut to the core if she held it the wrong way. And still she couldn’t resist, especially now that she knew Venetia had been pregnant, because her condition raised a number of new questions.

What had happened to Edgar’s child? Had Venetia miscarried? Had the child died in utero or in infancy, as so many children had during that grim period in history? Or had the child lived and was actually the missing link in a chain that stretched through the centuries, connecting the Victorian Hilliards to Deborah Dolan and her son? Grace would have known what had happened to Venetia’s baby, and the promise of finding out the truth beckoned to Quinn, the modest book whispering silent words of encouragement and begging to be touched.

Quinn removed picked up the book and closed her eyes, her fingers stroking the calfskin as images of another time forced out the present and pulled her deep inside Grace’s mind.

Chapter 35

August 1849

Grace

As the weeks passed and the pregnancy progressed, Venetia and Grace settled into a comfortable domestic pattern. Venetia was timid by nature, but now that she felt she could trust Grace, she was opening up and seeking Grace’s advice. Even though Venetia was only a few years younger, at times it seemed as if they were more mother and daughter than sisters-in-law. Venetia was happy for Grace to make decisions pertaining to the household and spent her days reading, resting, and going for her daily walk with Edgar, which he preferred to take at midmorning so as not to interfere with his plans.

While Grace focused on the new play, Edgar came and went. He visited various theater directors, called on Mr. Mason, and often went out in the evening to meet with his cronies and conduct what he called research. Grace didn’t think drinking and carousing could be classified as research, but Venetia seemed happier when Edgar wasn’t at home, and Grace was becoming more certain that Venetia wasn’t as enamored of her husband as Edgar believed her to be. Venetia was more forthcoming when it was just her and Grace and even made the occasional joke, her lips quirking at the corners when she knew she’d said something amusing. Grace thought that although Edgar probably didn’t realize it or more likely didn’t care, he made Venetia feel browbeaten with his insensitive comments and obvious lack of sympathy.

“What are you writing?” Venetia asked Grace one evening when the two were alone in the parlor. Venetia had been staring dreamily out the window while Grace sat at the writing desk, her head bent over her work.

She had vowed to spend at least half an hour every evening on her time travel story, regardless of how tired she was after a full day in the shop. It was the only time she had to herself and could make progress on the manuscript since Edgar’s play took up most of her free time during the day. She wrote while working in the shop, using the lulls in custom to outline the scenes and jot down ideas for snappy dialogue. Writing a play wasn’t like drafting a novel, where she could devote pages and pages to descriptions and her main character’s internal monologue. A play revolved around dialogue, which had to move at a rapid pace and contain just the right amount of emotion and wit in order to keep the audience engaged until the end. Edgar was hopeless at writing conversations, particularly when there was a woman in the scene. He couldn’t put himself in the mind of a woman, and all his female characters sounded either like the strict, humorless nanny they’d had as children, or cloistered nuns who trembled at the sight of a man and didn’t have any secular experiences to draw on.

If it were up to Edgar, all the characters would be smarmy popinjays who’d call each other “old boy” or “clever chap” and slap each other on the back as a gesture of male acceptance while smirking beneath their waxed moustaches like some villainous malefactor in a penny dreadful. Grace found it surprisingly easy to write from a male point of view since she had always been observant and had an endless supply of male customers to study when she found herself at a loss.

“I’m just writing in my journal,” Grace replied when she realized Venetia was still waiting for an answer.

It was a blatant lie, but although Grace had grown closer to Venetia, she wasn’t ready to reveal her secret. Venetia was sure to tell Edgar, and then he would either ridicule Grace and accuse her of wasting time concocting useless drivel when he needed the new play to supplement the family’s finances, or appropriate Grace’s story and try to pass it off as his own. A fantastical tale of time travel written by a well-known playwright was sure to be published without delay, and Edgar would bask in the praise of his peers and take every opportunity to remind Grace that he was doing her a favor by allowing her work to see the light of day.

Grace had her own plan, and even though it might take considerably longer for an unknown author, she was prepared to take her chances and write to every publishing house in London, if that was what it took to get her book published. And she wouldn’t turn over her earnings to Edgar if she were successful. She would adopt a male pseudonym to improve her chances, and Edgar would never learn about the money since he’d have no reason to suspect a thing. Grace needed a nest egg of her own, something to fall back on should life put her in a position where she was forced to fend for herself. If Edgar ever found out she had savings, he would help himself and spend the money on fine new clothes or expensive meals meant to impress his louche theater friends. It was important to Edgar to show the world that he was a successful man about town who didn’t have to worry about anything as mundane as money.

“My mother encouraged me to take up journaling, but I never even tried it,” Venetia said.

“Was it because you were afraid someone would read your most private thoughts?” Grace asked, relieved that Venetia had believed her lie.

“No,” Venetia replied with a sad smile. “I simply had nothing to say. My friend Annabel wrote pages and pages every night, detailing the glories of a new bonnet or transcribing entire conversations that could be summarized in a few sentences. I suppose it was like talking to a dear friend and sharing one’s innermost feelings, but the idea of recording such minutiae made me feel sad.”

“Why was that?”

“Because it made me realize just how empty my days were. I thought getting married would change that, but my life is no more rewarding now,” Venetia complained. “If anything, it’s even duller since I’m left on my own most of the time and don’t see anyone except you, Edgar, and Alice.”

“What happened to Annabel?” Grace asked.

“She married a man old enough to be her father and spends her days looking after his four children and two of her own. I haven’t seen her in years. I suppose she has more to write about now, but I doubt she can find the time.”

“What about your parents?” Grace suddenly realized that Venetia and Edgar had not dined with Venetia’s parents in at least a month.

“They’ve gone away. My father finally sold the shop, and they decided to take an extended holiday. They must be in Rome now,” Venetia said wistfully.

“How nice for them.”

Venetia nodded. “I would have liked to see Rome, Florence, and Venice. But it seems our honeymoon has been indefinitely postponed, and once the baby is born, we’ll never get to go anywhere.”

“That’s not true,” Grace protested, but it was. Edgar hadn’t mentioned the honeymoon since March, and given his opinion of traveling to foreign parts, Grace didn’t think he was in any rush to waste money on a holiday abroad. The only way he would take Venetia away was if her father offered to pay for the trip or invited Edgar and Venetia to come along, but that was now a moot point since Venetia was in no condition to go anywhere and wouldn’t be for some time.

“Why don’t you come down to the shop?” Grace suggested. “I can always use a hand, and it would give you an opportunity to meet some of our clients and make you feel useful.”

“I don’t think Edgar would approve. Or my father,” Venetia added. “He made his money in trade, but he never allowed my mother to become involved in his business. Papa wouldn’t want his daughter to become a shopgirl. He’d think it demeaning.”

Grace inwardly bristled at that but had to admit that Venetia was probably right. A gentlewoman who had to work was considered no better than a maidservant or a companion. Had they been well off, Edgar would have gladly hired a male clerk to work in the shop, but since the shop didn’t earn enough to allow for such luxury, Grace was forced to take on the role of both manager and salesperson.

“You don’t have to work,” Grace said. “You can just come down to keep me company. And if you happen to help a customer find a book or take a few minutes to arrange a display, you would be doing it not as a shopgirl but as the proprietress.”

“Proprietress?” Venetia exclaimed.

“Well, yes.”

“How wonderful that sounds,” Venetia said. “I have never been a proprietress of anything. Papa made sure to remind me that he paid for everything from the food on my plate to the clothes on my back. I think he’s much relieved that I’m now a married woman and it’s my husband’s responsibility to feed and clothe me.”

“How unkind men can be to their daughters,” Grace remarked.

“If Edgar and I have a daughter, I hope he will love her and treat her with kindness,” Venetia said, her forehead creased with concern. “He’s already told me several times that he expects me to give him a son.”

“It will be lovely to have a child about,” Grace said. “Children are such a joy, aren’t they?”

“I think so, but some people regard them as more of a burden.”

“I think Edgar will be a good father,” Grace said, and wondered if that was true. She couldn’t see Edgar doting on a child. He wasn’t an affectionate person by nature. At best, he’d be kind, at worst, unnecessarily stern and nitpicky. Grace hoped the child was a boy, since a son would make Edgar happy and more receptive to a daughter if a girl were to follow.

“I think so too,” Venetia said, but there was no conviction in her voice. “I do wish Julian would call on us. It’s been some time since we’ve seen him.”

“His subscriptions are due to arrive any day. Perhaps we should invite him to tea once the journals arrive,” Grace suggested.

It was underhanded to suggest tea rather than dinner, but if Edgar was out, Grace and Venetia could spend a pleasant hour in Julian’s company without Edgar dominating the conversation and excluding Grace and Venetia.

“Oh, yes,” Venetia exclaimed. “That would be lovely.”

“I will send him an invitation as soon as the parcel arrives,” Grace promised.

She tried to return to her manuscript but found her mind wandering from ancient Rome to slightly closer locales. It shocked her to realize just how much her opinion of Edgar had changed over the past few months. Perhaps she blamed him for her own discontent and resented him for making her feel like a third wheel in her own home, or maybe it upset her to see how unfeeling he was to Venetia. Grace thought that Edgar did love Venetia. He proclaimed to adore her and seemed excited about the coming child. Edgar didn’t understand women and didn’t know how to talk to them, and that handicap extended to his wife.

He didn’t know what Venetia needed to feel valued. After all, their mother had died when they were hardly more than children, and their father, although devoted, had been a gruff man who hadn’t often shown affection and had preferred to read his newspaper in silence rather than speak to his children. He had frequently left them with the maidservant to spend a few hours at his club and had come home after they had gone to bed. That was it, Grace thought as she set her pen down. Edgar was trying to imitate their father because he thought that was how a husband should act toward his wife. It would be useful for him to have a role model, but as far as she knew, none of Edgar’s theater friends were married, and Edgar didn’t keep up with any of his school friends who now had families.

As Grace closed the notebook, she hoped Venetia was right and Edgar would be a good father. Perhaps all he needed was to hold his baby in his arms, and then his heart would melt with love for both his child and its mother. Everything would be different once the child was born, Grace decided. Life would be so much better.

Chapter 36

When Grace came down to the shop the following morning, she felt more optimistic than she had in weeks. Venetia was feeling much better. The baby seemed to be thriving, and Edgar’s play as well as Grace’s own manuscript were coming along nicely. She hoped to have the first draft of A Devil of an Inconvenience finished in a few weeks. She thought it was a clever title but had yet to pitch it to Edgar, who’d probably think it was too long and not snappy enough. He could name the play whatever he liked as long as he didn’t change too much of the dialogue. Grace was quite proud of the parts she’d written so far.

Even though it was a full hour before opening time, Edgar was in the shop. He was seated at the table in the alcove, his chin propped on his hand and his gaze fixed on the wall opposite. Seeing him there, and so early, was so unexpected, Grace immediately assumed someone was ill.

“Edgar, what’s happened?” Grace cried as she hurried toward the alcove.

Edgar’s gaze did not deviate from the wall. Instead he pointed toward a spot just above the dark wainscot. Grace followed the direction of his finger. A thin crack that looked like a delicate branch of a sapling had appeared above the wood. Perhaps it had been there for several days, but Grace had not noticed, probably because she always sat with her back to the wall so she could see the front door and the interior of the shop.

Grace waited for Edgar to explain, but he had the look of someone who’d just learned of a loved one’s death. Grace sat across from him and waited, all the while wondering why Edgar was so distraught. The building had been constructed in the early 1700s, so it was to be expected that repairs would need to be undertaken from time to time. Some issues could be ignored since they were superficial, but others needed to be addressed. A hairline crack in the plasterwork didn’t seem so dire and was hardly visible unless one looked at the wall closely. Perhaps a little paint would take care of the problem.

“I noticed it yesterday,” Edgar said at last.

He had come down to the shop just after luncheon and had asked to see the inventory ledger. He did that from time to time, to make certain Grace had ordered just the right amount of stock and had negotiated the best possible prices. If they sold out of a particular publication, Edgar expected a discount on subsequent orders. Some publishers were willing to negotiate. Others weren’t. After all, if a customer didn’t find the book they wanted at The Quill and Ink, they would just go someplace else. The publisher lost nothing, and the shop lost the profit it made on the book.

“Why are you so upset?” Grace asked. “We can just paint over it. The walls could use a fresh coat anyway. They’re beginning to look a bit dingy.”

Edgar shook his head, his lip curling in derision. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” Grace said, irritated by his attitude. She had been only trying to help.

“I can do better than that. I can show you.”

Edgar pushed to his feet and beckoned Grace to follow. They walked into the back room, which was adjacent to the office Edgar seldom used. It had been their father’s domain, and Edgar preferred to work in the alcove, where he didn’t feel haunted by their father’s spirit. The storage room was outfitted with three doors. One to the shop, one to the alley that ran alongside the building, and one to the cellar. There were several shelves as well as a sink with a water pump, a pine counter, and a small dresser.

Edgar lit an oil lamp, then pulled open the low door that led to the cellar. They descended the narrow staircase in silence and finally arrived at the bottom. Grace cried out when she saw the slick tail of a rat and heard its claws scratching against the stone floor as it scurried away. She was sure there were plenty more rats and probably a few mice as well and wished she could go back upstairs. She had been to the cellar only twice before and hoped never to see it again. The dark, dank space frightened her and put her in mind of a dungeon—an oubliette where prisoners were left to die of starvation and thirst, their flesh gnawed on by rodents.

“Why on earth did you bring me down here?” Grace demanded, her voice shrill in the hollow space.

Edgar held up the lantern and shone a light onto the wall that was directly beneath the wall in the alcove. A large crack bisected the brick wall from the floor all the way up to the ceiling. The fissure was wide enough for Grace to stick her finger in if she were so inclined, two fingers at the very bottom.

“The crack is getting wider,” Edgar said morosely. “It runs beneath the wainscot and is now moving upward toward the ceiling of the shop.”

Grace gaped at the jagged outline of the rupture and nodded. Now she understood. This wasn’t the sort of issue that could be fixed with a fresh coat of paint. This went much deeper.

“How long have you known about this?” Grace asked.

“A while,” Edgar replied. “Father showed it to me.”

“Father showed it to you?” Grace cried, shocked that Edgar had known about this for years.

Edgar nodded. “It was much smaller then, but father said it would need to be repaired before it grew wider.”

“But it wasn’t,” Grace pointed out.

“Father died a few months later, and at the time, it didn’t seem like a priority,” Edgar explained. “We had the shop to run, and to be honest, after a while I forgot all about it.”

Grace glared at him. Eight years ago, the fissure could have been filled in with mortar, but now it ran all the way up the wall and toward the upper floors, and the broken bricks would probably need to be replaced, which would be costly.

“We need to fix this, Grace. And soon,” Edgar said. “You need to finish the play and start working on the next one right away. We need funds.”

“Do you not have anything put by?”

Edgar shook his head. “I have about two hundred pounds in the bank, but any repair we undertake will cost much more.”

“And what are you going to do?” Grace demanded. She was so angry, she could barely breathe. This was Edgar’s fault, but instead of coming up with a solution, he expected her to come to the rescue, while he went out and spent money they didn’t have.

“I’m going to speak to Venetia’s father as soon as her parents return from their travels. Perhaps he can help.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Edgar shrugged. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

I always do, Grace almost said, but held her tongue. Lashing out at Edgar wasn’t going to solve the problem. “What if we can’t come up with the money?” she asked instead.

“Then we will have to take on a partner in the shop.”

“What?” Grace cried. “Are you mad?”

“It’s the only way to raise money, Grace. We don’t own anything of value besides the business.”

Grace couldn’t think of anything more to say, so she hitched up her skirts and hurried up the stairs, grateful to step into the brightness of the storage room. She brushed the dust from her hem and walked into the shop, her mood dark despite the sunlight that poured through the shop’s bow window.

Chapter 37

Nicole

I read the text from Quinn, texted back promising to ring her later, then plugged in my phone and left it on the kitchen worktop to charge. I was desperate to hear what Quinn had to say, but Dove would be there in a few minutes, and the conversation with Quinn was sure to be a long one. I would ring Quinn once Dove had gone.

I put the kettle on and left the kitchen. No sooner had I walked into the foyer than the doorbell chimed, and I saw Dove through the sidelight, her face tense as she braced herself for our meeting.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Dove said as I showed her into the lounge. She looked much as she had the first time we’d met and seemed just as uncomfortable.

“Would you like a cup of tea, or maybe coffee?” I asked, but Dove shook her head.

“No, I’m fine. Look, Nicole, I hope you understand about the estate,” she said as soon as she accepted a seat. “It’s been difficult since Mum died. She liked nice things and exotic holidays. She thought she had time to save up for retirement.”

“I do understand,” I said. “But there’s really nothing left of my—our—father’s estate. He died nearly twenty years ago,” I reminded her.

Dove nodded but didn’t reply. She realized I’d be the one to recompense her should she be awarded a settlement and was obviously fine with that. I supposed it didn’t matter to her where the money came from as long as it was paid.

“You have a lovely home,” Dove said, her gaze sweeping over the lounge. “Normal.”

That made me smile. “What did you imagine it would be like?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought it’d be really posh with you being a famous writer and all.”

“We’re regular people, Dove. What do you do for a living?”

I had never asked and thought I should learn something about her life. I was genuinely interested and realized that our budding relationship was extremely unbalanced since she knew so much more about me than I did about her.

“I work in a care home in Hempstead. I’ve been there for just over a year now. I would like to become a nurse,” Dove added.

“A time-honored profession,” I said. “Do you like working at the care home?”

“It’s a job,” Dove said with an indifferent shrug. “It’s not exactly a fun place to work, and it doesn’t pay much.”

Despite my misgivings, I felt sorry for her. Dove was too young to be on her own, earning a living doing a job she didn’t like and expecting a child she clearly wasn’t prepared for.

“Do you have a partner?” I asked carefully. I didn’t want to pry, but I wondered if she might have started seeing someone new after Tyler left her. She wasn’t showing yet and wouldn’t for some time, so if she chose to keep the pregnancy to herself, a new bloke would be none the wiser.

“Not since Tyler,” Dove said. “I really loved him, and we were together for a while, but he just couldn’t deal, even before I got pregnant.”

“Deal with what?”

She shrugged. “Feelings. Grief. Me,” Dove said bitterly.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine.” Dove jutted out her chin defiantly, and I could see the little girl she must have been. I couldn’t help but admire her spirit. “I’m going to make this work,” she announced. “With or without Tyler.”

Once I get the money. The unspoken sentiment hung in the air between us, and I could see that Dove was already relying on the payout. The money would support her and the baby for years if she was careful and would guarantee not only financial freedom but peace of mind.

“I’m sure you will,” I said.

I nearly promised that I would be there to help but stopped myself in time. I didn’t like to make empty promises, and I had no idea if our relationship would evolve or come to an abrupt end once Dove received the settlement. Time would tell.

“Do you have a name picked out?” I asked, more to fill the silence than because I really wanted to know. It was early days yet, so Dove probably hadn’t even thought that far.

“Raven, if it’s a girl,” Dove replied without missing a beat. “I like bird names and want to keep the tradition going. And if it’s a boy, Callum, which means dove in Gaelic, or Corbin. Corbin means raven.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said. “I see you’ve given this some thought.”

Dove’s smile was wry. “I have a lot of time to think, especially when I take the night shift at the care home. I hate being there at night, but the hourly rate is higher, and unless there’s an issue, the residents mostly sleep through the night. Sometimes I kip on the sofa in the sitting room. Makes the time go by faster and I’m not as tired the next day.”

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” I blurted out, even though I had hoped this first meeting would be brief. I couldn’t help but feel protective toward this sad waif and wanted to do something nice for her. The word sisterly sprang to mind, but I ignored it. It was polite to invite her to stay since it was nearly dinnertime, and we were going to eat anyway.

“If you’re sure it’s okay,” Dove replied timidly.

“Of course it is. We’d love to have you.”

“Thank you.”

“Hello,” Kyle said as he entered the room. He approached Dove and held out his hand. “Kyle Walsh. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dove.”

Dove grinned at him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too.”

“Is it all right if I join you, or would you like to talk in private?” Kyle asked. “Ava is still napping,” he said as an aside.

“Of course you can stay,” I said.

I was glad Kyle was there. I was in the word business, but with Dove I felt tongue-tied and awkward. I didn’t want to interrogate her by asking endless questions, but she wasn’t volunteering much, and the conversation would stall if we were left on our own.

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t read any of your books, Kyle,” Dove said. The forlorn expression of earlier had been replaced by a coy smile and a twinkle in her dark eyes, and her head was cocked to the side in a flirtatious manner. Dove had also pulled back her shoulders so that her pert breasts were on full display.

Kyle shrugged good-naturedly. “It’s not a prerequisite for being invited.”

“It’s just that I don’t like to read about murder,” Dove explained.

“What genre do you prefer?” I jumped in, suddenly feeling left out of the conversation.

“I don’t like to read,” Dove said. “I find it tedious.”

“So, what do you like to do?” Kyle inquired.

“I like music.”

“What sort of music do you listen to?”

“Mostly hip hop and rap. Sometimes I like EDM, like when I go to clubs.”

“What’s EDM?” I asked.

“Electronic dance music. It’s fun to dance to, especially if you’re high. And sometimes I listen to podcasts,” Dove added shyly.

‘But not about murder,” Kyle joked.

“No, about fitness. I like to run. It helps with the stress.”

At that moment, I would have gladly run from the room. I knew I was being unreasonable, but I found it unusually difficult to connect with Dove. I didn’t think the problem was my age. I got along with Kyle’s sisters, and we always found something to talk about, but Dove and I didn’t seem to have anything in common. And the way she was looking at Kyle made me uncomfortable. I was sure that if I left the room, she would take the flirtation up a notch to see if she could elicit a response.

“Dove works in a care home,” I told Kyle.

“That’s a tough job,” Kyle said. “Requires a lot of patience and understanding.”

His demeanor hadn’t changed, but I understood him well enough to know that he was aware he was on dangerous ground and needed to tread carefully where Dove was concerned.

“Yeah, I guess. I try not to get too involved with the residents. They’re so needy,” Dove complained. “And they smell.” She scrunched her nose in disgust. “That’s why I prefer the night shift. Much less demanding, and unless there’s an emergency, the day nurses can deal with them.”

“Dove wants to be a nurse,” I interjected, and was gratified when Kyle’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“Really?” he asked.

Dove nodded. “There’s always a demand for nurses, so it’s easy to get a job. I would prefer to work in a hospital, though.”

I didn’t think Dove would make a particularly good nurse, but caring and compassion were not prerequisites for securing a job. As long as she got her certification, she would become a member of the medical profession. Watching her, I couldn’t help but wonder what sort of mother she would make. Her edges were rather sharp, and I couldn’t see her with a baby, who would need tenderness and patience.

“Do you have any dietary restrictions, Dove?” I asked, my mind turning to dinner. I had planned to make salmon but now had to be sure Dove would eat it.

“I recently went vegan,” Dove said. Realizing my dilemma, she rushed to reassure me. “Don’t worry about me. I can always find something to eat. As long as there’s salad or pasta that doesn’t have meat or cheese in it, I’m fine.”

“There’s that vegan café that recently opened up. Do you know the one I mean, Kyle?” I asked, turning to him.

“Yes. We can get takeaway from there.”

Kyle pulled up the menu on his phone and read out some of the options. “Portobello tacos sound great, and they have spicy Szechuan aubergine, and a vegan shepherd’s pie.”

Dove suddenly reached for her bag and sprang to her feet. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. I completely forgot I made plans with a friend. I’ll ring you, Nicole.”

She was out the door before we had a chance to say a proper goodbye. Kyle and I looked at each other, wondering if we had done something to upset her, but given that she had taken off abruptly before, I thought it was just something she did when she felt uncomfortable.

“Give her time to get used to us,” Kyle said once the door had slammed shut behind Dove.

“Is it me, or was this really painful?”

“I think she feels threatened by you,” Kyle mused.

“Why would she feel threatened?”

“Nic, you’re very successful. That can be intimidating for someone who has yet to find her place in the world.”

“I suppose,” I grumbled. “So, what do I do?”

“Give her time. Perhaps next time you can meet at a place of her choosing, just the two of you.”

“That sounds like a reasonable idea.”

“I actually like the sound of those portobello tacos,” Kyle said, and grinned at me. “What do you say we try this place?”

“Okay. I can make salmon tomorrow.”

I really didn’t care what we ate. I felt deeply unsettled and was convinced it was my fault that Dove had been so uncomfortable. Kyle was right. Dove probably felt intimidated and judged and thought I hated her for filing a claim against our father’s estate. I obviously wasn’t thrilled with the way things were progressing, but I could hardly blame her. She was doing what she had to do to survive. We all did.

“Do you remember Dove’s mother?” Kyle asked, his thoughts having strayed from dinner.

“Vaguely. My dad used to talk about work, but I didn’t really listen. I was a self-obsessed teenager and had yet to think of my mum and dad as individuals and not just parents. And then my dad died, and everything changed.”

“You have nothing to reproach yourself for. We were all bratty teenagers. It comes with the territory. I used to resent my mum for putting her job before me and my dad and for calling all the shots. And I secretly thought my dad was weak for not standing up to her more, but I see now that they had their own dynamic, and it worked for them. It still does.”

“I wish I’d had a chance to get to know my dad as an adult. Perhaps it’d be easier for me to understand his relationship with Lark Mitchell.”

“Nic, your father is gone. He’s been gone for nearly twenty years. Obsessing about what happened between your parents and trying to find answers will only give rise to more questions. You can try to establish a relationship with Dove, or you can choose to keep your distance. It’s up to you, and you have nothing to feel guilty about if you choose the latter.”

“Don’t I? She’s my little sister, and she’s all alone in the world. To reject her would be cruel.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you reject her. You can keep in contact, but you don’t have to be best mates, not if it doesn’t feel right. You don’t need to decide anything today. Or tomorrow.”

“I suppose,” I muttered, more to put an end to the conversation than because I agreed with him. I felt pressure to establish a closer relationship with Dove, but Kyle was right, I couldn’t do anything more today.

I barely ate my dinner, then spent some time with Ava before handing her off to Kyle for her bath. I wanted to speak to Quinn and hoped whatever she had to tell me would take my mind off the raging dumpster fire that was my relationship with Dove.

Chapter 38

I listened carefully as Quinn relayed what she had seen. It was fascinating and oddly surreal to hear the thoughts and dreams of a woman who was long gone, but also maddening. To think that Edgar had pressured Grace to write his plays and then instead of expressing gratitude had belittled her and made sure to remind her that she was a financial burden made my blood boil. It would have been unrealistic to expect anything else from a man who had been born and raised during the early Victorian era, since that kind of thinking hadn’t begun to change until the second half of the twentieth century.

Even during WWII, when women had taken over jobs traditionally done by men and had not only persevered but excelled, instead of thanking them upon their return, the men had immediately tried to force them out, claiming the women were trying to steal their jobs. Those who continued to work had held menial positions, and the men who employed them had made sure to treat them with as much disrespect as possible to discourage them from seeking advancement and better pay.

Grace Hilliard had been a gifted writer and had clearly had a good imagination since she had been able to write about situations she couldn’t possibly have found herself in in real life. Perhaps Edgar had contributed his insights and the plays had been more of a joint effort than outright appropriation, but Grace would still have to be able to put herself into the minds of her male characters in order to make the narrative believable and the dialogue relatable for a mixed audience and all-male reviewers.

The only real surprise was Venetia’s pregnancy, since I’d found no trace of a child in the course of my research. But that didn’t mean a child hadn’t existed. It was possible that the record of the baby’s birth or its baptism hadn’t made it into online records.. Of course, there were other possibilities as well, but I wasn’t ready to entertain them, not until I knew more.

“What are your thoughts?” I asked Quinn once she had finished.

“I haven’t seen anything telling,” Quinn said. “Edgar’s relationship with the women in his life was typical of the period. Some would even go so far as to say that he was a devoted husband and brother. Edgar was worried about their finances, which was understandable, and given that he was responsible for supporting the family, it’s not difficult to understand why he would enlist his sister to help him. Grace had the ability to write the plays and the acumen to manage the business, and although she did feel put upon, it gave her something to do. I can’t imagine anything more boring than spending one’s days in that tiny parlor with no one to talk to and no reason to leave the house.”

“Do you think Edgar became so overwhelmed by financial responsibility that he simply walked out one day?” I asked.

“I don’t believe so,” Quinn said. “The shop is still around, and the building is still standing, so the repairs were clearly undertaken and the business continued to thrive. It’s not unusual for people to be faced with unexpected expenses; it happens every day. Edgar must have found a way to raise funds.”

I sighed. “So, we’re back to square one.”

“Not necessarily,” Quinn replied. “It’s early days yet, and it’s important to understand the dynamic of these familial relationships in order to formulate a plausible theory. And there’s always the possibility that whatever happened had nothing whatsoever to do with his home life.”

“It would be much more difficult to work out what happened if Edgar’s disappearance was the result of a random act of violence,” I said.

“Events are rarely random, and I have found in my research that the backstory is always significant, even if at first there’s no discernable pattern.”

“Does that still apply when an object did not belong to the victim?”

Quinn thought about that for a moment. “It’s difficult to say since most of the time the objects I work with were owned by the person I was investigating. Since we don’t have anything of Edgar’s, we just have to wait and see what develops. Of course, it would be immensely helpful if something that had belonged to Edgar turned up.”

I had been waiting for an opening, and if I didn’t take the plunge now, I would lose my nerve. “Quinn, I hate to ask, but I was wondering if you might do me a favor.”

Quinn paused, and when she replied, her voice was gentle but firm. “Nicole, if you’re about to ask what I think you’re going to ask, then the answer will have to be no.”

“What do you think I’m going to ask?” I said, bristling.

“You want to know the truth about your father, and you have an object that belonged to him.”

“H—how did you know?”

“Because that’s what I would ask for if I were in your shoes.”

“Then you understand,” I replied, hoping Quinn would change her mind and help me.

“I do, but I really think you should leave it alone.”

“Knowing the truth of my father’s relationship with Lark would help me to understand and make peace with how I feel about Dove.”

“I totally get it, and I feel awful for having to refuse, but I’m doing this for your own good.”

Shouldn’t I be the judge of that? I wanted to ask, but I could hardly demand that Quinn help me. The projects she undertook were at her discretion, and I could understand why she wouldn’t want to get involved. What I was going through wasn’t so unique. There were plenty of blended families that had learned to either come together or chosen to go their separate ways. Whatever I decided had to be based on the here and now, but it would be helpful to have more context.

Quinn’s tone softened. “Nicole, please believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to know about your father’s most intimate moments. It wouldn’t be fair to him, and it wouldn’t be fair to you. Everyone is entitled to privacy, and even though you feel angry and betrayed, your father still deserves respect, and you deserve peace of mind.”

“Knowing the truth would give me peace of mind,” I argued.

“It won’t. The more you learn, the more you’ll want to know, and you might discover things that will rob you of precious memories and force you to reevaluate your childhood and your relationship with your parents.”

I was devastated by Quinn’s refusal, but I also realized that she was right and was doing her best to help me in a way that mattered. A lesser friend might have agreed just to keep the peace, but Quinn was risking our friendship to do what she believed was the right thing.

“Are we okay?” Quinn asked anxiously when I had remained silent for too long.

“Of course. I’m sorry I asked. You must feel like a doctor or a lawyer who’s always asked for professional advice in a non-business setting.”

Just then, I could completely understand why Quinn had kept her gift secret all these years. It wasn’t only because she feared professional ridicule but because she didn’t care to be put in this exact position. She didn’t want to be the harbinger of doom or feel responsible for the breakup of a relationship or the knowledge that there had been a breach of trust. To know that my father had been with another woman was shocking and painful but not nearly as damaging as hearing the intimate details or learning that my childhood idol had had clay feet.

We spent another few minutes on the phone, but it was obvious that we were just going through the motions and neither wanted to continue this awkward conversation. I excused myself, and Quinn promised to get in touch as soon as she had something more to tell me.

Chapter 39

I didn’t do any work over the weekend, but by Monday morning, I had no excuse. As I stared at the blank screen and my equally blank notepad, I resolved that I was going to give this project until the end of the week. If I didn’t learn anything useful by end of day on Friday, I was going to admit defeat. Since I hadn’t got any fresh leads from Quinn, I decided to focus on the information Deborah had provided, but it was a long shot. So instead of starting with Calvin Hilliard, I decided to begin with Deborah.

Deborah Dolan nee Hilliard wasn’t difficult to find. She had been born in 1973, had married Christopher Dolan in 1999, and given birth to Blake in 2001. Her sister, Lorna, had been born in 1975. Lorna had never married or had any children. Once I established that, I was able to trace Deborah and Lorna’s ancestry to Philip Hilliard, Calvin Hilliard’s grandfather, who had been born in 1874. After Philip, the trail went stone cold, but now I was missing only one name, which had to be the missing link between Edgar Hilliard and Philip. Since Philip had been a Hilliard, Edgar and Venetia must have had a son. There was no other way for the name and the estate to be passed on to Deborah. That still didn’t explain what had happened to Edgar, but there could be various reasons why Edgar’s son’s birth did not show up on the databases. One of those reasons could be that the Victorian Hilliards hadn’t been Anglican.

The General Register Office had been founded in 1837 after the Births and Deaths Registration Act of 1836. The reason for the establishment of the agency was that too many births, marriages, and deaths had gone unrecorded in the Anglican parish registers and the number of non-Anglican citizenry was growing, mainly due to immigration. The office was not a religious entity and would therefore be accessible to everyone, but there were still plenty of people who had probably chosen not to register their children because they had feared some form of government intervention and had thought they were keeping their children safe from persecution. But those parents would still have registered the birth somewhere since that was the only way to legitimize their offspring.

As a rule, Anglican churches kept two sets of parish registers, one at the church and the second register at the bishopric. It was possible that both sets had been lost or destroyed in the intervening years, but if Edgar’s son had been baptized, there might still be a record. It would be difficult to find but not impossible.

Given that I knew precisely where the shop was located, the church the Hilliards had attended would be in the parish of Chelsea, which was home to several historic churches. In the mid-nineteenth century, there would have been St. Lukes, Chelsea Old Church, and Christ Church, which had eventually merged with St. Luke’s and become St. Luke’s and Christ Church. There were also several Catholic churches. Our Most Holy Redeemer and St. Thomas Moore sprang to mind, but I was fairly sure the latter had been built after 1850, and there was nothing to indicate that the Hilliards had been Catholic. I would have to ask Quinn if she had witnessed any church services the family might have attended. Once I knew for certain, I would be able to narrow down my search and see what I could learn.

In the meantime, I had to collect Ava from my in-laws.

Chapter 40

Ava was asleep when I got to Rita and Michael’s house, so Rita made us each a cup of tea and set out a plate of Hobnobs. I could never say no to Hobnobs, and I always enjoyed my chats with Rita. When it came to mothers-in-law, I had truly won the lottery. Rita never judged or criticized, and her advice was always on point, her wisdom born of three decades on the police service.

“Where’s Michael?” I asked as we settled at the kitchen table.

“Popped out to the garden center. It’s become his place of worship,” Rita joked.

Michael had taken up gardening quite recently, but it seemed to bring him great pleasure, and he spent hours tending to his plants in the little greenhouse he’d constructed in the garden. At times, I wished I could find a hobby that would give me a few hours of uncomplicated joy. My days were so hectic, I barely had time to read for pleasure, much less garden or exercise regularly. My mum used to crochet while watching TV, and I had teased her and called her Miss Marple, but now I could understand that it had helped to calm her mind and order her thoughts. Rita’s hobby was investigation. She might be retired, but her mind was as sharp as ever, and if not for her acute powers of observation, we might not have got Edie back, since the police had failed to make any progress on the investigation into her disappearance, and by the time they did, it might have been too late.

I was desperate to confide in Rita and was glad when she said, “Kyle told me about Dove.” She left it there, waiting for me to respond.

I sighed. “Yes, that’s proving to be a complicated situation.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Rita said with a shake of her head.

I set down my mug and looked at her. Whatever Rita had to say, I was ready to listen. “What are you suggesting?” I asked.

“I would advise you not to agree to anything before you’re one hundred percent certain Dove is actually your sister.”

“My dad’s name is on the birth certificate,” I reminded Rita.

“So it is,” Rita said, and reached for a biscuit. “And there are plenty of people who make their living via unscrupulous means.”

“What exactly are you saying, Rita?”

“There’s only one thing that can’t be tampered with, at least not yet,” she added grimly. “Science.”

“My solicitor believes that Dove’s claim is legitimate.”

“And does your solicitor have a background in criminal law?” Rita asked, raising one eyebrow suggestively.

“No.”

“No,” Rita repeated, her expression smug. “Dove Mitchell might very well be your half-sister, or she might be a clever fake. The first thing your solicitor should have done was request a DNA test before any question of reparation was addressed.”

I stared at Rita, suddenly wondering why Martin had not suggested it. Now that Rita had mentioned it, it seemed like a glaring oversight on his part.

As if reading my thoughts, Rita said, “I take it your solicitor is close to retirement age?”

“Yes. Why?”

Rita sighed, and I could tell that this wasn’t a comfortable subject, but just then my well-being was her first priority, and I loved her for that.

“I would never judge someone’s mental acuity based on their age,” Rita said. “I know how it feels to be dismissed out of hand because I’m a woman in my sixties. I have always made it my business to remain current and relevant in an ever-changing work environment, but there are people my age who are unapologetically old school. They’re not comfortable with technology and often rely on outdated methods or their younger, more tech-savvy employees to obtain what they need. A birth certificate is a legal document, but like any legal document, it can be altered or forged. And employees are human and can make mistakes or be convinced to lie, especially if there’s a hefty payoff in the offing.”

“I will ring Martin and see what he suggests,” I said, glad that Rita was there to fight my corner.

“No, dear,” Rita said, looking at me as if I were a child that was slow to learn. “You don’t see what he suggests. You tell him this is what you want to happen. You are the client. Your solicitor works for you, and his job is to protect your interests.”

I nodded. Rita was right. I had simply accepted Martin’s decree that I would have to compensate Dove, but I had every right to demand proof before I handed over my life savings.

“Now, tell me about this new story you’re working on,” Rita invited, smoothly moving on to the next topic now that she had made her point. “Kyle says it’s a missing persons case. Maybe I can help.”

“Yes, but I’m not making too much progress. Edgar Hilliard left his house one night in February 1850 and was never seen again.”

“What’s your hunch?” Rita asked as she reached for another Hobnob.

“He was probably robbed and murdered, his body dumped somewhere remote. His wife and sister reported the disappearance to the police, but Edgar was never found.”

Rita nodded. “It’s possible, of course, but I’m not sure that’s what happened.”

“Oh? Why not?”

Rita looked excited, her “little gray cells,” as Hercule Poirot used to call them, firing on all pistons.

“If Edgar Hilliard was a random victim, why would his killer bother to dispose of the body? At that time, there were no CCTV cameras or forensics to tie the perpetrator to the crime. If no one had witnessed the murder and reported it to the police, that was the end of it. And even if they had reported it, unless the police were provided with the name of the victim and the identity of the killer, they were looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, and it was a very large haystack with very few coppers to sift through it.”

“So, you think Edgar was targeted?”

“That’s the assumption I would be working under if it were my case,” Rita replied. “And where there is a target, there’s a motive.”

“I considered that,” I said, “but who would want to murder Edgar Hilliard and dispose of his body? Edgar’s descendant thinks that professional jealousy played a role in his disappearance, but would someone really murder a playwright over a play?”

“That’s what you have to find out,” Rita said. “It’s not easy to dispose of a body, and it would be just as difficult in your man’s time. There was no sewage system, and the Underground was years away, so there were no tunnels where one could hide a corpse. The most frequently used dumping ground for bodies was the Thames, but the body could have just as easily washed up on the riverbank or been spotted by anyone out looking for floaters.”

Rita took a sip of tea and continued. “The Thames River Police was already disbanded by that time, but someone would have reported the body to the Metropolitan Police. They might not have found the killer, but the body would have been taken to the City Mortuary, and Edgar’s relations would have been asked to look at the corpse. Unless the victim was unrecognizable, they would have identified him as their brother and husband.”

I chuckled. “I had no idea you were so well versed in Victorian crime.”

“I have a lot of time on my hands these days, and I’ve been quite enjoying historical murder mysteries.”

“Tired of modern-day crime?” I asked.

Rita shrugged. “The methods of murder and police procedure might change, but the motives remain the same. People are people, and they’re driven by greed, hatred, a desire for revenge, and sometimes by love and a need to protect someone they care about.”

“It’s nearly impossible to isolate a motive when looking back at a crime that was committed over a century ago,” I said.

Rita smiled affectionately. “If anyone can figure it out, it’s you. You would have made a fine policewoman.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Without a doubt.” Rita tilted her head to the side and studied me with an amused smile. “Have you ever considered writing a modern-day thriller?”

“Not really,” I replied.

“Would be fun.”

“Yeah, it would be.” Just then, I heard Ava’s voice over the baby monitor, calling for me. It never ceased to amaze me how she always sensed my presence.

“Looks like teatime is over,” Rita said, and pushed wearily to her feet.

Chapter 41

October 1849

Grace

It was on a Saturday in late October that Edgar came home to find Julian taking tea with Venetia and Grace. Normally, Grace would still be in the shop, but she had taken the decision to close at three o’clock since scarcely any customers had come into the shop all day. Heavy rain had been falling since mid-morning, and the wind had picked up and howled beyond the windows, a shower of leaves carried on its wings as it tore at the trees and rattled the windowpanes. The lamps had been on all day, and the fire had burned in the parlor since lunch, poor Venetia too cold to bother with observing Edgar’s daily allowance of coal.

“Dr. Moore,” Edar said, his jaw tightening with irritation and his use of Julian’s surname even more telling than the unfriendly glint in his eyes. “You seem to be gracing us with your presence rather frequently these days.”

Grace’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Edgar had deliberately singled her out and managed to question Julian’s motives with one well-aimed comment, while simultaneously implying he was unwelcome.

“Venetia, and by extension you and Grace, are family,” Julian replied calmly. “And at times, I feel rather desperate for uncomplicated company after a long week at the hospital.”

Edgar’s relationship with Julian could hardly be described as uncomplicated since Edgar clearly resented Julian’s visits, but Edgar wasn’t about to engage in an argument he wasn’t likely to win. Grace stared into her teacup, praying that Edgar would backtrack and say something welcoming that would put an end to the standoff between the two men.

“I daresay Venetia feels reassured by your presence,” Edgar said as he settled next to his wife and reached for a teacake while she poured him a cup of tea. “Her condition makes her fraught with nerves.”

“It’s not uncommon for expectant women to feel anxious,” Julian replied. “Particularly when it’s their first child.”

“Then I hope you will find a way to calm her fears, Julian. Her fragility and baseless anxiety can be difficult to endure.”

“I do hope Venetia’s condition is not inconveniencing you too greatly, Edgar,” Julian replied. Grace noted the sharp edge to his tone, but the sarcasm was lost on Edgar.

“It is our cross to bear, as gentlemen,” Edgar replied. “But the ordeal will soon be over, and life will go back to normal.”

“Life rarely goes back to normal once children come,” Julian said.

Edgar scoffed. “I do not intend to allow the child to cause a disruption in my routine.”

“I wish you the best of luck in managing your domestic arrangements,” Julian said. He set down his teacup and stood. “I’m afraid I must leave you all. Thank you for the tea.”

“Oh, but you must stay for dinner,” Venetia exclaimed.

“I would like nothing more, but I’m afraid I must return to the hospital.”

“But it’s your one day off, Julian,” Venetia protested.

“There’s a young patient I’m worried about. I would like to check on him before I go home.”

“You’ll get soaked and catch a chill,” Venetia cried. “It’s absolutely ghastly out there.”

“Please, don’t worry on my account.”

Edgar shot Julian a baleful glance but refrained from saying anything other than good night. It was clear he was glad Julian was leaving and wouldn’t be staying to dinner, which would now be an awkward affair since Edgar was obviously in a foul mood.

“I’ll walk you out,” Grace said, and followed Julian from the parlor and down the stairs to the ground floor. “Do come again soon,” she said once they were out of earshot of the parlor. “Venetia so looks forward to your visits, and so do I,” she added shyly.

What she really wanted to do was apologize for Edgar’s bad behavior and reassure Julian that he was always welcome, but this wasn’t her house, and to apologize would appear disloyal if Edgar ever found out.

“Don’t worry,” Julian said softly. “It would take considerably more than your brother’s ill humor to drive me away. I really do have a patient I must check on. I wasn’t making an excuse.”

“I envy you, Julian. It must be wonderful to derive satisfaction from your work and know that you make a difference every day.”

“You make a difference as well. Stories are an escape from a reality that often has the power to crush the spirit. To be able to set one’s worries aside and disappear into the pages of a book is not to be discounted. I tend to the body, while you soothe the soul, which is sometimes more important.”

“I’m not nearly as heroic as you make me out to be,” Grace replied, but couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. Julian was so gallant, especially when compared to Edgar. “Edgar is not a bad sort,” she said, still feeling the need to explain. “He’s just terribly anxious these days.”

“Really? What about?” Julian’s gaze sharpened, and he became quite still, as if Grace’s reply was of paramount importance.

It was vulgar to discuss one’s problems outside the family, but Julian was a relation, so Grace didn’t think it was too inappropriate to confide in him.

“Edgar submitted the new play to the publisher nearly a month ago, but he has yet to hear back, and business has been unusually slow. We’re hoping sales will improve as we get closer to Christmas,” she explained.

Grace didn’t tell Julian about the crack in the cellar wall or that Edgar couldn’t afford to hire a mason until he received the advance. She didn’t suppose a few months would make that much of a difference, but Edgar was angry and short-tempered, and if Grace were honest, he had good reason to be since this was the first time Mr. Mason had taken so long to produce a contract.

“Does Edgar give you an allowance?” Julian asked. He must have instantly realized the intrusiveness of such an inquiry and hastened to apologize. “Forgive me. It’s really none of my business.”

“It’s quite all right,” Grace said, but didn’t reply to his question because she was ashamed. Edgar did not give her an allowance, a decision that ensured that Grace was utterly dependent on his generosity and goodwill even though she spent her days in the shop and worked as many hours as any shopgirl or clerk.

“Look after yourself, Grace,” Julian said. He appeared to have noticed her reticence and must have drawn his own conclusions.

“I will,” Grace promised.

When Julian pulled open the door, the wind took Grace’s breath away, and her face grew damp as the moist air breached the pleasant dryness of the interior. Julian pulled the door shut behind him, and Grace watched through the window as he unfurled his umbrella and hunched his shoulders against the wind. The canopy was blown outward, and the flimsy contraption threatened to break apart as it met the full force of the gale. Grace hoped Julian would find a hansom before he was soaked through, but she could hardly stand in the dark and worry when Edgar was sure to remark on her absence and make some callous remark at her expense.

Sighing with resignation, Grace turned toward the stairs, suddenly wishing she could retire to her room instead of joining Edgar and Venetia for dinner. She had made excuses for Edgar to Julian, but privately, it hurt to be reminded that Edgar not only didn’t give a toss about her happiness but had gone out of his way to embarrass her and try to discourage Julian from calling. As Grace climbed the stairs, she hoped Edgar would hear from Mr. Mason in the coming days. It was bad enough that his pride was on the line, but they desperately needed the money.

Chapter 42

It didn’t take Edgar long to wound Grace even deeper and show her just how little he thought of her. Edgar spent that Monday at home, then came downstairs at closing time to empty the till. He had been doing that more frequently of late, claiming that he was putting money aside for repairs. Grace didn’t question him. For one, it was his money, and for another, they were both becoming anxious about the future of the play. Edgar thought it was witty and clever and had been excited to submit it to the publisher, but as weeks went by with no word, their doubts and fears grew. They needed the income the play would bring, but they also needed the security that came with the knowledge that their work was in demand.

Edgar glared at Grace as he scooped out the coins and added up the day’s takings. “Is this it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Grace replied tersely.

“There’s just under ten quid in here,” Edgar exclaimed.

“That’s right.”

“Have you been skimming?” he demanded, his eyes blazing with anger.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, Grace. Have you been helping yourself to the money in the till?”

“Helping myself?” Grace cried.

Edgar’s accusation was so unexpected and unjust that she thought, or more accurately hoped, that she had misheard him, but she knew she hadn’t. Edgar had always been the sort of person to lash out when he was upset and blame the person closest to him for his troubles. She had been his mark for days, and this was just the latest in a long line of vicious jabs meant to insult her integrity.

“And what would I do with the money, Edgar?” Grace demanded, going on the offensive instead of allowing him to intimidate her. “I hardly leave the shop, or the house for that matter. I haven’t been anywhere in the past month except to church. We’re supposed to be looking after the shop together, but you’re never here. I barely have time to eat and have to wait for Alice, who hardly has time to spare, to come down so that I can have a few minutes to see to my more personal needs.”

“Vulgarity doesn’t become you, Grace,” Edgar exclaimed when her meaning became clear. He wasn’t particularly self-conscious about his personal needs, but any reminder that women had the same biological requirements made him cringe with disgust.

“And utter selfishness doesn’t become you,” Grace countered. “Where would you be without me to manage the shop and write your plays for you?”

Edgar had the decency to look shamefaced. Probably because he realized that if Grace refused to help, he would find himself in an unenviable position.

“I’m sorry, Gracie,” Edgar said, looking at her from beneath his long lashes just like he used to do when he was a little boy. “I’m just under so much pressure. With a wife and a child on the way, and you and Alice and the shop to look after, I find myself overextended. And what if the play is rejected? What will I do then?”

Edgar’s voice quivered with misery, and Grace realized just how terrified he really was. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about pride, popularity, and most of all vanity. Edgar fancied himself a famous playwright, a valuable commodity that was always in demand. To fear that his star was fading was more than he could bear, particularly at a time when he felt so stretched.

“Perhaps you should spend more time in the shop and try to figure out a way to bring in new and repeat custom. And if the play is rejected, then you can shop it around to other publishers. Perhaps you can even negotiate better terms.”

“But that could take months, years even,” Edgar wailed. “Once everyone finds out Mr. Mason passed up on the play, they will think it’s dull and not care to take the risk.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Grace snapped. “The play is not dull, and there are other publishing houses that will be happy to have you. And even if your writing career comes to an end, we still have the shop. It has fed this family for generations, and it will look after us too, if we invest in it.”

“It’s that new shop that opened in Oakley Street,” Edgar exclaimed. “They’re stealing our customers. That’s why profits are down.”

“How are they stealing our customers?” Grace asked.

Edgar shrugged. “By undercutting our prices, I expect.”

“Then perhaps you should go over there and see what they’re up to.”

“They’ll think I’m doing something suspect if they catch me prowling about the shop.”

“It’s not dishonest to assess the competition,” Grace replied patiently.

“I won’t be accused of engaging in underhanded practices,” Edgar said, bristling. “They’re sure to recognize me.”

“Would you like me to go?” Grace offered. Edgar carried on as if the whole world were against him but refused to do anything to help himself. Or her. Whining didn’t sell books, nor did it repair walls.

Edgar considered her proposition. “They probably know you as well,” he mumbled petulantly.

“Well, what do you propose, Edgar, that we just sit here while they take the bread out of our mouths? If they’re undercutting our prices, then we have to fight back.”

“You make it all sound so sordid, Grace.”

Grace threw up her hands in frustration. She knew Edgar well enough to understand that his reluctance had nothing to do with honor and everything to do with pride. And apathy. Edgar hadn’t made any improvements to the shop since their father had passed and had invested little time in the business. He assumed that as long as they had books to sell, custom was sure to follow. It was Grace who placed orders for newly published books, and Grace who reordered stock and organized the displays with a view to drawing the eye. If Edgar had any business sense, he was yet to exhibit it.

“All right,” Edgar finally conceded. “Maybe you and Venetia can take a walk to the new shop and see what they’re up to. If she wears her velvet cape, no one will notice that she is…”

“She is what?” Grace demanded. “Pregnant? She’s not a leper, Edgar. She won’t infect anyone.”

Edgar drew in a sharp breath, clearly shocked by Grace’s outburst, but Grace wasn’t quite finished. “If the owners recognize anyone, it would be me. I’m the one who’s here from dawn to dusk. Perhaps you and Venetia should go. I wager they’ve never seen either of you.”

“You make it sound as if you’re running the business singlehandedly, Grace. Without me to steer, this ship would have sunk shortly after Father died.”

“You’re steering us right into a cliff, brother,” Grace ground out, her patience finally at an end.

“I’ve never known you to be so cruel, Grace. No wonder you’re still unmarried.”

“Which suits you just fine, doesn’t it?” Grace taunted. “What would you do if I left you to your own devices?”

“I would be just fine, I assure you. And don’t go giving yourself airs. You’re as useless as the rest of your sex.”

Grace turned on her heel and strode toward the stairs.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Edgar called after her.

“To do something useless, like keep your wife company so she doesn’t realize how cruelly you neglect her.”

Edgar said something under his breath, but Grace didn’t hear his response, nor did she care to. Her blood was boiling, her vision blurred by tears. She had never known Edgar to be as uncharitable as he had been these past few months. It was as if marriage had brought out the very worst in him and he needed a scapegoat for his anger. Their father had once said that Edgar was the type to bite the hand that fed him, and now Grace could see just what he’d meant.

What would Edgar do if she married and left him to fend for himself? Without new plays or her tireless efforts in the shop, it wouldn’t be long before he discovered that the ship he was steering was sinking. But Edgar wasn’t about to address the issue. If Grace knew anything of her brother, it was that he would compound the problem and was probably using the money he took from the till to bet on horses. His rationale would be that if he won, he’d have money to cover his expenses. But if he lost, they’d find themselves in an even worse situation.

For the first time in her life, Grace wished she had been born a man. She would have the freedom to leave and forge her own destiny instead of always waiting in the wings for the men in her life to notice her or appreciate what she did for them. Sometimes, life was so unfair, it took her breath away.

If it weren’t for Venetia, Grace would have asked Alice to bring her dinner on a tray, but it wasn’t fair to involve Venetia in her quarrel with Edgar. No matter how much he hurt Grace, he was still her only living male relative, and she was completely dependent on him. She sighed with frustration. Right or wrong, she’d have to apologize, and soon. If she didn’t, the anger would fester and begin to affect Venetia, who was fragile enough already. Grace marched into the parlor, poured herself a large sherry, and gulped it down before heading back down to the shop.

Chapter 43

Nicole

I shut my laptop and pushed away from my desk, dispirited by the lack of progress I’d made on the book. In the past, my research had been fairly linear, every clue leading to the next revelation until I was able to line up the facts like pearls on a string. But this project wasn’t my only source of frustration. Anxiety bubbled away inside me like brew in a witch’s cauldron, and I realized just how angry and upset I really was. The story wasn’t coming together, and I didn’t have any promising ideas for another book should this project go pear-shaped, which it was very likely to do. I still hadn’t made a firm decision about the offer from G&L. And the most worrying of all was the situation with Dove.

I had rung Marin Stillwell as soon as I got home from Rita and Michael’s and had asked that he order a DNA test, but whereas I had expected Martin to back me up, he’d seemed reluctant to rock the boat and told me once again that he was satisfied with the proof that had been provided. His reasoning was that Dove was asking for a very reasonable sum, and it was his professional opinion that I should agree before she changed her mind and decided to hold out for half of everything my father had owned at the time of his death. Not for the first time, I thanked my lucky stars that my mum had inherited the house we’d lived in from her parents and the deed had been in her name, so Dove couldn’t legally claim half the proceeds from the sale.

I knew I was being overly dramatic, but I suddenly felt as if I didn’t have control over anything and that everyone had let me down. I was angry with my father for cheating on my mother, and angry with Mum for keeping me in the dark and then dying and leaving me on my own. Angry with Kyle for not understanding just how deeply this revelation had hurt me and comparing it to his own situation, which was vastly different, and furious with Martin for not being more proactive on my behalf. I was also worried about my professional future and suddenly terrified to commit to more books when I couldn’t seem to find the drive to get the current project off the ground. I was even upset with Deborah and Blake for making me feel guilty and fostering a sense of obligation toward them and their ancestors. In other words, I was a hot mess.

Unable to concentrate on work, I snapped my notebook shut, angrily stacked the pages I had printed off from the ancestry sites, shoved them in a drawer, and headed to the kitchen. Like Pavlov’s dog, Kyle appeared as soon as he heard the hiss of the kettle and the rattle of the dishes as I took a mug out of the dishwasher.

“Tea?” I asked.

“Please.” Kyle tilted his head to the side and fixed me with a look of concern. “Nic, are you okay?”

“No!” I exclaimed, and was surprised to feel the sting of tears, my frustration finally boiling over.

Kyle pulled me into his arms and held me tight. “I got you,” he said softly into my hair. “I got you, Nic.”

I nodded into his chest, and he finally loosened his hold on me and looked down into my tear-stained face.

“Want to talk about it?”

I nodded again.

“Sit,” Kyle said. He rummaged in the cupboard for a packet of biscuits, made the tea, then sat across from me with the expression of a man who was ready to hash things out or die trying.

“I’m completely blocked,” I wailed. “And I don’t have any ideas for a new book. I’m finished, Kyle. I will never write another book, Dove will take the nest egg it took a decade to build, and what’s left of my life will be filled with self-recrimination and regret.”

Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks, and I looked away, ashamed of my outburst. Kyle reached across the table and took my hands in his.

“Nic, look at me,” he said softly. I sniffled and turned to face him, tears flowing anew when I saw his sympathetic expression. “You’re nowhere near finished. Every author has bouts of writer’s block. It’s perfectly natural.”

“You don’t,” I muttered.

“Of course I do. It took me two years to write the third Kelly Shaw book. I made a dozen starts, but the story just wasn’t flowing.”

“So, how did you get past it?” I asked.

“Len helped me,” Kyle said with a sad smile. “He invited me round for a pizza and a beer and talked me through the plot points. We were at it for hours, but I was finally able to tie all the loose ends together and extricate myself from the corner I’d written myself into. Once I had an outline, I was able to complete the first draft in less than two weeks.”

“I don’t have any plot points,” I reminded him. “I don’t have a story.”

Kyle sighed and gave me an eloquent look.

“I know what you’re going to say,” I muttered.

“Really? What am I going to say?”

“You’re going to say that because I come from a non-fiction background, I’m too fixated on facts and I should just write a fictional account of what happened.”

Kyle chuckled, since that was probably exactly what he was thinking but didn’t want to admit it. “Actually, what I was going to say was that you have a lot on your mind just now. Once things settle down, you will see a way forward.”

“I feel awful, Kyle,” I cried. “I’m full of resentment toward a woman who’s all alone, pregnant, and probably earns a minimum living wage while I have so much. I bet Dove lives in some horrid bedsit because that’s all she can afford.” I sniffled again. “I always thought of myself as a good person, but this situation showed me just how selfish I am.”

“Your reaction is perfectly natural,” Kyle said. “When I found out about Sean, I was shocked and upset. In the end, I gained another dad and two sisters, but this is very different. You lost the father you thought you had, and you’re asked to take financial responsibility for a woman you’ve only just met.”

“But she’s only asking for what’s rightfully hers,” I argued.

“Maybe so, but your dad should have made provisions for her.”

“I’m sure he would have had he lived,” I replied.

“We’ll never know what he may or may not have done. All we know is that you’re suddenly faced with this new responsibility and you’re angry about it. I’d be surprised if you weren’t. But I think in time you will learn to care for Dove.” Kyle shot me a wary look, and I knew he was about to add a caveat. “Look, I should have said something earlier, but I didn’t want to upset you when you were already so agitated. I think my mum is right. Martin dropped the ball on this one.”

I nodded, but I didn’t want to talk about Dove anymore. “What do I do about Gilcrest and Logue? I need to give them an answer.”

“What do you want to do?” Kyle asked.

“I’ve only just started self-publishing.” That wasn’t really an answer, but Kyle understood what I was trying to say. I was thinly stretched and feeling increasingly overwhelmed, but I wasn’t ready to publicly admit defeat, and although I was sorely tempted by the publisher’s offer, I was also wary of entering into a years-long legally binding agreement I might come to regret.

“No decision is set in stone. Life is fluid. Things change, and goals shift. Accepting an attractive offer doesn’t make you a failure. It makes you a desirable commodity.”

“I won’t be very desirable if I can’t fulfill my contractual obligations.”

Kyle smiled kindly at me. “Why not agree to one book and see how things go? If you’re not happy, you can walk away. And if you are, then you can confidently sign a new contract knowing precisely what you’re getting into. You can also continue to self-publish if you like. These days there are plenty of hybrid authors who do both.”

I hadn’t considered that, but it was a good idea. I could have the best of both worlds, assuming my creativity hadn’t completely dried up and I was able to write more books.

“Nic, you need to prioritize. What’s the most important thing right now, today?”

“To make progress on this story. There isn’t much I can do about Dove today, and I will get back to Gilcrest and Logue on Monday.”

“All right, then. What I learned from Len was that there was more than one way to come at a story. Try a different angle and see where it takes you.”

“What other angle is there?”

“How about focusing on someone else?” Kyle suggested.

“Such as?” But suddenly I knew. There was someone who could give me insight into the Hilliards’ story. Dr. Julian Moore.

Kyle’s smile widened as he watched the emotions race over my face. “I knew you’d think of someone,” he said smugly.

“But what if I encounter another dead end?”

“Then you can try someone else. Maybe Quinn can help.”

“I can’t help but envy her,” I confessed. “Quinn has an unprecedented advantage when it comes to her work.”

“Don’t envy her too much.” Something in Kyle’s tone gave me pause, and I felt a shiver of apprehension run up my spine.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Have you been on Twitter today?”

Kyle utilized Twitter more than I did and had thousands of followers. I was a member of several Facebook groups, was active on Goodreads, and occasionally posted on Instagram and TikTok, but I had never found Twitter particularly effective.

“No. Why?” I asked carefully.

“Rhys Morgan tweeted about a possible Echoes from the Past Christmas special.”

“So, he’s finally talked Quinn round.” I knew Quinn had been on the fence about agreeing to another Echoes from the Past series. Perhaps this was a way to dip her toes in and see how she felt about doing more episodes.

Kyle sighed wearily. “Someone replied to the tweet and accused Quinn of being a fraud. The person said she had no right to call herself a historian because she relied on her psychic ability. It went viral from there.”

“What?” I cried, my own worries forgotten for the moment.

Kyle nodded. “Last time I checked, there were a few thousand reposts and several hundred comments. A few people defended Quinn and said that she’s a respected historian and they would love to see a new series of Echoes, but the majority of the comments were negative. A couple of people really slagged her off.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “Those people are like a pack of hungry wolves. They’re just looking to tear someone to shreds. The accusations will fizzle out in a few days.”

“Possibly,” Kyle replied, but he didn’t sound convinced.

“Do you agree with them that Quinn is a fraud?” I asked, surprised that Kyle hadn’t immediately come to Quinn’s defense.

“Of course not, but as you’ve just pointed out, Quinn has an unfair advantage.”

“And a basketball player that’s nearly seven feet tall or a jockey who weighs no more than a child has an advantage as well, but you don’t see people tearing them down.”

“It’s not quite the same thing, though, is it?”

“How is it not?” I demanded.

“A basketball player’s height or a jockey’s diminutive size is clearly on display. Quinn never spoke openly about her ability to see into the past.”

“With good reason,” I countered. “Everything she has accomplished will be viewed with prejudice and judged unfairly. Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “Do you think she knows?”

“I would assume so.”

“Has she issued a statement?” I asked.

“No.”

“I have to ring her,” I cried, and pushed back my chair with such force, it scraped the tiles.

Kyle called after me, but I was already halfway to my study. I grabbed the mobile off my desk and selected Quinn’s number, but the call went directly to voicemail. Quinn’s mobile had to be switched off. I left a brief message, asking her to ring me.

Anger welled in my chest. This was all Gabe’s fault. He had pushed Quinn to reveal her psychic ability. She had been visibly reluctant, and with good reason. Quinn understood that as soon as news of her gift was leaked, a social media mob would come after her. Such was the nature of mankind. People no longer burned witches at the stake, but that didn’t mean they were more tolerant or forgiving. By the end of the day, Quinn would be a pariah, and colleagues who’d praised her only last week would go ominously silent, too afraid of becoming tainted by association to say a word in her defense.

Driven as much by curiosity as anger, I opened the Twitter app on my phone and found the tweet Kyle had mentioned. The comments made me so angry, I could barely breathe.

“I always knew she was a fake. She should issue a public apology, and all episodes of Echoes from the Past should be taken down,” one person wrote.

“Quinn Allenby has defrauded the public for years. Her degree and grants should be revoked,” another person wrote, then added nastily, “She must not be a very gifted psychic if she didn’t see this coming.”

“I adore Echoes from the Past and can’t wait for the Christmas special,” a true fan replied.

“OMG, I’m literally shaking right now. I can’t believe the depth of this conspiracy. It clearly goes right to the top,” was the next comment.

“Can’t trust anyone, especially the media. Total mind fuck,” someone responded. “Down with the patriarchy!”

I wasn’t sure how Quinn’s psychic ability aided the patriarchy, but at this point, the debate had morphed into something else entirely. It went on and on, with most comments calling for a public apology, professional annihilation, and a boycott of anyone who had supported Quinn over the years. Accusations were hurled at the network, Rhys Morgan, and any trade publication that had published Quinn over the past decade or cited her as a credible source.

When I went back to check Twitter a few hours later, the furor had intensified, the flames of hatred fanned by a mob of angry users. A hashtag #JusticeForMarcie, which presumably referred to Marcie Munro, a popular TV historian, had suddenly appeared and was now trending. Most of the posts were from one user, History Buff@RealHistorians, who called for Quinn’s university degree, doctorate, awards, and any other accolades she had received to be rescinded since she had no right to take the spotlight off real historians, like Marcie, whose series had been moved from a coveted Sunday night time slot to Monday afternoon in order to air episodes of Echoes from the Past. The tweets had received hundreds of comments, calling for Quinn to be canceled, which in turn spawned another hashtag, #QuitQuackQuinn. After reading a few tweets, I had to set aside my mobile. I felt physically sick since several individuals had posted thinly veiled threats and all but called for violence.

“My God,” I said to Kyle, who’d followed me to the study and was standing in the doorway. “It’s a lynch mob.”

“It usually is. The worst thing Quinn can do is respond.”

“I haven’t seen any rebuttal from Rhys Morgan,” I said.

“Rhys is too smart to engage in a war of words with people who are baying for Quinn’s blood. They’ll eventually get bored and move on to someone else,” Kyle said.

“But what if they don’t?”

“They will. That’s the nature of Twitter drama.”

“I hope no one ever comes after me,” I said with a shudder. “It’s awful.”

“It’s total rubbish,” Kyle replied angrily. “Remember how the mob went after Len? They called him everything from a murderer to a drug lord. And then the furor died down until Len unexpectedly passed. And then there was this outpouring of grief and endless praise for his work. The same people who called for his books to be boycotted were referring to him as one of literature’s unsung heroes and running to Waterstones to buy his books before they went out of print.”

“I think I should say something in Quinn’s defense,” I said, reaching for the phone.

Kyle shook his head. “Stay out of it, Nic. If you come out in Quinn’s defense, you will make yourself a target.”

“So I should keep silent and watch my friend get crucified?” I countered.

“You must protect your reputation and your brand.”

“No!” I cried. “This is wrong. If I don’t say anything, then it looks like I’m condoning it.”

“It’s not real, Nic,” Kyle replied patiently. “The majority of people don’t care about any of this. They have better things to do with their time then follow Twitter feuds.”

“You’re following it,” I pointed out.

“But I’m not getting embroiled in it. And neither should you. Support Quinn privately.”

I shook my head, disgusted with the whole thing and angry with Kyle for keeping his head, but angry as I was, I had to acknowledge that he had a point. Of the millions of people who had watched Echoes from the Past over the years, only a few hundred were spewing online. Most people saw no reason to become personally involved. To them, Echoes from the Past was simply entertainment, much like any other program that was written with the express purpose of engaging history-loving viewers. Whether the stories were true or a product of someone’s imagination made little difference as long as they delivered the sort of entertainment viewers had come to expect. And if the host happened to witness the events in person, so much the better because to history purists this only added to the program’s authenticity.

I would definitely reach out to Quinn again, but I wouldn’t post anything until I’d had time to think things through. When one was in the public eye, emotion-driven reactions tended to backfire and take on a life of their own as someone came out of the woodwork to pick a fight or sling accusations that had nothing to do with reality. There was a difference between cowardice and stupidity.

Chapter 44

November 1849

Grace

Grace came down to breakfast to find Edgar, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands. Normally, Grace had breakfast alone, since Edgar didn’t rise from his bed until at least nine o’clock, but over the past few weeks, he had joined Grace several times and had put in a couple of hours at the shop before finding an excuse to leave. Edgar had even visited the new bookshop and introduced himself to the owner, who, as it turned out, already knew Edgar because he had frequented The Quill and Ink before opening his own shop a few streets over.

The morning light streaming through the window made Edgar look even paler than he already was, and Grace was surprised to notice several silver strands in his dark hair. She slid into her usual seat and waited for Edgar to acknowledge her presence, but he didn’t stir. His shoulders were drawn up around his ears, and his hands obscured the top half of his face, so Grace couldn’t see his eyes.

“Edgar, are you ill?”

Edgar finally looked up and shook his head. His gaze was tortured, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

“It is Venetia?”

“Venetia is not to know about this,” Edgar hissed.

“About what?” Grace asked, lowering her own voice.

“I had a meeting with Mr. Mason last night. He has serious reservations about publishing the play.”

“What? Why?”

“He thinks it’s too controversial.”

“I beg your pardon?” Grace exclaimed.

“Your idea of trapping a man inside a woman’s body as punishment from the devil is distasteful. Actually, the word he used was offensive.”

“I admit it’s a bit risqué, but I thought the audience would find the character’s trials and tribulations amusing,” Grace said, stunned by this turn of events.

“Amusing is not a word that comes to mind,” Edgar replied. “Mr. Mason said a few situations actually made him cringe, although his maidservant thought them hilarious.”

“He showed it to his maidservant?”

“They’re very close,” Edgar said and Grace thought this was a euphemism for an illicit affair.

“You can try another publisher,” Grace said, but Edgar shook his head.

“Once they find out Mr. Mason rejected it, they won’t touch it. It’s not worth the risk.”

“So, what now?”

“Mr. Mason said he will give me another chance.”

“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” Grace asked, but Edgar shook his head.

“He said I can rewrite the play, but there will be no advance, and the royalties will be paid at a reduced rate.”

“That’s so unfair.”

“He’s not prepared to take a risk,” Edgar explained.

“But all the other plays have been a success.”

“He wants an instant hit, Grace. And if he can’t get a play he likes from me, he’ll get it from someone else. There are plenty of writers out there who’d give their right arm for a chance to be published.”

“Mr. Mason is a crook!” Grace exclaimed. “He’s just looking to profit.”

“Few people are in business to lose money.”

“Do you want to rewrite the play?” Grace asked.

“I don’t see that we have much choice,” Edgar added morosely. “And there’s more bad news.”

For a moment, she thought Edgar would tell her that Mr. Mason had guessed who’d really written the play, but that would have been the least of her worries.

“The fissure in the wall is growing wider.”

“I know,” Grace replied quietly. The crack she’d first noticed in the alcove had branched out and grown taller, like Jack’s beanstalk.

“I consulted two well-respected builders, and they quoted me a sum upwards of five hundred pounds. Grace, the repairs will bankrupt us.”

“Perhaps we can pay in installments,” Grace suggested.

“They want half up front and the balance on completion.”

“Surely we can raise five hundred pounds.”

Edgar looked exasperated. “Grace, allow me to put this in perspective for you since you clearly have no concept of how much things cost. At fifteen pounds per annum, five hundred pounds would pay Alice’s wages for more than thirty years. Five hundred pounds would also feed us for decades if we’re economical.”

Grace’s mouth fell open when she thought of the sum in those terms. “Can we obtain a loan from the bank?” she asked, her voice small now that she understood the magnitude of their predicament.

“Even if we were able to get a loan, which I seriously doubt, it would take decades to pay off, there would be a high rate of interest, and we’d need to offer collateral in case we should default on the loan. We could lose everything.”

Grace barely noticed Alice, who was hovering in the doorway, a loaded tray in her hands. Alice set the tray on the sideboard, then brought a pot of tea to the table before serving Edgar his plate of eggs and kippers. There was also toasted bread, butter, and a dish of marmalade. A sugar bowl and a jug of cream were already on the table, and Edgar reached for the sugar, stirring two lumps into his tea.

Grace waited for Alice to ask what she would like for breakfast, but Alice’s attention was fixed on Edgar. She nervously pleated the fabric of her apron with her fingers as she cautiously approached Edgar.

“What is it, Alice?” Grace asked. “Is something wrong?”

Edgar set down his fork and turned to look at Alice, whose worried gaze strayed to the door, as if she were getting ready to flee.

“Alice? Did you want to speak to me?” Edgar asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, what is it?” Edgar prodded. No doubt he was worried about his breakfast getting cold.

Alice’s moment of indecision passed, and she raised her chin and pulled back her shoulders, suddenly more confident in whatever it was she wanted to say. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, Mr. Hilliard. I think I might be able to help.”

Edgar stared at Alice, his brows knitting in consternation and his kippers forgotten. “How can you possibly help, Alice?”

Grace thought Alice would offer to accept a lower wage, but Alice’s solution proved quite different.

“My young man, Alfie, works for a stone mason. Harvey Brynn is his name. I think Mr. Brynn would offer you a much better price if Alfie were to speak to him.”

Grace wasn’t sure what she found more surprising, the fact that Alice was keeping company with a young man and none of them knew about it, or Alice’s willingness to propose a solution and her apparent confidence in Alfie’s ability to negotiate a more reasonable price.

“That’s a very kind offer,” Grace said. “Isn’t it, Edgar?” She glared at Edgar, who had yet to formulate a response. He was studying Alice as if seeing her for the first time, his gaze narrowed in thought.

“Alice, correct me if I’m wrong, but what I think you’re implying is that Mr. Brynn is willing to cut corners in order to offer his customers a more affordable option.”

Alice nodded, Edgar’s insinuation seemingly lost on her. “Alfie says that Mr. Brynn is sensitive to the needs of his clients.”

“I see,” Edgar replied. “And does Alfie think Mr. Brynn could be trusted to do a competent job?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

Grace looked from Alice to Edgar, wondering what Edgar would do. Alice looked anxious, while Edgar appeared lost in thought as he considered this unexpected proposition. He sighed deeply and said, “I’d like a word with Alfie, Alice.”

“I can ask him to come by,” Alice replied eagerly.

“Thank you,” Edgar said, and turned back to his breakfast.

Looking much relieved, Alice smiled at Grace. “What can I get you, Miss Hilliard?”

“A soft-boiled egg and some toast, please.”

“Right away, miss.”

“Did you know Alice had a suitor?” Edgar asked as soon as Alice was out of earshot.

“No, I didn’t, but then I don’t suppose she’s obligated to tell us.”

“I wonder where she met him,” Edgar mused, and stared pointedly at the teapot. Grace refreshed his tea and set the pot down. Edgar stirred in more sugar and continued. “And this Alfie just happens to work for a dodgy stone mason.”

“Why don’t you reserve judgment until you hear what Alfie has to say,” Grace suggested. “It’s not as if we have many options.”

“All right,” Edgar agreed, then applied himself to his kippers and didn’t utter a word for the rest of the meal.

Chapter 45

Alfie turned out to be a personable and surprisingly self-assured young man of about twenty. Although not very tall, he had a definite presence and was neatly dressed, his shirt starched and his black cravat expertly tied. Alfie’s chiseled features, dark hair that curled around a handsome face, and warm brown eyes gave him the appearance of a struggling poet rather than a man who worked with his hands. Alice blushed prettily when she introduced him and then hurried back to the kitchen, leaving the men to talk.

Edgar and Alfie were closeted together in the study for nearly half an hour, and then Alfie took his leave, promising to return the following day.

“Well?” Grace demanded as soon as she got Edgar on his own. “What did he say?”

“Mr. Brynn will come by tomorrow to give us an assessment. Alfie thinks he’s on the level.”

“He would say that, wouldn’t he?”

“Hearing what the man has to say doesn’t obligate me to anything. And as you have pointed out, it’s not as if we have other options.”

“No, we don’t,” Grace agreed.

Edgar sighed heavily. “I need to find a way to earn some extra money, Gracie.”

“And how can you do that? Oh no,” Grace exclaimed when she noticed the glint in his eyes. “You promised Father on his deathbed.”

“Grace.”

“No!”

“It’s my only talent,” Edgar replied, his hangdog expression making Grace feel just a little bit sorry for him.

“Edgar, you were very nearly killed the last time you cheated at cards.”

“I overreached that time,” Edgar replied, but Grace would not be mollified.

“We will find a way to pay for the repairs. You cannot risk getting caught. Not again.”

Edgar had been as good as his word for years, but the promise of easy money was impossible to ignore when one felt cornered. Before Edgar had secured his first publishing contract, he had earned his money by gambling. Grace had no idea where Edgar had picked up the skill, but there wasn’t a night when he hadn’t brought home his winnings.

Edgar had always had the sense to walk away before he gave himself away. If he were branded a card sharp, there’d be no undoing the harm to his reputation, but all it took to put an end to his careful maneuvering was one vengeful opponent. Mr. Nivens, who’d been drinking all night and losing heavily, had lulled Edgar into a false sense of security. Edgar had fleeced the man, believing Mr. Nivens to be inebriated enough not to realize that Edgar had cheated by using his own marked deck of cards. Edgar had walked away with more than a hundred pounds and thought he was in the clear until Mr. Nivens publicly accused Edgar of cheating and demanded that he return his winnings. Edgar had argued that he’d won fair and square and then further insulted Mr. Nivens by informing him in front of numerous witnesses that that he had no aptitude for the game and should stay away from the card tables if he hoped to keep his inheritance safe.

Deeply embarrassed, Mr. Nivens had withdrawn his accusation, and after a few weeks, the incident had been largely forgotten, and Edgar had returned to the gaming dens with his reputation intact. It was nearly a month later that Edgar had been waylaid on his way home. Two thugs had dragged him into a dark alley and beat him half to death, conveying the compliments of Mr. Nivens before they left Edgar lying face down in a pile of refuse and warning him that he wouldn’t get off so lightly next time. Edgar had managed to get himself home and had spent the next few weeks recuperating, his broken ribs reminding him that Nivens meant business.

“No,” Grace said again. “You cannot take the risk, Edgar. You have Venetia and your child to think of.” And me, she wanted to add.

“Believe me, I think of little else,” Edgar replied miserably. “Even if Mr. Brynn quotes me half the price, I still need to raise the money.”

“I thought you had put some money away,” Grace challenged him.

Edgar looked as guilty as if he had been caught red-handed. “I lost the lot. I went to the races.”

“Edgar!” Grace exclaimed. “How much did you lose?”

“About a hundred pounds.”

Grace turned away, so angry she didn’t think she could restrain herself from tearing into Edgar. One hundred pounds wasn’t enough to pay for the repairs, but it was a substantial sum. How could he have done such a thing when he knew how desperately they needed the money? What would happen if the wall collapsed and the house became uninhabitable? Where would they go? What would they do? A hundred pounds would have at least ensured they had a roof over their heads, but they had nothing to fall back on. No savings to keep them afloat until they came up with a plan. And no advance or royalties from the new play to rely on. If the situation had been bad before, now they were in dire straits, and it was all Edgar’s fault.

“Grace, I’m sorry,” Edgar cried. “I know what you must think of me.”

Grace turned to face him, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Make it back, Edgar. All of it. I don’t care how you do it,” she ground out, and walked away, leaving Edgar to stare after her.

Grace felt a pang of remorse when she passed Venetia on the stairs. Venetia was white as a sheet, her hand on her swelling belly as she stared at Grace, open-mouthed.

“What has he done?” Venetia whispered.

“All will be well,” Grace said, even though she didn’t believe it for a second. “Edgar will make it right.”

Chapter 46

Mr. Brynn came the following afternoon, accompanied by Alfie, who preened with pride since he probably saw himself as the Hilliards’ savior. Unlike Alfie, who was just as attractive in his work clothes and flat cap as he was in his Sunday best, Mr. Brynn had a protruding belly that strained against the buttons of his stained waistcoat, and his trousers were too short, probably because he pulled them up so high. The shoulders of his coat were sprinkled with stone dust, and his shoes were scuffed. Mr. Brynn’s rust-colored hair was in need of a trim, and his pale blue gaze swept over the contents of the shop as he bowed from the neck to Grace and shook Edgar’s proffered hand.

“Keep an eye on the shop,” Grace told Alice, who was hovering in the doorway, eager to catch a glimpse of Alfie. He smiled at her, and Alice blushed, her smile so joyful, it made Grace’s heart ache with loneliness.

Edgar shot Grace a look of irritation, but she ignored him and followed the men to the storage room. Edgar lit two lamps, then handed one to Mr. Brynn and invited him to follow him down the stairs. Alfie gestured for Grace to go next, then brought up the rear. Grace hadn’t been down to the cellar since she’d come with Edgar a few months before and was surprised to note how much wider the crack appeared in the shifting light of the oil lamps.

Mr. Brynn approached the damaged wall and held the lamp as high as his arm would allow, studying the fissure with intense concentration. He nodded, then moved along the wall, extending his hand and pushing against random bricks as if testing if they might shift under the pressure. Having repeated this along the entire length of the wall, he turned to face Edgar and smiled in a reassuring manner.

“Things are not quite as dire as you imagine, Mr. Hilliard. I agree that repairs are needed, and soon, since this is a weight-bearing wall, but there’s really no need to bankrupt yourself in order to do it.”

“Is there a more affordable way to shore up the wall?” Edgar asked, his eagerness evident in his flushed face.

Mr. Brynn glanced toward the stairs. “Why don’t we talk upstairs? A dish of tea wouldn’t come amiss.”

Edgar’s gaze slid toward Grace, who stood closest to the steps, well out of the way of the men.

“I’ll ask Alice to bring some refreshment,” Grace offered, and headed upstairs. There was no one in the shop except Alice, who stood behind the till, her gaze fixed on the overcast afternoon beyond the bow window.

“The men would like some refreshment,” Grace said.

Alice nodded and stepped from behind the counter. Grace was about to take her place but changed her mind. She wanted to hear what Mr. Brynn had to say, so she locked the door, turned the sign to indicate that the shop was closed, and headed upstairs.

Venetia was in the parlor. She was sitting by the fire, reading a book, but closed it as soon as Grace appeared in the doorway and looked at Grace expectantly. Grace didn’t want to ask Venetia to leave. After all, this was her house, and she had every right to remain if she wished to, but a woman in her advanced state of pregnancy would make the men uncomfortable, and Venetia would only get upset by talk of money.

“Perhaps you should have a rest,” Grace said. “You look a bit pale.”

Venetia nodded. “I’m so tired, Grace. I will gladly lie down for a little while. Perhaps Alice can bring me a glass of warm milk.”

“Of course.”

Venetia waddled from the room, and not a moment too soon. The men came up the stairs, Mr. Brynn’s and Alfie’s hobnail boots pounding the steps like hammers. Edgar invited them to make themselves comfortable while Grace took a seat in the corner, between the hearth and the window, where she could hear what was being said without taking part in the conversation. Grace could tell by Edgar’s awkward stance that he resented having workmen in his parlor, but just then, Mr. Brynn held all the cards, and this was one game Edgar couldn’t cheat at.

The men made small talk until Alice arrived with the tea tray. Alice would have poured out, but Mr. Brynn reached for the pot, filled his cup, then added five sugar lumps and milk before reaching for the tea sandwiches Alice had made while waiting for the kettle to boil. Alfie followed suit, fixing his own tea before helping himself to the sandwiches. Edgar had no choice but to pour his own tea. By this point, there was no sugar left, and only two bite-sized sandwiches remained on the plate. Edgar added a splash of milk and took a sip, his nose scrunching at the bitter taste. No one offered Grace tea, so she remained where she was, hoping the niceties were now out of the way and the men would talk business.

“So, what do you say, Mr. Brynn?” Edgar asked when Mr. Brynn proceeded to eat the sandwiches in quick succession, pausing his chewing long enough to swallow some tea.

Mr. Brynn finished the last sandwich, took a long swallow of tea, then set his cup down and leaned back in his chair, making the wood creak beneath his bulk. “I say that I can do the job for a fraction of the sum you were quoted, Mr. Hilliard.”

“How?” Edgar asked.

“By cutting corners,” Mr. Brynn replied, using the very same phrase Edgar had used yesterday.

“And which corners would you be cutting?” Grace asked and earned herself irritated stares from the men.

“Well, I’m glad you asked, Miss Hilliard,” Mr. Brynn said, rearranging his scowl into an expression of amiability. “My firm specializes in demolition.”

“Demolition?” Edgar asked, redirecting Mr. Brynn’s attention to himself, and giving Grace a look that implored her to keep quiet.

“That’s correct. There’s a great deal of building going on in this city, and sometimes older structures must be demolished in order to clear the lot for new construction. And that is where you can benefit.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t quite follow,” Edgar said.

“Instead of using newly manufactured bricks, I can use reclaimed materials to reduce cost and pass the savings on to you.”

“Reused bricks?” Grace exclaimed.

“Miss Hilliard, a brick is a brick. Is it not?” Mr. Brynn asked, turning to face her.

“I don’t know, Mr. Brynn. Is it?” Grace asked, feigning ignorance.

Edgar looked like he would have liked to throttle her, but Grace didn’t care. She had been in favor of speaking to Mr. Brynn, but now that she’d met the man, she knew she could never trust him. There was just something about him that rang false, and she thought he was the sort of person to take advantage of someone’s misfortune.

“Grace, would you please leave us?” Edgar said, and she could tell from the firm set of his jaw that if she refused, he would physically evict her.

“Gentlemen,” Grace said as she stood and walked out the door, her head held high even though she was raging inside. She was only trying to help, but Edgar didn’t think her opinion carried any weight.

Not wishing to disturb Venetia, Grace went downstairs, but instead of opening the shop, she made her way to the kitchen. Alice was rolling out dough for the fish pie she was going to make for dinner. The minced fish was in a bowl, the gray mass giving off a strong smell that permeated the airless kitchen. Grace would have gladly left, but she had a few questions to put to Alice, and she’d be damned if she was driven off by a bowl of smelly fish.

“How long have you known Alfie?” Grace asked as she settled at the pine table.

“Ages,” Alice replied, her attention on the dough. “We grew up together. At the orphanage.”

“He’s very attractive,” Grace said, and watched Alice’s face light with a smile.

“I think so too. I always liked him, even when we were children, but we didn’t start courting until he got the job with Mr. Brynn. Alfie is finally earning a decent wage,” Alice revealed proudly.

“Are you making plans for the future?”

The smile slid off Alice’s face, her gaze radiating anxiety. “We want to get married, but not for a long while yet. I don’t want to lose my place, Miss Hilliard. Please…” Alice trailed off, probably unsure what exactly she wanted to ask Grace but desperate to reassure her that she had nothing to worry about.

“Don’t worry, Alice. The position is yours for as long as you want it. And I’m happy for you,” Grace added.

“Thank you, miss. That’s kind of you to say.” Alice spread the dough on the bottom of a baking pan and began to spoon in the filling. “I’d be happy to get married tomorrow, but Alfie wants to save some money before we wed. He says we should have a nest egg, on account of anything can happen in life, can’t it? He wants to make sure I’ll be provided for should he have an accident.”

“Is that a strong possibility?” Grace asked.

Alice nodded. “Happens more often than you’d think, miss. When working with large, heavy stones, and often suspended in a harness or perched on a scaffolding to reach the higher floors, things can go wrong, can’t they? But Alfie is clever,” she said, smiling dreamily. “He says this job is a steppingstone. He has plans.”

“Well, then I think Alfie is right and you shouldn’t rush into anything. You’re very young, Alice.”

“It’s just that I long for something of my own, Miss Hilliard. You know how that is.”

Alice gave Grace a penetrating look, and not for the first time, Grace realized that despite her age, Alice was a lot more observant and mature than they gave her credit for.

“Yes, I do,” Grace agreed.

There didn’t seem anything left to say, so Grace left the kitchen and went out into the shop, where she unlocked the door and sighed at the sight of the empty street beyond. It was proving to be another slow day, and she didn’t expect too many customers to appear before closing time.

Grace was just counting the money in the till when Edgar and Mr. Brynn came down the stairs, Alfie behind them. He made a beeline for the kitchen, probably to say goodbye to Alice, while Edgar walked Mr. Brynn to the door and clapped him on the back in a gesture of affected camaraderie.

“I will see you soon, Mr. Brynn.”

“Good day to you, Mr. Hilliard. Miss.” Mr. Brynn nodded politely, put on his bowler, and stepped out into the gathering twilight.

“The work is to start after Christmas,” Edgar informed Grace as soon as the door closed behind Mr. Brynn.

“Edgar, are you sure? I can’t help but think that he’s a confidence trickster.”

“Keep your voice down,” Edgar hissed, and jutted his chin in the direction of the kitchen. He waited until Alfie departed, following his progress down the street as he hurried to catch up with his employer, then turned to Grace.

“I know Mr. Brynn is not someone who inspires confidence, but the plan he proposed makes good sense. With salvaged bricks and cheap labor the repairs will cost much less,” Edgar began.

“What do you mean by cheap labor?” Grace exclaimed.

“Mr. Brynn will not oversee the work himself. He will send two of his best workers, Alfie, and some fellow named Simon Deetz. He says they’re more than capable of getting the job done, and he’s willing to accept two hundred pounds.”

“For used bricks,” Grace reminded him.

“Grace, if the bricks are not cracked, then they’re as good as new.”

“Is that what Mr. Brynn told you?”

“What do you know of masonry?” Edgar demanded, not bothering to hide his disdain.

“Nothing, but—”

“Did you not reuse fabric from Mother’s velvet gown to make a cape for yourself?” Edgar interrupted.

“I did, but—”

Edgar cut her off again. “Just because something has been used before doesn’t mean it’s worthless. Construction materials are prohibitively expensive, and then there’s the cost of transporting the supplies, and the labor required not only to make the repairs but to load and unload the materials, and to remove the debris.” Edgar gave Grace a lopsided smile. “Trust me, Gracie. I will see us through this.”

Grace nodded, her gaze fixed on the floor. Edgar obviously needed her approval since he had to have reservations of his own, and she didn’t want to get into an argument. There was little point since Mr. Brynn, with his shifty eyes, stained waistcoat, and too-short trousers, was all they could afford, but her stomach lurched with unease. Even at his lowest, after the beating Mr. Nivens had ordered, Grace still thought of Edgar as invincible. He was her older brother, and he had looked after her when their mother died and then stepped into their father’s shoes when they were left on their own, but now that she looked at Edgar more closely, she noticed the fatigue in his face and the dull glaze of his irises. He had lost weight these past few months and his hair had thinned a little on top. Grace hadn’t noticed until Edgar started to part his hair on the side and brush it across the top of his head to cover any glimpse of vulnerable pink scalp.

A wave of tenderness washed over Grace, and she wished she could hug him, like she had when she was a little girl, but such displays of affection were no longer appropriate, so she reached out and squeezed his hand before turning away to hide her tears.

That night, Grace sat at the writing desk, a clean page before her. She had planned to work on her manuscript, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she leaned back and gazed at the starry sky beyond the window, her thoughts returning to the ill-fated play that had so unsettled Mr. Mason. Was it her fault? Had she unwittingly sabotaged Edgar’s success? She couldn’t bear to think along those lines, so she capped the bottle of ink, set down the pen, and stood. Grace was restless and found herself walking the length and breadth of the room in agitation, the floorboards squeaking pitifully beneath her heels and reminding her just how old the house was, and how badly neglected. And by default, how much it would cost to set it to rights.

Anxiety getting the better of her, Grace knew she needed someone to talk to that wasn’t Edgar or Venetia. She briefly considered paying a call on one of her old friends but immediately dismissed the idea. They had grown too far apart since their school days, and she no longer wished to confide in them. And she hadn’t made any new friends since leaving school to help Edgar in the shop after their father had passed. She knew certain customers well enough to exchange a few friendly words when they came to the shop, but no one she would call a friend, not even Miss Manning, who often lingered when she came for her weekly visit, her need for companionship so acute, she sometimes confided in Grace out of sheer desperation. Or Mr. Greer, who loved to talk about literature and enjoyed the exchange of ideas his choice of books usually inspired. Mr. Greer had shown an interest in Grace, but she resolutely ignored his longing looks and sweet smiles. He was a nice man, but soon he would return to America, and either leave Grace where he’d found her or ask her to come with him, an eventuality she wasn’t willing to entertain since her life and her only family was in London.

But there was someone she could speak to, she reminded herself, and she had a perfectly legitimate reason to pen Julian a note. One of his medical journals had come in the post just that afternoon. Buoyed by the prospect of seeing Julian, Grace returned to the writing desk and composed a quick note, then folded it and stuffed it into the pocket of her pinafore. She’d have it delivered tomorrow. Feeling marginally calmer, Grace maneuvered the brick she’d left to warm out of the hearth and wrapped it in a towel before sliding it between the freezing sheets. She’d have an early night, and tomorrow would be a better day.

Chapter 47

The morning dawned gray and cold. Colorful autumn leaves blew into the shop whenever anyone opened the door, the gusts of wind chilling Grace as she stood behind the till. She was grateful when Alice brought her a cup of tea, and she cradled the porcelain in her hands, enjoying the lovely warmth. By midmorning, the shop grew busier, and Grace was kept occupied until well into the afternoon. She was surprised to note that Miss Manning had not come and hoped the young woman wasn’t ill. Miss Manning hadn’t missed a Saturday since she’d taken up the position with Mrs. Adler.

It was after Grace had hastily eaten a bowl of soup while Alice looked after the shop that Miss Manning finally arrived. She wore all black and carried a carpet bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other. Her face was drawn, the black crape of the mourning bonnet accentuating her unhealthy pallor. Beneath the short cape, Miss Manning wore a gown that was faded and outmoded, and Grace could only assume that these were the mourning clothes Miss Manning had worn when her parents died.

“Good afternoon, Miss Manning,” Grace said softly. “I quite despaired of seeing you today.”

Miss Manning’s smile was so sad, it tugged at Grace’s heart. “I came to say goodbye, Miss Hillier.”

“Where are you bound?”

“I’m off to Kent. A village near Maidstone.” Miss Manning’s expression was pained, her dark gaze radiating worry. “Mrs. Adler had been fading for weeks, so I decided to look for a new position should the worst happen. And I’m so glad I did. Mrs. Adler passed on Tuesday.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it,” Grace said.

Miss Manning nodded. “I was with her for years, but she made no provisions for me, Miss Hillier. Not even a character reference. There was just enough money left over after the undertakers were paid to cover the wages she owed me. If I didn’t have a place to go, I don’t know how long I would last,” she said, her voice breaking. “Even the meanest boardinghouse is more than I could afford for weeks on end.”

“I’m so glad you found a new place.”

“I’m to look after Mr. Blaine’s mother. Mrs. Blaine suffered an apoplexy last month and requires round-the-clock care. Mr. Blaine sounded kind in his letter,” Miss Manning added.

“I’m sure he’s a very kind man,” Grace said.

She could understand poor Miss Manning’s apprehension. She was going to a new place to start a position with a new employer. If Mr. Blaine wasn’t satisfied, he could sack her on the spot, leaving her stranded in Maidstone with no savings to fall back on.

“I hope you’ll be very happy in your new home.”

Miss Manning’s eyes brimmed with tears. The chance of happiness was so remote that the sentiment almost sounded like a jibe. Grace hoped Mr. Blaine would be kind to Miss Manning and remember that she was a well-bred young woman of good character, but Lord only knew what sort of man Mr. Blaine was. He could be kind and decent, or he could be a cad who might mistreat Miss Manning and make her time in his employ a misery. Only time would tell.

“Will you write to me, Miss Manning?” Grace asked.

Miss Manning shook her head. “What would be the point?”

What would be the point indeed? They weren’t likely to meet again, and Grace’s own future might take a similar turn if they lost the shop and she was forced to find a position to support herself. She wouldn’t apply for the position of nurse or companion, but she would make a fine governess if it came to it.

Grace offered to gift Miss Manning a book of her choice, but the woman refused. She hadn’t come to the shop for pity or charity. She simply wanted to say goodbye to the one person who’d been kind to her at a time when she’d needed a friend. Grace watched as Miss Manning stepped out into the windswept afternoon, and then she was gone. She would spend the night in a boardinghouse near the railway station and begin her journey to Kent in the morning.

Grace’s thoughts were still on Miss Manning when she saw Julian through the window. The cape of his great coat fluttered in the wind, and he had a hand on his top hat to keep it from blowing away. Juian’s face broke into a smile when he saw her watching him, and he pushed open the door and walked in, bringing the smell of damp leaves and coal smoke with him. Julian removed his hat and bowed from the neck, then set his gladstone bag on the counter and reached for Grace’s hand. She smiled back, glad to see a friendly face.

“Did you come directly from the hospital? I thought Saturday was your day off.” Grace handed Julian his journal, and he stowed it in the bag.

“I switched with another doctor,” Julian explained. “His wife was delivered of a healthy boy last night, and he wanted to remain by her side. I did leave a little earlier, however, and I hope you will allow me to take you out for supper.” Julian held up his hand before Grace could object. “I know what you’re going to say, Grace. You have to close up the shop, Edgar wouldn’t like it, and it would be unseemly for us to dine unchaperoned.”

“That’s right,” Grace replied as she tried to keep from smiling at him.

“I will ask Edgar for permission, then I will wait for you to close up, and you don’t require a chaperone when out with your kinsman. Have I addressed all your concerns?”

Grace couldn’t help but laugh at his audacity. “I believe you have.”

“Excellent. Then I will see you in a few minutes.”

Julian headed upstairs to speak to Edgar while Grace tallied up the day’s receipts and deposited the money in a strongbox. By the time Julian came back downstairs, it was closing time. Grace’s cape was slung over Julian’s arm, and he carried her bonnet, handing it to her with all the pomp of a milliner who hoped she’d like it and purchase it immediately.

Grace put on her bonnet, then Julian draped the cape over her shoulders and leaned in to close the clasp at her throat. The gesture was surprisingly intimate, and Grace was sure she was blushing as she followed him out into the street and turned to lock the door behind her.

“Where are we going?”

“There’s a charming place not too far away that does a good beefsteak and always has Scottish salmon that’s transported from the Highlands in barrels packed with ice. I noticed you are partial to fish,” Julian added. “And they usually have raspberry ice.”

“I am,” Grace replied, surprised that Julian had made a note of her likes and dislikes.

The place was indeed charming, and the fish was flaky and flavorful, but Grace hardly noticed what she ate. This was the first time she had been invited to a restaurant, and the intimate setting and Julian’s easy manner offered a glimpse into a life she might have had. Julian ordered wine, and Grace emptied the glass when normally she would take only a few sips. The alcohol calmed her nerves, and after a time she began to relax and enjoy herself. They talked of trivial things until the conversation finally circled to Edgar’s play.

“When is Edgar’s new play to be published?” Julian asked.

“The publisher rejected it. He thinks it’s in bad taste.”

“But the premise is not a unique one,” Julian replied.

“No, but the idea of trapping a male in a female body is apparently too distasteful for any man to enjoy.”

“I would enjoy it.”

“You are not like most men.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Julian said, and smiled warmly at her. “But to be perfectly frank, I can see why the publisher would be wary.”

Grace took another fortifying sip of wine as she waited for Julian to explain himself.

“Casting a man into the body of a woman is likely to make the men wince with discomfort and the women gloat at the poor cove’s misery, unlike the reverse scenario, in which a woman is imprisoned in the body of a man. For a woman to suddenly experience the respect due the male of the species, an ability to make decisions, and greater physical strength would make every man’s chest swell with pride and congratulate themselves on having been born male and having been spared the powerlessness and humiliation with which women live every day.. When the main character in Edgar’s play is restored to his original form, the men would breathe a collective sigh of relief and nod their heads in approval, relieved that one of their own wouldn’t have to endure such an unfair punishment any longer.”

Grace nodded. She hadn’t thought of it that way. She was writing from the perspective of a woman, and she wanted the men to understand how it felt to be treated with indifference, disdain, and oftentimes cruelty. Julian was right. No man would want to sit through a play that held up a mirror to his face and showed him what a thoughtless, insensitive creature he really was.

“I don’t think I can rewrite the play,” Grace said. “My heart is not in it.”

“Perhaps Edgar should write his own plays from now on.”

“Edgar has much on his mind these days. The strain is taking a toll.”

Julian nodded. “I noticed. Has he exhibited any new symptoms?”

“Not that I noticed. He’s just worried, Julian.”

“I wager Edgar would sell his soul to the devil for talent.”

“That’s unkind,” Grace chided him.

“Why? People sell their souls all the time, not literally, but in a conceptual sense. There are always those who are willing to do anything to get what they desire. Love, money, fame, life,” he added softly.

“But they would be giving away the one thing of value they still have, or the sacrifice wouldn’t be meaningful.”

“I would gladly have given away my soul if it would save my wife and child,” Julian said sadly.

Grace’s throat closed up, and she found she couldn’t swallow. Julian’s pain was so raw that the pang of envy she felt toward a dead woman made her doubly ashamed. But was it wrong to long for someone to love her that much? For Julian to love her that much, her mind added cruelly. Grace reached for her wine glass and took a sip, hoping she wouldn’t gag on the wine. She managed to get it down and hoped Julian hadn’t noticed her distress.

“I’m sorry, Grace,” Julian said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It was honest,” Grace replied, and tried to smile. “I respect honesty.”

“All right,” Julian said. “Then tell me what you would sell your soul for.”

“My soul is not for sale,” Grace joked. “But seriously, I don’t know.”

Despite her unwillingness to bare her soul, the answer floated to the top on its own. A life of her own. A home where she didn’t feel like a third wheel. A man who valued her and made her feel seen. And the freedom to publish under her own name. But she was a woman, and a nondescript one at that, and no one was interested in her point of view or what she needed to be happy. The devil had no interest in her, and the only person who truly needed her was Edgar.

“It’s getting late,” Grace said. The conversation had upset her more than she cared to admit, and she suddenly longed to be alone to sort through her feelings and find a way to make peace with her sudden bitter disappointment.

“Yes,” Julian agreed. His good mood had dissipated as well, and he seemed preoccupied and anxious to leave.

Julian walked Grace home, tipped his hat, and wished her a good night, and then he was gone, leaving Grace alone once again.

Chapter 48

Nicole

Over the next twenty-four hours, the Twitter storm surrounding Quinn’s credentials went from a tropical depression to a Category 4 hurricane. I was certain that if I were to look, I would find posts on Facebook and other social media sites as well, but the unchecked vitriol on Twitter was quite enough. A surprising number of people got in on the discussion, some defending Quinn passionately and others accusing her of the worst kind of behavior known to man. Every time I saw a comment that called her a liar or a fraud, I felt an overwhelming desire to jump into the fray but resisted the urge, primarily because anyone who was connected to Quinn was being targeted as well.

There were calls for Rhys Morgan to resign, and several users had demanded that Gabe be sacked from his position at the Institute of Archeology and his books be pulled from publication. Neither Rhys nor Gabe had issued a rebuttal, but Rhys texted me, asking that Kyle and I not to engage. I had to take my cues from Rhys since it was his program and his professional reputation that were under attack, and I was certain he had Quinn’s best interests at heart.

As Kyle had pointed out, the people who fueled “Quinngate” were just random Twitter users who had nothing to lose and would get tired of the furor surrounding the controversy and move onto some other inconsequential outrage. I knew he was right, and this storm had to blow itself out, but I couldn’t stand by and not lend my support. I tried Quinn again, but the call went to voicemail, and she didn’t answer my text.

It was in the afternoon on the second day that Rhys Morgan finally tweeted a statement. It was a strongly worded and fearless show of support for Quinn, and although he had retained his professionalism, the underlying message was clear. It was a resounding fuck you to anyone who questioned Quinn’s integrity and dedication to academia and a refusal to give in to intimidation tactics. The statement generated another wave of vicious comments and threats, but Rhys did not reply to any of them. He had said his piece, and he wouldn’t comment again.

I texted Quinn again that evening. I didn’t think she would reply and was surprised when she called right back.

“Quinn, are you all right?” I asked without preamble.

“Yes. No,” Quinn admitted after a brief pause. “I always knew this would happen if the truth got out, but I wasn’t prepared for this level of vindictiveness.”

“Rhys issued a statement,” I said. I didn’t think Quinn was checking Twitter and thought she should know.

“Yes, I know. I told him not to, but when does Rhys ever listen to me?”

“Do you think he will be hurt by this, in the long term, I mean?”

“Probably not. Rhys has plausible deniability. People will be happy to believe that he didn’t know the truth.”

“What about Gabe?” I asked carefully.

“He is not worried.” Quinn sighed heavily. “This will blow over sooner or later. I know that the majority of people don’t engage in this sort of vile behavior, but the trouble with social media is that a person who by themselves are nothing but a keyboard warrior and carry all the weight of one droplet of water can become a tsunami when they join with a like-minded mob.”

I took a deep breath and asked the question I had wanted to ask since the scandal had broken. “Are you angry with Gabe for encouraging you to be honest about your gift?”

“I was angry with him at first, but I couldn’t hide any longer. Alex is psychic, and so is Daisy. We can’t allow people to demonize individuals who are blessed with an extra sense. Seers have been around since the beginning of time.”

“And we all know how they were treated.”

Quinn chuckled. “I’m hardly Cassandra foretelling the downfall of Troy. I’m simply telling stories of people who can no longer speak for themselves.”

“Quinn, is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Quinn replied airily. “The mob will lose interest and find someone else to crucify, but in the meantime, Gabe and I are going to step away from social media. We decided to spend Easter with my parents. We haven’t seen them since before the pandemic, and it will be nice to have some in-person time together.”

“Where do your parents live?” I asked. Quinn had mentioned that her parents lived abroad, but I couldn’t recall where they had relocated.

“Spain, but we’re meeting up in Barbados. Marbella is still cold this time of year, and we’d like to spend time on the beach. We booked our tickets this morning and will be leaving on Thursday.” Quinn took an audible breath. “Nicole, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to help you while on holiday. I can return Grace’s manuscript if you need it, but if you leave it with me, I will pick up where I left off when I return.”

“Please, don’t worry about the manuscript,” I rushed to reassure her. “All that can wait. Have a restful break and a happy Easter.”

“Thank you. You as well.”

We ended the call, and I stared at the wall as I tried to assess the ramifications of Quinn’s decision and the impact it would have on my work. Quinn was helping me voluntarily, and given what she was dealing with in her own life, I could hardly ask her to prioritize my needs. She had to do what was best for her family, and getting away for the Easter holidays was the best decision for everyone. Quinn and Gabe clearly needed some mental space, and the children would be away from London, far from their friends who could make mean comments about their mum or relay their parents’ opinions on the situation. By the time the Russells returned, the worst of the scandal would be behind them and they might be better able to control the narrative, at least where their homelife was concerned.

If Quinn got back to the manuscript, I would be grateful, but she wasn’t obligated to help me, so I had to continue on my own.

Chapter 49

April

I hadn’t given much thought to Easter, but once Quinn mentioned it, I couldn’t avoid it any longer. Last year we had been invited to Rita and Michael’s, but this year was my turn to host. And that created a new dilemma. I knew Kyle would support whatever I decided, but I wasn’t sure how to manage the problem of Dove. The sisterly thing to do would be to ask Dove to join us, but given that she was threatening legal action, I wasn’t feeling overly generous toward her. Still, I was her only family, and as far as I knew, Dove had nowhere to go. I waited until morning, and then, before I had a chance to change my mind, I reached for my mobile and fired off a text.

Dove replied a few minutes later. “Thanks. I’ll be there.”

“Great,” I replied, and left it at that.

Pulling on an old pair of jeans and a hoodie, I went downstairs to the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee and cheese on toast. I carried my breakfast through to my study, determined to put in at least a couple of hours of work before I had to collect Ava, but my heart wasn’t in it. I had written nearly a dozen books without Quinn’s help, but as I looked over my notes, I felt helpless and lost. It was ridiculous to give in to self-pity, and I had no right to use Quinn as a crutch for my writing, but her vivid descriptions had helped me to envision Grace’s world and try to understand what she might have been feeling.

How had Grace and Venetia coped after Edgar had gone missing? And how had they managed to hold on to the shop? The only logical answer was that Grace had managed to raise the funds to make the repairs to the building and Venetia had given birth to a boy, the bridge between Edgar and Deborah’s great-grandfather. I was no closer to finding out what had happened to Edgar, but at least I’d got that far, so my efforts hadn’t been in vain.

Taking into account what Quinn had shared with me so far, there were only two possible scenarios. Either Edgar had buckled under the pressure and left voluntarily, abandoning his wife and son, and draping the mantle of financial responsibility over Grace’s narrow shoulders, or he had been caught cheating at cards and had been murdered by his mark. He had been caught once before, so it wasn’t far-fetched that something like that could happen again. It was highly unlikely that Edgar had defrauded Mr. Nivens again, but there were plenty of others who might have taken justice into their own hands. Not willing to hang for murder, whoever had killed Edgar had disposed of the evidence and covered his tracks, committing the proverbial perfect crime. I wasn’t likely to find any proof of this theory, but I was curious how Grace and Venetia had fared and why neither the child’s birth nor the date of its death had been recorded for posterity.

I logged into the most comprehensive ancestry site and typed Julian Moore’s name into the search bar. There were dozens of results, and I spent the next half hour wading through the entries until I finally found the right man. Julian Moore had been born in 1818 to Carlton Moore and Elsa Neumann. Carlton’s sister Clarissa married Peter Smithson in 1827, and the two had one child, Venetia, born in 1830. I was pleased to establish a tangible connection between Julian and Venetia, but despite this small win, the information did little to move my story forward. Julian married Helen Evans in 1844, but Helen died in 1847. I already knew this from Quinn, but it was helpful to be able to back up her revelations with factual information. The final entry stated that Julian Moore had died in 1888. I checked two more sites but didn’t find anything else pertaining to Dr. Moore.

I growled with frustration. Julian had been twenty-nine when his wife died and had lived to see seventy. Had he not remarried? There was nothing more to find on the genealogical site, so I decided to follow up with a general search. I typed in Dr. Julian Moore 1800s. The search returned a slew of hits. There was another Dr. Julian Moore, who had been born in 1854 in New York and worked at Bellevue Hospital until his death in 1917. He was credited with several new surgical techniques and had published his research on the use of ether, but as far as I could tell, Dr. Moore wasn’t in any way related to the Julian Moore of my search.

I seemed to be hitting dead end after dead end and was growing increasingly frustrated when I had an idea and wondered why it hadn’t occurred to me before. I had consulted Rhonda Dearlove when researching the Redmonds for my last book. Rhonda’s area of expertise was the Forty Elephants gang and criminality among women, but she was well versed in all things Victorian and might be able to help. I composed a brief email and sent it, then decided to reach out to the only other person I knew who was deeply interested in Victorian crime.

Since his retirement, Sean Cadogan had tried to maintain his work relationships, some of which went back thirty years, but although he still had contacts in the Met and there were former associates he could call on if he needed a favor, the old friendships were dying a swift and painful death, and Sean was irritable and depressed. He wasn’t the sort of man who enjoyed puttering around the house, especially since Carla was in Edinburgh visiting Emily, and Edie kept him at arm’s length as she wrestled her own demons and relied on Keiran for emotional support.

Sean answered almost immediately when I rang and was pleased as punch when I invited him to meet me and Ava at the park. Ava fell asleep on the way, so I found a quiet bench, parked the buggy, and checked my messages while I waited for my father-in-law to arrive. There was nothing from Rhonda, but an email from Martin Stillwell had popped up just a few minutes ago. I bristled as I read the brief missive, then closed my email without replying and wondered if it might be time to find another solicitor.

As I dropped my mobile into my handbag, I spotted Sean walking briskly toward the park, scanning the street and taking a mental snapshot of every person who walked past him. Thirty years on the Met had left their mark and made a man like Sean feel powerless now that he no longer had the vast resources of the police at his disposal.

Sean’s expression softened when he looked at Ava, and he gently touched her hand before sitting next to me on the bench.

“How are you getting on?” I asked.

“All right,” Sean replied with a shrug. He wasn’t one to complain, but life had not been easy of late. “I’m thinking of joining Carla and Emily in Scotland after Easter. I miss my girls,” he added wistfully.

“That sounds like a good idea. Will Edie go with you?”

“I doubt it,” Sean said, but did not elaborate, and I didn’t press him. Edie was a sore subject these days. “How are things with you?”

I shrugged. “I’ve had better days.”

Sean’s gaze seemed to say, Haven’t we all? but instead he asked, “You mean this thing with Dove?”

I nodded. “She’s going to take me to court if I don’t pay up.”

Sean tilted his head and studied a chubby toddler who was running away from his frazzled mother and laughing joyously as he tasted freedom. The poor woman raced after the boy, her huge bag slamming against her hip and her breasts heaving as she gasped for air, her gaze frantic as she followed the direction of the child’s path. Sean stood, caught the toddler as the little boy tried to hurtle past us, and held onto the kid firmly while he waited for the mother to reach us. She came to a stop and sucked in several shuddering breaths before reaching for her squirming son.

“Oh, thank you,” the woman panted. “I was afraid he’d run into the road.”

“No thanks needed,” Sean said, and sat back down.

We both watched as the woman pulled the outraged child by the hand, scolding him furiously as they walked away. They didn’t get very far before the boy managed to break free and made a beeline for the swings. He climbed on and cried, “Push me, Mummy.” The mother obliged, and I looked away to check on Ava, but Sean was still watching the pair.

If I knew Sean, I could guess what he was thinking. Years ago, every person in that park would have tried to help the woman, but these days, all the adults were too busy staring into their phones to notice that the child had run perilously close to the exit and the traffic beyond. Sean enjoyed modern technology as much as anyone, but he drew the line at ignoring others and not offering a helping hand when it was needed.

“Don’t do it,” Sean suddenly said. “Don’t pay her.”

“And go to court?”

“Yes.”

“The law is on her side,” I replied. “She has proof. She even has a photo of herself with her mum and my dad, which proves that he knew about Dove all along.”

“The only thing a photo proves is that he was there at that moment. It doesn’t mean he knew anything of Dove’s paternity.”

“Surely he could have guessed,” I argued.

Sean shook his head. “Nicole, I’ve been a copper my whole adult life and have seen human beings in all their incarnations. People can be incredibly selfless and brave, but they can also be ruthless, greedy, and utterly devoid of compassion. Most criminals I have sent to prison did not feel any remorse for what they had done. Their only regret was getting caught.”

“What are you saying exactly?” I asked.

“Dove might be exactly who she says she is, or she might be someone else entirely.”

I turned to face my father-in-law. He was verbalizing my own concerns, and suddenly I didn’t feel so self-serving for doubting Dove’s motives. “So, what do you suggest I do?”

“Have you requested a DNA test?”

“Yes, but according to my solicitor, a DNA test is not required by law as long as Dove has a valid birth certificate.”

Sean nodded. “It might not be required by law, but that doesn’t mean you have no right to ask for one.”

“I did. Martin informed me just now as it happens that he had passed on my request to Dove’s solicitor, and the solicitor refused. She probably thinks I’m trying to weasel out of making a payment.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Close to a hundred K.”

Sean nodded again, then turned to face me. A small smile tugged at his lips, and his hazel eyes looked very green in the spring sunshine. I experienced a jolt of recognition when I realized that my husband would look exactly like this in twenty-five years and thought I would find him just as attractive as I did now.

“How would you feel about letting me handle this?” Sean asked.

“Handle this how?”

Sean smiled cryptically. “Do you want answers or not?”

“I do,” I said without hesitation.

Sean nodded. “Leave it with me then. Now, what did you want to ask me about your current project?”

“If a person went missing around 1850 and his disappearance was reported to the police, would there be any surviving record?”

“I doubt it,” Sean said. “Even if an investigation was launched, it would consist of some local bobby asking the neighbors if they had seen the man.”

“That’s it?”

“What more could they have done?”

“So, how can I make headway into this case?” I asked.

Sean grinned, his resemblance to Kyle even more obvious when he smiled. “Do what my son does. Make it up.”

“But I want to know what really happened.”

Sean laughed. “Ah, the bee in the bonnet syndrome,” he said. He must have heard that one from Kyle.

“I’m a bit obsessed,” I admitted sheepishly.

“Nicole, thousands of people go missing every year, and most families never find out what happened to their loved ones. They simply vanish. Some of their own volition and others because they were either in the wrong place at the wrong time or because someone wanted them gone. We have highly sophisticated tools at our disposal, but Victorian policemen had nothing, not even the benefit of training. They blundered along, fueled by nothing but their determination to be of service. I’m sorry to say that the fate of your man will remain unknown.”

“I thought as much,” I said with a sigh.

“I wish I could be more help, but there’s nothing I can offer.”

He smiled happily when Ava’s eyes fluttered open, and she smiled back at him. “Grandpa,” she whispered, and sat up, looking around until her gaze alighted on the swings.

“Hello, my darling. I thought you’d sleep for a hundred years, like Sleeping Beauty.”

“No,” Ava cried. “I’m awake.”

“Would you like to go on the swings?”

Ava was already reaching for Sean, asking to be lifted out of the buggy.

“Go on,” I said, and unbuckled the safety belt. “Have fun on the swings. I’ll just sit here all by myself.”

My little guilt trip didn’t work, and Sean and Ava were off, Ava running toward the swings on her short legs, Sean right behind her. He swung her into his arms and sat her on the swing, then told her to hold on tight as he gave the swings a gentle push. It gladdened my heart to see them together, and not for the first time, I wondered what sort of grandfather my dad would have made and if Dove’s child would look anything like him.

Chapter 50

By the time Ava and I got home, there was an email from Rhonda. She was sorry she couldn’t help, but she had included contact information for Wendy Isaacson, a colleague who specialized in Victorian medicine and might know more. I thanked Rhonda and sent Wendy an email, explaining what I was working on and asking if she might be able to offer insight or suggest where I might look for more information. I included my mobile number. Wendy rang me within the hour, and I handed Ava over to Kyle so I could speak to Wendy in peace, since Ava was cranky and was about to kick off at any second. Kyle took Ava into the lounge, while I headed to my study and shut the door.

Wendy had a lovely voice, husky and smooth, and her accent was pure New York. Although I couldn’t see her, I could hear her smile and thought she sounded very friendly and approachable.

“Nicole, I was very happy to hear from you. Rhonda introduced me to you work, and I must admit, I inhaled The Gilded Lily. I really enjoyed it. Anything set in the Victorian era is right up my alley.”

“Thank you. I hope I didn’t take you away from anything important,” I said.

“The people I research aren’t going anywhere,” Wendy said with a husky laugh. “How can I help?”

I gave Wendy a brief outline of my story to put my inquiry into context, then said, “I was wondering if you have ever come across mention of Dr. Julian Moore. I believe he was interested in immunology.”

I hoped Wendy wouldn’t ask how I knew that, but she probably assumed I had read it somewhere. She sounded thoughtful when she replied.

“The name sounds familiar, but I can’t immediately place him. I will tell you though that both the Brits and the Americans were woefully behind when it came to researching ways to stop the spread of contagious disease. The history of immunology goes back to fifth-century BCE. Of course, no real progress was made until well into the nineteenth century, and mostly in Germany and France. Theodor Schwann, Charles Cagniard Latour, Jacob Henle, Ernst Haeckel, and Robert Koch’s research was groundbreaking. Also Agustino Bassi’s work. He determined that not only animal but human diseases are spread by microorganisms. What I’m trying to tell you in a somewhat roundabout way,” Wendy said with another gravelly chuckle, “is that if Dr. Moore was interested in immunology, he may have gone abroad.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” I agreed.

“But I don’t see how tracking him down helps you figure out what befell Edgar Hilliard,” Wendy said. “Do you think Dr. Moore was somehow involved in his disappearance?”

“I have no evidence to suggest that he had anything to do with it, but the trail has grown stone cold, and I was just looking for another way in.”

“Ah, I see,” Wendy said. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.”

“Look further afield.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

Before Wendy could reply, there was a crash in the background, and then something that sounded like a hiss followed by pitiful meowing.

“I’m so sorry. I have to go. Boobie, are you all right? Oh, you bad boy,” was the last thing I heard before Wendy disconnected the call.

“Look further afield,” I grumbled as I headed to the lounge to join Kyle and Ava. “Easier said than done.”

Chapter 51

December 1849

Grace

Grace was woken from a deep sleep by insistent knocking. She got out of bed and yanked open the curtains, thinking she had overslept and Alice had come to wake her, only to realize that it was still pitch dark, not even a sliver of paler sky to signal the approach of morning. Grace pulled on her dressing gown and hurried to the door. Venetia stood in the corridor, her face pale, and her eyes moist, the pupils reflecting the flame of her candle. She wore nothing but a frilly nightdress, and the fabric draped over her belly and fell to her bare feet.

“Venetia, what is it? Are you ill?”

“Edgar didn’t come home last night,” Venetia cried. “I waited and waited, but it’s nearly three in the morning.”

Grace had retired shortly after dinner and hadn’t realized that Edgar had gone out. “Where did he go?” she asked, praying he hadn’t gone in search of a card game and realizing that he probably had. Edgar had been as good as his word and hadn’t come home with more than ten pounds after each game, but he was definitely resorting to cheating to win, and the tin Grace had set aside for Mr. Brynn’s fee was slowing filling up, the repair fund now nearly sixty pounds.

“He said he needed some air. That was more than six hours ago,” Venetia wailed.

It was freezing in the corridor, and Venetia was shivering, her skin ghostly in the moonlight and covered with gooseflesh.

“You’ll catch your death out here. Let’s get you to your room,” Grace said, and maneuvered Venetia toward her own bedroom. “Get under the covers.”

Venetia set down the candle and obediently climbed into bed. She seemed relieved to have passed on her burden to Grace and now wanted only to sleep.

“Get some rest,” Grace said, and passed a gentle hand over Venetia’s unruly curls. “I will wait for Edgar.”

Grace waited until Venetia’s breathing became even, then tiptoed from the room, returning to her own bedroom and curling up in her reading chair, her gaze fixed on the icy windowpanes. The fire had gone out hours ago, and the room was frigid, Grace’s breath coming out in vaporous puffs as she tucked her legs beneath her to keep warm. After a time, she could barely feel her extremities, so she reached for a lap rug and pulled it over her, huddling beneath the scratchy wool until the shivering passed and she could feel her toes.

It was hours yet until the late December dawn, and there was nothing Grace could do but keep vigil. Even if she had a mind to go looking for Edgar, she had no earthly idea where he might be, and she would be putting herself in untold danger if she were to wander the streets unaccompanied in the dead of night. Come morning, she would have to find a constable and ask for help if Edgar wasn’t back.

Time passed slowly, the house creaking and groaning, and the wind moaning outside. A gentle snow began to fall closer to dawn, and then smoke began to billow from the chimneys of the neighboring houses as the servants woke and went about their morning chores. As soon as the sky began to lighten, Grace abandoned her post, washed with ice-cold water, and dressed in her warmest gown before relocating to the parlor. The window overlooked the street, so she would see Edgar as soon as he approached the building. Grace heard Alice come down the stairs and then the squeak of hinges as Alice added coal and lit the range before she started on her morning chores.

Grace’s eyes felt grainy from lack of sleep, and her head ached, so she abandoned her vigil and headed to the kitchen. If Alice was surprised to see her so early in the morning, she didn’t show it. Instead, she wordlessly set a cup and saucer on the wooden table and poured tea for Grace from the small earthenware pot she had used to brew tea for her own breakfast. Grace gratefully reached for the cup and grasped it in her trembling hands, inhaling the familiar aroma and then taking the first warming sip.

“Are you all right, Miss Hilliard?” Alice asked.

Grace nodded, but she felt helpless and lost and terribly worried, awful scenarios springing up in her mind like mushrooms after the rain, each possibility more awful than the last. What would she tell Venetia if Edgar didn’t come back by the time she woke? And what would Grace tell herself? Every day she tried to convince herself that everything would be well, but things had irrevocably changed over the past few months, and she no longer felt either financially or emotionally secure. A reckoning was imminent. She could feel it in her bones.

Chapter 52

By noon, Grace was frantic. Instead of opening the shop, she’d spent the morning traversing the streets. The local bobby had said he’d keep an eye out for Edgar, but he had his duties and couldn’t leave his patch. Grace wandered around aimlessly, peering at every man that came her way and desperately hoping it was Edgar but then quickly realizing that the men were strangers to her. She’d returned home twice to check if Edgar had come back and to try to reassure a hysterical Venetia that there had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for Edgar’s lateness. That was hardly the correct way to describe what was happening, but Grace wasn’t ready to use words like disappearance. That was a frightening word that carried the sort of connotations she couldn’t begin to imagine.

Tired, footsore, and hungry, Grace finally gave up around one o’clock. She was surprised to find Mr. Hodgson, a regular customer, standing in front of the shop, peering through the window into the dim interior.

“Ah, Miss Hilliard, there you are,” he exclaimed when he saw her. “Why is the shop shut up?” he demanded irritably. “I’ve been standing here for well over an hour.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hodgson,” Grace began, but he cut her off.

“You said the text I ordered would be available to collect today. I need it urgently, Miss Hilliard. I sail from Southampton tomorrow, and I must have it. I cannot leave without it.”

“Yes, of course,” Grace muttered.

Mr. Hodgson was a scholar of divinity and was setting off on a research trip that would begin in Jerusalem and culminate in Turkey. The text he’d ordered was devoted to the First Council of Nicaea and its implications on Christianity. Mr. Hodgeson’s cherished dream was to discover where the council had met, since there was some debate about the precise location of the church that had since fallen into ruin.

“There must be clues the other scholars have missed about the location of the church,” Mr. Hodgson was saying. “If I could just pinpoint—”

Grace hardly heard the rest of Mr. Hodgson’s rant. Her head was pounding, and although she had enjoyed her talks with Mr. Hodgson in the past, just now, she couldn’t care less about something that had happened in 325 A.D., when all she could think about was what had happened last night.

Grace unlocked the shop and invited Mr. Hodgson to follow her inside. “I set the book aside for you, Mr. Hodgson. I’ll just get it, shall I?” she said, and hurried toward the office, where she had left the volume in order to prevent some other divinity enthusiast from snatching it up before Mr. Hodgson had the chance to collect it.

When Grace went to unlock the door, she realized it was already open, and her heart lurched at the thought of being burgled. Edgar kept the strongbox as well as all legal documents pertaining to the building and the shop in the office. If they had been stolen… At the moment, Grace couldn’t bear to think of the implications, but she did register that there were no obvious signs of forced entry. Was it possible that the back door had been forced and Edgar had forgotten to lock the office door after depositing his winnings in the tin? That money was all they had, both to cover their living expenses and to pay Mr. Brynn, who was due to start work in a matter of weeks.

Inhaling sharply, Grace pushed open the door and nearly tripped over Edgar, who was sprawled on the carpet, his mouth partially open, dried drool flaking at the corner of his mouth and down his unshaven chin. He reeked of spirits and stale smoke, and Grace thought he might have pissed his trousers. After checking that Mr. Hodgson hadn’t come up behind her, Grace shut the door to the office and inhaled deeply, an action she immediately regretted since she nearly retched. She was so angry, she kicked Edgar, the tip of her boot colliding with his thigh. Edgar’s body jerked in response, and he swore loudly enough for Mr. Hodgson to hear.

“Miss Hilliard, are you quite all right?” Mr. Hodgson called from the shop.

“Yes, thank you. I won’t be a moment,” Grace called back, but all her attention was focused on Edgar, who finally managed to pry his eyes open.

He squinted blearily and rasped, “What the devil, Grace?”

“Be quiet,” Grace hissed. “And stay out of sight. You’re a disgrace,” she ground out before grabbing Mr. Hodgson’s book off the desk and hurrying from the office. Grace pulled the door closed behind her and hoped that Edgar would have the decency to wait until the coast was clear before staggering into the shop and coming face to face with the customers who’d just walked in.

“Here you are, Mr. Hodgson. That will be two pounds twenty.”

The book Mr. Hodgson had ordered was one of the most expensive volumes the shop had ever sold. It was a limited edition, and it had taken a months-long letter-writing campaign to track down a copy to a shop in Cambridge. Although Grace was sorry for the inconvenience to Mr. Hodgson and mortified by what he might have seen and heard, she wasn’t about to offer him a discount.

Mr. Hodgson slapped several coins on the counter, grabbed his book, and turned on his heel.

“Have a safe trip, Mr. Hodgson,” Grace called after him, but he didn’t bother to respond.

The other customers departed a few minutes later without making a purchase, and Grace sprinted to the office.

“You!” she cried, and heard the note of hysteria in her voice. “Venetia and I nearly lost our minds with worry. We thought you’d been set upon and murdered in the street. How dare you show up in this condition?”

She was furious, her voice shrill and her heart pounding, but she didn’t care who heard. She had been terrified, imagining all sorts of scenarios in which Edgar’s body was found in some stinking alley or fished out of the river. Edgar was careless and inconsiderate, and worst of all injudicious.

“Stop your screeching, Grace,” Edgar said nastily. “My head is tolling like a bell.”

“Good. You deserve it. Dear God, but you reek,” she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Clean yourself up before Venetia sees you. She was so distressed, I feared for her and the child.”

“So, where is she now if she was so distressed?” Edgar demanded.

“I insisted she have a rest. She was up half the night, pacing the boards.”

Grace didn’t bother to ask where Edgar had been. She could hazard a guess. Beneath the stench of spirits, smoke, and piss, she had detected something else—cheap, flowery perfume, the sort of scent no respectable woman would douse herself with.

“You disgust me, Edgar,” she snarled.

Edgar’s bleary gaze suddenly brightened, his eyes flashing with fury. He rose to his full height and advanced on her, forcing Grace to take a hasty step back.

“I thought I told you to shut up, you miserable harpy.”

“Really, Edgar, I think that’s uncalled for,” Grace rebuked him in the hope that he would remember himself and apologize.

“I own you,” Edgar hissed. “Without me to support you, you’ll end up in the workhouse. How long do you think you’ll last? You had better learn to show me respect, or you’ll find out just how unpleasant life can be for a penniless spinster.”

“You wouldn’t,” Grace whispered. She had never known Edgar to be cruel or menacing. This was a side of him she hoped never to see again, but she wouldn’t apologize. She’d done nothing wrong.

“Don’t test my patience, Grace, or you’ll find out precisely what I would and wouldn’t do. And I want the rewritten play finished by the end of the week,” he added as he pushed roughly past her and headed up the stairs.

Grace splayed her hands on the desk and bowed her head, taking several calming breaths before she returned to the shop. A well-dressed couple had just walked in, so Grace plastered a smile onto her face and inquired if they needed help, but inside, she was screaming, anger and fear constricting her chest. It was all starting again, and this time their father wasn’t there to deal with the fallout from Edgar’s bad behavior.

Once Grace closed the shop, she trudged up the stairs. She was exhausted and heartsick, but instead of a few hours of well-deserved rest, she had to start on the play. She didn’t think Edgar would follow through on his threat, but given the future he’d painted, she wasn’t about to test his resolve.

Chapter 53

Nicole

Although I should have done at least some work on Friday and Saturday, I decided to give myself Easter weekend off. I had to prepare, and now that Dove was coming, I also had to figure out what to serve that would meet with her dietary requirements. In the end, I decided on lamb with roasted potatoes for us and a vegan shepherd’s pie. There would also be several vegan-approved starters and roasted vegetables. For pudding, I would make poached pears with vegan salted caramel. It was a simple enough recipe and would supplement the cake Rita had promised to bake. Or buy, if she changed her mind.

Kyle and I weren’t regular churchgoers, but we decided to attend the service, which was followed by an Easter egg hunt in our garden once Rita and Michael arrived. Ava squealed with delight every time she found an egg, and she held it up to show everyone before she put it in her basket. She raced around the garden until she was finally tired enough to go down for a nap.

Rita and Michael settled in the lounge with a glass of white wine for Rita and a beer for Michael, while Kyle and I turned out attention to preparing the food. Although I had promised myself I would stay off social media, I did check Twitter several times to see if the furor over Quinn’s psychic ability had died down. I was glad to note that there were no new tweets and the older tweets had hardly any new comments and reposts. The lynch mob was moving on, and with any luck, everyone would have forgotten about Quinn Allenby-Russell by the end of the month and found something else to feel indignant about.

Everything was ready by the time Dove arrived. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and she wore very little makeup, the natural look making her appear younger and more vulnerable than when we’d last met. Instead of her customary black jeans and grungy T-shirt, she wore a pale green and pink babydoll dress and pink ballet flats. She looked springy and feminine. I led Dove into the lounge and introduced her to Rita and Michael before inviting her to sit down. Dove looked distinctly uncomfortable and perched on the edge of the sofa as if taking less space would make her less conspicuous. I was relieved when Rita settled across from her and smiled.

“I’m so pleased you and Nicole found each other,” she said, clearly taking Dove by surprise. “There’s no greater bond than that of sisters.”

“We didn’t grow up together,” Dove replied.

“That doesn’t matter. You have all the time in the world to get to know and love each other. I think it’s very exciting to find a precious piece of yourself out there in the world.”

“Yes, it is,” Dove agreed, smiling for the first time. “I was terribly intimidated when I discovered that my sister is a famous novelist.”

“And the accolades are well deserved,” Rita said. “Have you read any of Nicole’s books?”

“Only one,” Dove confessed. “I’m not really interested in historical mysteries.”

“What sort of books do you like?” Michael asked.

“I’m not an avid reader, but I do enjoy domestic thrillers.”

“Why is that?” Rita asked. She seemed genuinely interested.

“They’re easier to relate to. Partners hide so much from one another, don’t they?” Dove replied. I hadn’t explained about Kyle’s two dads, but if Dove had done her research, she would know everything already, and her comment seemed to be aimed at Rita.

“Yes, I suppose they do,” Rita replied airily.

As I put the finishing touches on the table, I wondered if Dove had looked up Rita and was aware that she had been a detective inspector. Having sent hundreds of individuals to prison for harming or murdering their partners over the course of a thirty-year career, Rita had written the book on domestic abuse and could probably come up with a thriller of her own.

“Whenever a woman is murdered, the partner is the first person they suspect. Did you know that?” Dove asked.

“Yes, I have heard something about that,” Rita replied casually.

“What does it say about our society that the most likely person to kill someone is the one person who’s meant to love and protect them?” Dove exclaimed.

“Nothing good, that’s for sure,” Michael replied grimly.

Dove’s hand went to her stomach, cradling it protectively. “That’s why I split up with my partner. I didn’t think he’d be a good father to our baby,” she confided, lowering her voice as if her ex were just outside the door. “Tyler has such a hot temper.” Dove hunched her shoulders and drew in her head as if she expected to be on the receiving end of a blow at any moment.

“Has he hurt you, Dove?” Rita asked, her voice becoming dangerously low.

“It was my own fault,” Dove rushed to explain.

“Your own fault?” Michael cried.

“I broke his favorite mug, and he hit me. He was so angry.”

“Did you report him?” Kyle asked.

Dove shook her head. “I was too afraid.”

“And was that the only time he assaulted you?” Rita asked, all business now.

“Yes. Well, no. We had a row when I told him I was pregnant.”

“What did he do?” I asked.

“He punched me in the stomach,” Dove confessed. “He said he was going to beat that baby out of me.”

“And you didn’t report him then either?” Rita asked, her eyes flashing with anger. She would have liked to lock Tyler up and throw away the key, but I could tell that she was angry with Dove as well. She had been known to express the opinion that women like Dove, who allowed their partners to get away with abusive behavior, were enablers whose forgiveness validated their partners’ violence toward them and gave them permission to abuse them again.

“I was afraid,” Dove whispered, her voice shaking. “I was glad Tyler left on his own. It made things easier for me. But he knows where I live and can come back at any time.”

“We have a spare bedroom,” Rita said, her gaze holding Dove’s. “You can stay with us until you find a new flat.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Dove exclaimed. “Really, I’ll be all right. Tyler hasn’t been bothering me. He doesn’t want the baby.” She sighed shakily. “He’s probably seeing someone new by now.”

“You ring me if he shows his face again,” Rita said. “I’ll have a patrol car at your door in moments.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Walsh,” Dove said meekly. “I’m so glad my baby will have such lovely family.” She beamed at me, and I felt like the scum of the earth for being unkind to her. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to keep the baby, but once I met Nicole, I just knew.”

“Knew what?” Kyle asked.

“I knew that I was no longer alone,” Dove said. Her eyes glittered with tears as she looked at me, and then she threw herself into my arms and locked me in a tight embrace. “I’m so grateful to have found you,” she whispered. “So grateful.”

“Well, we’re glad to welcome you into our family,” Rita said. “Our daughter Cassie can’t wait to meet you, and I’m sure Kyle will be happy to introduce you to his other sisters.”

“Emily lives in Scotland,” Kyle explained. “She’s expecting her first baby. She’s due in a few weeks.”

“Do you know what she’s having?” Dove asked.

“A boy.”

“How wonderful that your life is so full,” Dove said. “Thank you again for inviting me. I would have settled for a takeaway and an episode of Call the Midwife.”

Just then the doorbell buzzed, and Kyle went to greet our two remaining guests. Sean and Edie walked into the room, Sean smiling as he came over to shake Michael’s hand and give Rita a kiss on the cheek. He introduced himself to Dove and beckoned to Edie to come and say hello. Edie hung back, her expression inscrutable. She had hacked off her pale blond hair and colored it black, and she usually wore only black clothes, as if she wanted to turn herself into a shadow. Edie nodded to Dove but didn’t come over or speak to her. Instead, she followed me to the kitchen when I went to fetch the starters.

“I wasn’t going to come today, but I wanted to say goodbye,” Edie said once we were alone.

“Are you going somewhere?”

Edie nodded. “Kieran’s mate moved to the States about a year ago.”

“Is he a musician as well?”

“No, Vince was in finance. But he wanted a fresh start after his girlfriend left him and took their baby to live in France.”

I waited for Edie to continue.

“Anyhow, Vince bought into this bar in Asbury Park. That’s on the Jersey Shore,” Edie explained. “He invited Kieran to come visit. Vince has a spare bedroom, and he said Kieran can play guitar in the bar every Friday night and can bartend on Saturdays to raise some cash. There’s a good crowd, especially in the summer, and sometimes even music execs drop in. The bar is not far from the Stone Pony. It’s a popular music venue.”

“That sounds great. So you’re going too?”

Edie nodded again. “I have to get away from here,” she whispered urgently. “Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe. My mum and dad watch me all the time. I know they’re worried and only want to help, but it’s like I’m seven again. I can’t leave the house without giving Dad a full report and location coordinates. He tracks my mobile and calls Kieran if I don’t answer right away. I just need to breathe my own air, Nicole.”

“I understand,” I said, and I did. Edie’s confidence and peace of mind had been shattered by her kidnappers, and she needed to find herself again, be it in Chelsea or in Asbury Park. Perhaps the change of scene would help her to move on and begin to build up her confidence. I hoped she would join Kieran and sing before an audience. She was truly talented, and finding her voice again would go a long way toward reclaiming her life.

“Did you tell your parents yet?” I asked.

Edie shook her head. “If I tell them, they’re going to raise all sorts of objections. Mum will try to make me feel guilty, especially now that Emily is about to have her baby, and Dad will go on and on about the crime rate in America. He will probably mention The Sopranos, or quote something from Goodfellas. Was that in New Jersey?” Edie asked, then shook her head, as if it didn’t matter.

“So, you’re just going to leave?”

“I’m going to ring them from the airport and explain, but I really need to do this, and I can’t let them talk me out of it.”

“I hope you find whatever it is you need to find to be happy,” I said.

“I will,” Edie replied with surprising confidence. “I will find freedom, for one.” She snuck a peak toward the kitchen door. “By the way, Dove seems really nice. I’m glad you two are building bridges.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know how I would have survived without Emily. We talked for hours every night after I got back. She understood in a way no one did, not even Kieran.”

“I always longed for a sister.”

“Well, now you have one. Don’t blow it,” Edie said, and poked me playfully in the ribs. “Let me help you with those.”

She picked up two platters and carried them into the dining room, and I followed with the rest of the starters. Ava had woken up from her nap and had everyone’s undivided attention as she showed off her Easter eggs and the new outfit Carla had bought for her before she’d left for Scotland. Kyle lifted Ava and deposited her in the highchair, and she rolled the colorful eggs on the tray, squealing with delight.

An adorable child always helped to break the ice, and by the time we sat down to eat, Dove seemed happy and relaxed and was chatting to Edie as if they had known each other all their lives. I was glad they had found something in common. Sean and Michael were talking cricket scores, and Rita was sipping her wine, her gaze slowly moving around the table.

Both the lamb and the vegan pie were a hit, and although only Dove was impressed with my poached pears and the others opted for Rita’s banoffee pie, I was glad to have made Dove feel comfortable. She kissed everyone on the cheek when she was ready to leave and told Edie to keep in touch. When she approached Ava, Ava held out the prettiest egg.

“You can have it,” she said.

“Thank you, but why don’t you hold on to it for me?” Dove said. “I don’t have anywhere to put it, and you have such a pretty basket.”

That made Ava very happy, since she seemed reluctant to part with her treasure. She nodded happily and deposited the egg on top of the pile in her basket.

“Look, if you want someone to come with you to your next scan, I would be happy to tag along,” I said. For the first time since meeting Dove, I felt comfortable and could imagine her as a permanent part of my life.

“I’d like that,” Dove said.

“How about a photo?” Rita said and reached for her mobile. “You look so sweet together.”

Dove seemed a bit hesitant but allowed Rita to take several photos before moving away from me.

“I’ll text you both a copy,” Rita promised. “Nicole, perhaps you can give me Dove’s number.”

“Of course,” I promised.

Michael helped Dove with her coat, and Rita handed her the scarf she’d worn wrapped around her neck when she’d arrived.

“It’s chilly out there,” Rita said. “Must keep warm.”

“Lovely girl,” Michael said once Dove had gone.

“Woman,” Rita corrected him.

“I meant no disrespect,” Michael replied with a shrug.

“It’s not easy to be single mum. At least now she won’t be alone,” Edie said as she shrugged on her own coat.

“No,” Rita agreed, her expression thoughtful. “Nice to become part of a ready-made family.” She turned to me. “Have arrangements been made to transfer the funds?”

I sighed. “The funds will be transferred on the first of next month.”

Rita nodded. “I’m sure Dove will be thrilled,” she said, her gaze on Ava. “This was lovely. Give me a kiss, darling.”

Kyle bent down to kiss his mother on the cheek, and then everyone was gone.

“I’ll do the washing up,” Kyle said. “Put your feet up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go before I change my mind.”

I lifted Ava into my arms, and we went off to watch a Disney film while Kyle began to carry dirty plates into the kitchen.

Chapter 54

Quinn

Cool water swirled around Quinn’s ankles, her toes sinking into the wet sand as the colorful silk sarong gently caressed her calves. The sky was just beginning to lighten, the shimmering orb of the sun majestically rising from the sea and casting the world in a glorious shade of pink. At this hour, Quinn had the beach to herself, and she loved it. She couldn’t help but notice that with every passing day, she felt a little calmer and more at peace, a lightness of being she hadn’t experienced in years.

When Gabe had first suggested a device-free holiday, they had all balked at the idea but had finally agreed, and the benefits were worth the initial anxiety of being parted from their lifelines. The children spent most of their time on the beach or by the pool and could be seen reading actual books in the afternoon, while Quinn and her mother shared a quiet chat or went for a walk. They played games after dinner or just sat outside, looking at the stars. Gabe was rereading Don Quixote, and Quinn was quite enjoying a new psychological thriller by one of her favorite authors.

Here, in this beautiful, sunny place, the pace of life was slower, the meals longer, and the conversations deeper. There was no Twitter, no Facebook, and no Instagram to check. The cruel accusations, vicious comments, and surprisingly personal jabs from strangers vanished into ether, never to be seen again once their period of relevance expired and the hurtful threads were replaced by newer posts. It was gloriously liberating not to know or care what was being said and not to constantly worry about the future, one’s career trajectory, or how the children might be impacted by such public accusations.

Quinn could appreciate the benefits of social media and the speed with which the internet delivered the news and connected people around the globe, but she was happy to take a break and step away from the digital world that seemed to be moving with the speed of light, the global community jarred by one catastrophe after another to the point where they lost all ability to react to events that were truly horrific and take the time to mourn those they’d lost. They were all victims of commercialism on steroids, being fed stories and images that were intended to shock, offered products that were meant to deliver happiness, and encouraged to explore supplements and procedures that promised eternal youth and a toned physique. Now in her forties, Quinn found herself resenting the changes to her body and the subtle alterations in her face and wondering how she would cope with the ravages of old age as she watched the ads and wondered if someday she would be willing to try something more drastic than a change in her diet and skin care routine.

This holiday had been a spur-of-the-moment escape, designed to remove them from the endless onslaught of social media and the individuals who had something to either gain or lose by the unexpected storm that had broken seemingly overnight. Still, it had proved to be a much-needed reminder of what life should be about and an opportunity to press pause on an existence that had become ruthlessly demanding. It was nice to see her parents too and give them an opportunity to spend time with their grandchildren.

Quinn smiled and waved when she saw Gabe jogging toward her. He was already in his bathers, his bare chest and toned arms golden in the morning sun. He lifted her up, and Quinn wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him soundly before he set her down again.

“Let’s go for a swim,” Gabe said.

“What about the children?”

“They’re still sleeping, and your mum and dad are having coffee on the terrace. Come on.”

Quinn untied her sarong and let it fall to the sand, then took Gabe’s outstretched hand, and together they ran into the surf. There wasn’t a single boat on the horizon and no planes in the sky, and for a moment, they were the only two people in the world, cavorting in the water like Adam and Eve. And it was paradise.

Chapter 55

Nicole

Giving up on research, I trudged to the lounge and plopped down on the sofa, my reflection on the dark television screen mocking me. I looked like Ava when she was cross, and the comparison would have made me smile had I not felt so deflated. I put my feet up on the coffee table and leaned back, staring at the ceiling to avoid seeing my dejected expression. Mostly, I was angry with myself. I knew I should abandon the project and explore new ideas, but for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to move on. Perhaps it was because I really wanted to know what had happened to Edgar Hilliard, or perhaps it was because I felt I owed something to Grace.

More than ever, I understood why Quinn had stepped away from Echoes of the Past. The subjects, once you got to know them, got under the skin, and demanded justice. I had never met Grace or even seen her face, but I had read her words and had heard enough about her thoughts and emotions from Quinn to feel as if she were real and might come to me and hold me to account if I let her down. Grace was one of the millions of faceless, voiceless women who’d lived and died throughout the centuries, their stories of no interest to anyone. But it was of interest to me, and I needed to know what had happened to Grace and Venetia on some primeval level, as if getting the answers would somehow validate my own existence.

There had to be a way to figure out what had happened to the Hilliards and fill in the blanks for Deborah Dolan, but the online research was getting me nowhere. I needed to speak to someone who specialized in the Victorian period and could point me in the right direction. Wendy Isaacson had suggested I look further afield, but in order to do that, I had to identify new avenues of inquiry, and just then my mind was blank.

Needing a distraction, I turned on the television, and the screen flared into life. I watched a few minutes of Good Morning Britain, then decided I would go for a walk instead. It would benefit me considerably more than watching daytime TV. And then a memory slid into my mind, and I sat up, suddenly alert. I recalled feeling frightened and depressed as I sat transfixed in front of the television, a sense of dread creeping in as it was announced that London would be going into another lockdown to slow down the spread of Covid-19.

I’d wanted to turn off the TV but felt too numb to move, staring at the screen but not really listening. After the announcement, several prominent immunologists had been interviewed via Zoom, the topic of discussion the likelihood and efficacy of a hastily developed Covid-19 vaccine and what that might mean for the future of the pandemic. I had tuned in then, hoping against hope that an end was in sight. The three panelists had all agreed on a need for a vaccine to end the pandemic, but whereas two had been in favor of rushing a vaccine to the market, the third had urged caution and warned about the risk of long-term side effects that could arise if the vaccine wasn’t sufficiently tested before being administered to the public.

At the time, all I’d been able to focus on was the promise of a pharmaceutical miracle that would finally allow us to resume our lives, but now I considered the panelists themselves. One name sprang to mind. Dr. Eric Klein. He had been one of the advocates of pushing through the approval of the vaccine, and he had cited numerous examples from history where even a somewhat effective vaccine would have saved millions of lives. He had spoken of the bubonic plague, the Spanish Flu, and several other historic illnesses that had taken the lives of many and had caused great suffering to the afflicted, such as tuberculosis, polio, and syphilis. I happened to recall that Dr. Klein was based in London and worked at a research facility somewhere in the East End.

I sprang from the sofa and hurried to my office, where I logged into LinkedIn. It took mere seconds to find Dr. Klein’s contact information. I debated contacting him for a few moments, then decided the worst that could happen was that he simply wouldn’t reply. I sent a succinctly worded message explaining what I was working on and asked if he might have heard of a fellow immunologist, Dr. Julian Moore. I also added that I was happy to pay a consultancy fee to compensate him for his time.

Feeling hopeful, I decided to take that walk after all.

Chapter 56

“You mustn’t get disappointed,” Kyle said that evening as we sat down to dinner. “Dr. Klein probably receives countless unsolicited inquiries. He might take several weeks to reply, or you might never hear from him at all. Have you considered contacting PBS? They have collaborated with various historians on the Secrets of the Dead series. They might know of someone who specializes in the Victorian period.”

“That’s a great idea, Kyle,” I said.

“You should ask Rhys Morgan as well. He might know of someone since the BBC has produced so many documentaries.”

I stared at Kyle, equally impressed by his ideas and annoyed with myself for not thinking to speak to Rhys. “I will,” I said. “Thank you. He might be in a better mood now that Quinngate is no longer front and center on social media.”

Kyle nodded. “Thank God for that. Are Quinn and Gabe back from Barbados yet?”

“I’m not sure.”

Our conversation came to an abrupt end once Ava grew tired of being ignored. We spent the rest of dinner chatting to her, and then Kyle took her upstairs while I tidied up. I didn’t check my messages until Ava was bathed and tucked into bed and was delighted to find an email from Dr. Klein. It was brief and to the point, but the best possible news. It read:

Dear Nicole,

As it happens, I have heard of Dr. Moore and his work and could spare you a half hour if you’re free tomorrow. Would 10 a.m. suit?

Sincerely,

Eric

Dr. Klein didn’t offer a lot of flexibility in terms of meeting times, but I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to speak to him, not when he’d expressly admitted to knowing something of Julian Moore. I said that I would be happy to meet him, and he replied with the name and address of a café. I had thought he’d see me in his office, but perhaps an informal setting was best. For the first time in days, I felt as if I might learn something useful and was buzzing with anticipation. I wished I could share my excitement with Quinn, but I hadn’t heard from her and had to go on the assumption that she would not continue working on the project once she returned.

The morning dawned cold and misty, and by the time I was ready to leave, a steady downpour was lashing at the windows and pooling in the hollows in the ground to create deep puddles. I had planned to take the Tube but decided to splurge on a cab. It was nothing short of a miracle that the first taxi I saw stopped, and I was on my way in moments. The cabbie was an older man who wanted to talk politics, but I wouldn’t be drawn. I explained that I had to prepare for a meeting and went over the questions I wanted to ask Dr. Klein while the cabbie silently bristled and wouldn’t reply when I thanked him for the ride and told him to keep the change.

The café was called Ooh-La-La and smelled of ground coffee, freshly baked pastries, and wet wool. I ordered café au lait and forced myself to step away from the counter before I gave in to temptation and asked for an eclair or a chocolate croissant to go with it. Once my coffee was ready, I found an unoccupied table and settled in to wait. It was nearly ten o’clock, and I hoped Dr. Klein would be on time. He walked in at precisely ten and gave me a friendly wave before going to the counter and ordering a double espresso. Cup in hand, he approached the table.

“Good morning,” he said cheerily. “Filthy weather.”

I could only assume that he’d Googled me and knew precisely whom to expect.

“It really is,” I agreed. “It’s going to rain all day.”

Comments about the weather safely out of the way, Dr. Klein set his coffee cup on the table and settled in the opposite chair. He looked different than he had on television, but none of us had looked our best during those dark months in 2020 when we’d had no idea whether life would ever return to normal. These days, Dr. Klein sported a trendy haircut, a Smartwatch, and a Burberry raincoat. He was a handsome man in his forties whose medium-brown complexion was offset by prematurely silver hair and pale blue eyes.

“I must confess, I had never heard of you and wasn’t going to reply, but it seems my wife has read a few of your books and insisted I get back to you without delay.”

“Then thank your wife for me,” I said. “I’m grateful to her for championing my cause.”

Dr. Klein nodded, and I got the impression that now that the pleasantries were out of the way, I was on the clock, and I had better ask my questions before he finished his coffee and headed back to the lab.

“Can you share with me what you know of Dr. Moore?” I asked, notepad at the ready.

“In order to answer your question, I must start with a crude overview of immunology,” Dr. Klein said. “I won’t bore you with the details, but you need to understand the basics.”

“Please, go on.”

“The origins of the germ theory date back to 1546, when Girolamo Fracastoro suggested that disease is spread by microorganisms rather than bad air, which was the basis of Galen’s miasma theory. Fracastoro’s supposition was further expanded upon by Marcus von Plenciz in 1762 but was largely ignored by the scientific community. In the early nineteenth century, smallpox vaccination became a commonplace practice but sadly, no one could figure out how to apply the benefits to other virulent diseases. It wasn’t until the late 1850s that Louis Pasteur made strides in the study of germs, and his research was later expanded on by Robert Koch. It wasn’t until the 1890s that the initial germ theory finally led to the isolation and identification of organisms that caused deadly viruses and bacteriology became a respected branch of medical science. End of lecture,” Dr. Klein said, and grinned.

“It’s a fascinating subject,” I said.

“It is, but I doubt your readers will be overly interested in the details. I simply wanted to create context.”

I nodded and waited for him to continue.

“Julian Moore was one of the first Englishmen to study immunology, but having found little support for his research in England, he moved to Austria, where he joined forces with Dr. Frederick Oberleitner. Drs. Moore and Oberleitner published several articles during the 1850s and 60s, but the articles were in German and weren’t translated into English until much later, by which time Pasteur had published his discoveries and overshadowed anything Moore and Oberleitner had proposed several years before.”

“But I searched for Julian Moore and found no references to him in connection with the evolution of microbiology,” I said.

“Dr. Moore published under the name J.H. Moore.”

“J.H.?”

“Julian Heller. Heller was his mother’s maiden name and was given to him as a second name.”

“Do you know anything of his personal circumstances?” I asked.

“No, sorry, but I do know that he had a son, Dr. Lucas Moore, who was a disciple of Freud and was one of the first practicing psychiatrists in England.”

“In England?”

“Yes. You’ll have no trouble finding information about him. He was quite controversial in his day.” Dr. Klein took a last sip of espresso and set down the cup. “I’m afraid that’s all I know, but perhaps this information will lead you to new clues that will help you solve the mystery.”

“Thank you, Dr. Klein. I appreciate you taking the time to speak to me. Do you accept PayPal?”

Dr. Klein made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “An autographed copy of the book would be thanks enough. It would make my wife very happy. Her name is Lindsay,” he added.

“I will see that Lindsay receives a copy as soon as the book is published.” If it’s ever published, I added inwardly, but did not put my doubt on display in front of Dr. Klein.

Dr. Klein took out his wallet and extracted a business card. “You can post the book to this address.”

“Thank you again,” I said, and began to gather my things.

“Good luck with your research, Nicole.”

Dr. Klein put on his coat, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and left the café, several women looking after him with undisguised longing as he passed.

Chapter 57

Now that I had new leads, I couldn’t wait to get started. As soon as I got home, I tossed my coat over the banister, kicked off my shoes, and sprinted to my study. A few minutes later, I finally hit paydirt, thanks to Eric Klein. I found a brief Wikipedia entry for J.H. Moore and a detailed one for Dr. Lucas Moore, which proved to be vastly more illuminating. Lucas Moore was born in 1860 in Vienna, the youngest child of Julian and Grace Moore (nee Hilliard). I actually let out a whoop of joy when I saw the name.

“I found you, Grace,” I said aloud. “I found you at last.”

Then I carefully read every word of the entry. Much was written about Lucas’s education and association with Sigmund Freud, but what really got my attention was a sentence that probably wouldn’t mean a thing to anyone else.

After the deaths of his parents, Lucas Moore relocated to London, where he opened London’s first psychiatric practice in Harley Street.

Perhaps this meant nothing at all and Lucas Moore had only wanted to set up his practice in a place where he would be the first to introduce a controversial new branch of medicine. Or it could mean that Julian and Grace Moore had never returned to the country of their birth and had preferred that their children remain in Vienna. Once I had the name of Lucas’s sisters, I was able to establish that they had done just that. Leisel and Adele had married prominent local businessmen and raised their families in Austria, far away from England and the bookshop at the center of my search.

According to the webpage, Lucas had married Anna Gruber in 1884 but his wife died in 1887, just before he picked up sticks and moved to England. In 1890, Lucas married American heiress Judith Westlake. Lucas and Judith had three children, all girls. Their eldest, Marie, married a distant cousin and moved to Chicago. The middle daughter, Eleonor, married her father’s partner and went on to have two daughters. And the youngest, Liza, never married and went on to become one of the first female journalists. I saw no point in continuing to research the Moore family tree, since it didn’t cross with the Hilliards at any point after Julian and Grace.

I was delighted to have finally made progress, but there were still a number of unanswered questions and glaring omissions. I couldn’t say I was particularly surprised to learn that Grace had married Julian Moore. From what Quinn had said, there had been an affinity between them that went beyond kinship, and given Grace’s state of mind, she would have gladly accepted an offer of marriage from a well-respected physician. After Edgar’s disappearance, Venetia must have taken over the shop, while Grace moved to Vienna with her husband and raised their children in Austria. Julian’s mother had been German, and he had been proficient enough in the language to publish his findings in German, which had made finding him more difficult and went a long way toward explaining why I’d had such trouble finding any factual information on Grace.

My parameters had been set for the United Kingdom, but if Grace and Julian had married in Vienna and their children had been born in Austria, it was very possible that the data had been excluded from my searches. That would also explain why I’d found no record of Grace’s death, since she’d died and been buried in her adopted homeland. However, this new information did not explain my inability to find Venetia, unless she had left the country as well, but that didn’t seem likely. Venetia must have kept the shop going until her son was old enough to take over, and his grandson had to be Calvin Hilliard.

Deborah’s family tree was finally coming together, and I had enough information to fill in the blanks. I would never know what had happened to Edgar unless Quinn supplied the final chapter of the story and was able to offer up a new clue, but if there was nothing more to learn, I had to be content with my story. I could go one of two ways and either make Edgar a victim of a violent crime or let him sail away with a view to starting a new life far away from London. I had yet to make the decision, but from what I had seen of Edgar, I didn’t think he’d run away. By today’s standards, he hadn’t been a very likable man, but today’s standards hadn’t applied in 1850, and he had been no different from other men of his generation. I hadn’t discovered anything that led me to believe he had decided to abandon his pregnant wife and devoted sister and just walked away. The shop was still there, so clearly Edgar had raised the money to make the necessary repairs and had found a way to grow the business. The only conclusion that made sense was that he had been set upon and murdered, his body disposed of or simply never identified.

I would drop by The Quill and Ink and share everything I had learned with Deborah this afternoon, but before I began to work on the book in earnest, I had to see to my own affairs and take measures to protect myself. The first of the month was fast approaching, but I hadn’t heard from either Martin or Sean. Martin was comfortable with Dove’s bona fides and ready to oversee the transfer of the funds, and I hadn’t spoken to Sean since I’d seen him at Easter. He must not have found anything suspicious or he would have called. And it was high time I responded to Gilcrest and Logue’s offer. I had dragged my feet long enough and had to commit one way or another. It would be impolite to delay any longer.

And I really wanted to speak to Quinn, but although I thought she was back from her holiday, she hadn’t phoned me. I would ring Quinn tomorrow, I decided, as I folded the pages I had printed off for Deborah and stowed them in my handbag. I sent Deborah a brief text, and then I was on my way.

Chapter 58

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Deborah said as she ran her finger over the family tree I had created.

Her brow was furrowed with confusion, and she was shaking her head. Today she was wearing an Edwardian shirtwaist dress with a red bowtie, and her hair was up. She looked like Marry Poppins, and I was suddenly tempted to tell her that a spoonful of sugar would make the medicine go down.

“The only theory that makes sense is that Venetia Hilliard gave birth to a boy, who went on to father your great-grandfather. That’s the only way the name and the shop could have been passed on to your father,” I explained yet again.

“But why is there no record of Venetia and her son? Wouldn’t his birth have been recorded in the parish register or the registry office?”

I couldn’t tell Deborah that thanks to Quinn, I knew precisely which church the Hilliards had attended, but I had followed up on the information.

“The church the Hilliards would have attended was destroyed during the Blitz. Duplicate registers were kept at the diocese, but they could have been lost as well.”

Deborah shook her head mulishly. “There has to be a way to track them down. Perhaps the records are moldering in some archive and no one realizes they exist.”

I took a steadying breath, my patience beginning to wear thin. I had presented Deborah with genealogical information she couldn’t have hoped to find on her own, but instead of thanking me, she was berating me and insinuating that I hadn’t done enough on her behalf.

“According to the diocese, all the records from the parish of Chelsea are available online. And if Venetia registered her son’s birth with the registry office, the record would still exist.”

“That can’t be,” Deborah argued, but now she sounded defeated, and I felt sympathy for her.

“I know this is important to you, Deborah, but there no way to bridge the gap between Edgar Hilliard and your grandfather without creating fictional characters.”

“And what about Edgar? We still don’t know what happened to him,” Deborah whined.

“The most likely possibility is that he was a victim of a crime,” I said. “No one would have had a reason to want Edgar dead, so it had to be a random attack.”

This wasn’t strictly true, since Edgar hadn’t been the blameless lamb Deborah believed him to be, but I saw no reason to tell her that. Besides, revealing the truth of his activities would invite a slew of questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.

“But his body was never found,” Deborah replied. “If it was a random attack, why would someone bother to dispose of his remains?”

I felt like we were going in circles, but I owed it to Deborah to explain my thought process and answer all her questions.

“Perhaps they didn’t dispose of it,” I said. “If Edgar died far from home, his body might have been discovered but never identified. Even though Grace and Venetia reported Edgar missing, the police didn’t have the resources to identify every John Doe.”

“So Edgar was buried in a pauper’s grave,” Deborah said softly. Her eyes filled with tears. “My heart breaks for his wife and son. Imagine going through life never knowing what became of someone you loved.”

I hated to upset Deborah further, but I needed to make my position clear, and I had to do it before we went any further. “Look, Deborah, there simply isn’t enough factual information to base a full-length novel on.”

I had invested several weeks in researching the Hilliards, but I couldn’t spin the facts into a gripping story without inventing motives, populating the story with fictional characters, and then bringing the tale to a shocking conclusion. What I had so far was an average family that had suffered its share of losses but wasn’t interesting enough to hold a reader’s attention.

“I would like to write Edgar’s story, but in order to do that, I must be given full creative license.”

“When you say creative license, how creative are we talking about?” Deborah asked, giving me a wary look.

“Very creative,” I replied. “You would have to accept whatever vices I invented for the characters and not hurl accusations of libel should my vision not align with your own. And I would need you to sign a disclaimer to that effect.”

Deborah cut her eyes at me. “In other words, you have every intention of dragging my family through the muck.”

Common sense warned me to leave it there, but I had come too far and invested too much time to abandon the story now. If Deborah couldn’t grant me the creative freedom I needed to craft a captivating narrative, then I would simply change the names and set the story in another part of London or even another city, but I had promised Deborah that I would write Edgar’s story, and I wanted to honor that promise if I could.

I tried one more time before pulling the plug. “Deborah, you own a bookshop. You know what sells. People want to be entertained, surprised, and most of all shocked and thrilled. A story about an average Victorian family and a child who grows up without a father is just not enough these days. I completely understand if you don’t feel comfortable and would rather I didn’t name your ancestors.”

Deborah nodded and smiled at me sadly. “Tell the story you need to tell, Nicole, but please, use real names and mention the shop. I’d rather my family was known for some titillating scandal than not remembered at all. I will sign a disclaimer and also give you my word that I will not make trouble for you should I come across passages I find upsetting.”

“All right,” I said. “Then we have a deal.”

“I would like to host a book release party right here in the shop,” Deborah hurried to add.

I nodded. Regardless of what Deborah said today, I would ask her to read the final draft, and if she had reservations, I would change the names. It was only fair given that her family would be put on display. She deserved the right of refusal even if she was legally obligated to accept whatever version of the story I decided to tell.

“May I keep this?” Deborah asked, running a reverent hand over the family tree. “I may never find out what really happened to Edgar, but at least now I know what became of Grace. I’m glad she married and had a family of her own. I’m going to reach out to Grace’s descendants. We’re family, after all.”

“Yes, you are. It all seems like a very long time ago, but really it’s only a couple of generations.”

Deborah suddenly grinned, the smile dispelling her serious expression. “I won’t lose hope, Nicole. No one ever expected to find Richard III, but one determined woman was able to succeed where countless others had failed. I might discover what happened to Edgar yet.”

“You’re completely obsessed,” Blake said as he approached the alcove. “Seriously, sign up for a dating app, Mum.”

Deborah blushed, and I took that as my cue to beat a retreat. My next order of business was to make inroads into my relationship with Dove. She was here to stay, and I would do everything in my power to build a lasting relationship with her. I texted her after I left The Quill and Ink and asked if she would like to meet for lunch tomorrow. Dove replied instantly, and we made a firm date.

Chapter 59

Dove was waiting by the restaurant. It was a Mediterranean café called Sahara that offered a number of vegan selections. I didn’t really care what we ate. The objective was to get to know Dove better and show her that I was willing to make an effort, even if I had been less than receptive before.

Dove looked beautiful in black leggings with an asymmetrical jersey in shades of brown and black and a soft brown suede jacket. I thought it was odd that she was vegan but wore leather and suede, but perhaps her decision was based on health benefits rather than an aversion to the slaughter of animals and the use of animal products. Dove smiled broadly when she saw me and went in for a hug. This time it didn’t feel as awkward. I had yet to feel a sense of kinship toward this woman, but I was getting there, and the prospect of becoming an aunt to Dove’s baby made me happy.

“How are you feeling?” I asked once we were seated and had ordered drinks.

“Surprisingly well,” Dove replied cheerfully. “The morning sickness has passed, and now I’m hungry all the time. I think I’m going to have the falafel platter. I hear it’s amazing.”

“I’ll have the salmon kabob,” I said.

Dove looked thoughtful. “Maybe I should go pescatarian while I’m pregnant. You know, for the baby’s sake. Did you do anything differently while you were pregnant with Ava?”

I chuckled. “All I wanted was chips. Hot, greasy, carbohydrate-laden chips.”

“I’m going to ask for chips with my falafel,” Dove said.

Today she was like a different person, her reserve replaced by something close to exuberance.

“I want to show you something.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a picture of a scan. I studied the tiny being that floated peacefully it its protective bubble and grinned. “It’s a girl. I can’t tell you why, but this baby doesn’t look like a Raven.”

Dove sighed. “I don’t think so either. I actually really like the name Everly. It’s lovely, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it’s very sweet.”

A small smile played about Dove’s mouth, and her eyes sparkled with joy. “And I found a new flat. I was able to scrape together enough cash for a deposit. I can move in on the fifteenth.”

“Dove, do you need some money to tide you over?” I asked.

“No,” Dove cried. “That wasn’t why I told you. I’ll be all right once the funds come through.”

I nodded. I didn’t really want to talk about that since the funds would be coming directly out of my personal account.

“I’d like to have you and Kyle and Mr. and Mrs. Walsh and the Cadogans come to dinner once I’m settled. I’d love to cook for you all.”

“That’s very kind, but there’s no rush. Will you need help moving?”

Dove shook her head. “I don’t have much. I’ll just throw my clothes into bin bags, grab my kettle and laptop, and I’ll be good to go.”

“What about the furniture?”

“There’s nothing worth keeping. The landlord will take it to the skip.”

Dove made it sound like she was living in some seedy squat, and I felt terrible for not offering to help her sooner.

“Really, if you need anything,” I began.

“I’m fine. Really. You’ve done so much for me already. And as long as Tyler doesn’t find out where I live, I will be okay.”

“What does Tyler do?” I asked once we had placed our order.

“He’s a musician. The sax. He’s in a band that plays retro jazz, but he drives a mini cab too. You know, to make ends meet.”

“Edie is a singer,” I said. “She has performed at a number of London clubs.”

“Yeah, I heard about what happened to her,” Dove said. “I’m so glad she wasn’t harmed.”

Edie might not have been physically harmed, but her emotional state was another matter altogether. However, I didn’t think it right to discuss such personal things with Dove or tell her that Edie had left the country and was now in New Jersey. Edie could tell Dove as much or as little as she wished if they decided to keep in touch.

“Edie’s boyfriend is a musician too,” I said. “Kieran Bowen.”

“Oh yeah, I know Kieran,” Dove replied airily.

Her look of dismay was so fleeting, I might not have noticed it had I looked away, but I got the impression that Dove regretted telling me that she and Kieran had met.

“Do you know him well?” I asked, trying to sound indifferent.

“Oh, no. I met him backstage once when Tyler was playing. Nice bloke.”

“He is.”

“Is Edie still seeing him?”

“I believe she is.”

“Hm, too bad. I would take a crack at him if he was single.”

Our food had arrived, and I was glad of the opportunity to change the subject. Dove and I talked easily for the remainder of the meal and agreed to meet up for lunch or a coffee the following week. We said goodbye outside the restaurant, and Dove hurried toward the bus stop. I decided to walk. It was only once I got home and walked into the kitchen to get a bottle of water that I recalled something odd, probably because an image of my own scan had remained pinned to the refrigerator for months, and I’d looked at it every time I needed something from the fridge. There had been no date or personal information printed at the top of Dove’s scan. It had looked like someone, probably Dove, had cut off the top.

Chapter 60

December 1849

Grace

As Christmas Eve drew to a close, all Grace could think of was that she couldn’t wait for the holiday to end. Venetia’s parents were supposed to join them at church Christmas Day and then come to dinner, but Venetia’s mother had caught a chill and sent her regrets. Venetia had invited Julian, but he couldn’t come either. He had agreed to take a shift at the hospital so that a colleague could spend the day with his family. Julian had promised to come by on Boxing Day and join them for luncheon, the only bright spot in an otherwise awful week.

Edgar had been unbearable the past few days. He’d eviscerated the play when Grace had finally finished the revisions and presented him with the new version, got into an altercation with Mr. Brynn when the builder informed Edgar that the repairs wouldn’t begin until the middle of January, and quarreled with Venetia when she asked Edgar to purchase a cradle and some basic necessities for the coming infant.

Venetia looked sullen, her eyes puffy from crying, while Edgar strutted around like a prize peacock, surveying his domain. Both Venetia and Grace breathed a sigh of relief when Edgar went out for the evening. They settled in the parlor and talked companionably, mostly about the coming baby.

“I didn’t feel anything toward the child at first,” Venetia confided. “It was an intruder. Someone who had taken over my body without my say-so and made me ill, but now my heart swells with love every time I think about it.” She cradled her belly, a smile playing about her lips. “I think this baby will change everything.”

“In what way?”

“It will give me a reason for being,” Venetia said. “Without the child, I serve no purpose.”

“Of course you do,” Grace exclaimed, but Venetia shook her head.

“Edgar likes the idea of having a wife and wants a son to carry on the family name, but I think any woman would do as long as she was comely and malleable. Edgar barely sees me,” Venetia said, her tone surprisingly matter of fact. “And you are so talented and independent. If not for you, Edgar would be lost. I think he’s secretly terrified that you will get married and leave him to manage his own affairs.”

“Edgar can manage without me,” Grace protested, but she was flattered by Venetia’s opinion of her. It made her feel a little less angry at Edgar and sympathetic to his worries. Depending on someone was never easy, especially when that someone was a woman with a mind of her own.

“A man can have many wives, but a child can have only one mother. And I will love this child, Grace, with everything that is in me. I will make it feel cherished and safe.”

“Is that how your mother made you feel?” Grace asked. There was a lump in her throat when she remembered her mother’s voice and her gentle touch. How different life would have been had their mother lived longer and been there to love and guide them.

Venetia shook her head. “I never felt close to my mother. She was always demanding and stern. I ran to my father when I felt sad or needed help, but Edgar is not like my father at all. He will not coddle our child. He will be more like Mother and expect nothing less than perfection.”

“I think he might surprise you,” Grace said, but Venetia was right. Edgar didn’t have it in him to be nurturing. She wouldn’t have said so even two years ago, but now that she had seen how he was with Venetia, Grace knew it to be true. She simply couldn’t imagine that Edgar’s nature could change overnight. The child was a means to an end, much like the marriage.

But wasn’t that the case with most marriages? How many people married because they felt genuine affection for their intended? Perhaps there were men who desired their brides and experienced a sense of pride when they got to show them off, but women married because there was no other choice. It was either accept the man who had chosen you or remain a spinster. Grace supposed there were those lucky few who fell in love with their spouses and lived in peace and harmony, but most women she knew simply tolerated their husbands and erected a wall of civility around themselves in order to disguise their true feelings.

“I can’t wait to hold my baby, Grace.” There was a dreamy look on Venetia’s face that made Grace feel a pang of envy. She longed for a child of her own and often imagined what it would be like to have a family. She grew lonelier with each passing day, and her thoughts often turned to Julian. He was still grieving for Helen, but surely someday he would be ready to marry again. Would he ever consider her, or would he look further afield, preferring to build a future with someone entirely new and unrelated to his old life?

Venetia interrupted Grace’s thoughts when she got to her feet with some difficulty and stretched her back, her hand on her belly.

“I can barely keep my eyes open,” Venetia said apologetically.

“Good night, Venetia. Sleep well.”

Venetia smiled sleepily. “Tomorrow might not be what we hoped for, but next year, our Christmas will be filled with joy.”

Grace nodded, feeling a little forlorn to be left on her own on Christmas Eve. She wasn’t ready to retire, so she fetched her notebook and allowed her mind to time travel to Ancient Greece.

Chapter 61

Quinn

It was nice to be back, but coming home also meant an end to Gabe’s electronics ban. Quinn logged into Twitter. She didn’t want to know what had been said about her in her absence, but she needed to know. It was always best to be prepared rather than find herself at a disadvantage. There were fewer new comments, but the conversation was still ongoing, numerous trolls doing their best to ridicule, accuse, and call for her downfall. Quinn sighed and logged off, then checked Facebook. The comments there weren’t as vicious but were still hurtful enough to make her heart squeeze with the unfairness of it all.

In each episode of Echoes from the Past, the viewers got exactly what they’d come for, a gripping story and a satisfying conclusion that tied up all the loose ends. What did it matter how Quinn had come by the information? She supplied factual evidence to back up her findings, even if she had originally obtained the information from her visions.

When she checked her emails, Quinn found a missive from Rhys, who’d forwarded a list of suggestions for the Christmas special. He’d starred two, an arrowhead found buried on Bosworth Field and a cabochon ring that was a family heirloom and was believed to have been gifted by Charles II to his mistress. Quinn was sure both objects had stories to tell but felt paralyzed with doubt at the mere thought of handling either of them. Perhaps it was time to get back to the basics, as Gabe had suggested. She needed time to regroup and reassess, which would mean that the Christmas special would have to be shelved for now. Rhys would be disappointed, but even though he’d try to cajole her and offer a list of reasons to go through with the special, he would understand if Quinn refused.

There was one case she would finish, though. She had promised Nicole that she would help, and she would see Grace Hilliard’s story to its conclusion no matter how long it took. Reaching for the manuscript, Quinn shut her eyes.

Chapter 62

February 1850

Grace

January had seemed interminable, the cold, gray days blending into one another as Grace did her best to hold down the fort. Edgar was moodier than ever, his dissatisfaction finding its target in his sister, his wife, and even Alice. He had given Mr. Brynn a fifty percent deposit, but the work had yet to begin, even though a shipment of bricks had been delivered by Alfie and another lad, the supplies taken down to the cellar and organized into tall stacks. Edgar tried to bully Alfie into giving him a firm start date, but Alfie smiled, shrugged, and told Edgar that he needed to speak to his employer. Alfie went where he was sent. It wasn’t up to him.

When Edgar called on Mr. Brynn at his office, the man seemed to always either be out at a building site or unavailable to speak to Edgar, which left Edgar raging, his anger often turning toward Alice. Edgar berated and threatened Alice with dismissal since she had been the one to bring Mr. Brynn to Edgar’s attention and was indirectly responsible. Alice looked pale and frightened and tried to stay out of Edgar’s way as much as her duties allowed, relying on Grace to come to her defense when Edgar became unreasonable.

They all breathed a sigh of relief when Edgar went out, but whereas he had gone out often before the New Year, he now remained at home most nights, staring balefully into the fire and complaining about the cost of coal. In response to Edgar’s sullen rants, Venetia retreated into herself, refusing to be drawn out, and Grace spent the evenings in her room, working on her manuscript. She was almost finished with the first draft and intended to complete the story and begin working on the second draft by the end of the month. Edgar’s play lay ignored in a drawer, his desire to get it published seemingly forgotten as he brooded about first quarter profits and the ever-widening crack in the cellar wall. There were times when he seemed lost in thought, and when Venetia or Grace tried to speak to him, his replies didn’t quite make sense.

Edgar had given in to melancholy, and although it felt a bit disloyal, Grace had finally discussed the situation with Julian and asked for his help. To her surprise, Julian had refused to take Edgar on as a patient and had recommended a physician of his acquaintance, citing a conflict of interest as his reason. Grace had yet to broach the subject with Edgar, who she knew would rant and rave, and accuse her of all manner of betrayals rather than seek help from a doctor for whatever was ailing him.

Grace looked forward to her time in the shop. It was a relief to be away from Edgar’s anger and Venetia’s misery, and it offered an opportunity to converse with other people and pretend that everything was normal. The evenings were the hardest, the three of them forced to endure meals together and then sit in the parlor for at least an hour before coming up with excuses to hide in their rooms. Even Venetia’s parents hadn’t called, feeling unwelcome in their daughter’s home, and asking that she come to see them once her confinement was over.

It was on a cold, wet day in February that Venetia’s labor began. She felt the first twinges just after breakfast, the pains continuing throughout the afternoon and growing more intense. Normally, Venetia remained upstairs during the day, but freezing rain drummed against the shop window, and the sky was so dark, it felt like evening when it was midafternoon. Hardly anyone came into the shop, which was dim despite the lamps Grace had lit. Frightened to be on her own, Venetia came downstairs and alternated between walking among the shelves and sitting in the alcove and moaning softly every time a contraction seized her.

Freezing rain eventually gave way to heavy, wet snow, the huge flakes settling on every surface and turning the world beyond the window into an arctic landscape within an hour. Grace locked the door, turned the card in the window to indicate that the shop was closed, and took Venetia upstairs. Venetia refused to eat and walked around the parlor to ease her discomfort, planting her hands on an occasional table and gritting her teeth every time a wave of pain washed over her. Seemingly untroubled by Venetia’s suffering, Edgar spent the afternoon reading before the fire. His gaze occasionally slid toward his laboring wife, but he didn’t offer any words of comfort or support. After a solitary dinner, he retreated upstairs, then came down in his evening clothes a short while later.

“Where are you going?” Grace exclaimed as she followed him down the stairs into the shop. The only light came from a streetlamp, the top of the lantern wearing a fluffy cap of snow.

“I can’t take this,” Edgar hissed. “I need to get out of this house. With any luck, I’ll find a card game and win a few quid. Lord knows we’re burning through the takings from the shop with all the coal we go through.”

“But Venetia needs you.”

“Giving birth is woman’s work. My presence will only add to her discomfort.”

“Nonsense. You should be here.”

“Get out of my way, Grace. I will be back in a few hours. Hopefully, I will have a son by then.”

“Edgar,” Grace called after him, but Edgar unlocked the door and hurried down the street, his boots leaving deep tracks in the snow.

The evening dragged on, and by eight o’clock, Grace walked Venetia to her bedroom, helped her undress, and saw her to bed. Venetia was no longer engaging in small talk or paying attention to Grace or Alice, who was hovering by the door in case she was needed. Venetia was panting and grunting, her face flushed and her hair damp despite the cold draft that breached the windowpanes and chilled the room. Alice made a fire while Grace sat by Venetia’s side, mopping her brow and muttering words of comfort.

Grace had never witnessed a birth and didn’t know what to do when it was time for the child to be born, but the midwife, Mrs. Gibson, who lived in the next street, had instructed her to send Alice once Venetia’s contractions were a few minutes apart.

“I think it’s time, Alice,” Grace said when the pains came roughly five minutes apart. “Go for Mrs. Gibson.”

“Yes, miss.”

Alice glanced toward the window, where the snow had once again turned to rain and was lashing the windows with wild abandon. This was a night to stay indoors, preferably before a warm fire, but Alice could hardly refuse Grace’s request. Grace heard Alice’s boots pounding down the uncarpeted staircase and then the opening and closing of the door as she was swallowed by the filthy night.

Please, get here quickly, Grace prayed as she waited for Alice to return with the midwife. She was terrified that the child would decide to make an appearance while she was alone with Venetia, and she wouldn’t know what to do.

To her great relief, Mrs. Gibson arrived not ten minutes later, spent a few minutes closeted with Venetia, then emerged to speak to Grace in the corridor.

“I will need warm water, towels, and clean rags. Mrs. Hilliard is close, but we have some time yet.”

Grace nodded and headed to the kitchen, where Alice had already filled the kettle and set it on the hob and had taken out an enamel basin and a basket Mrs. Gibson could use for soiled linens. It seemed she knew what to do, which didn’t surprise Grace in the least. Despite her childish appearance, Alice had more experience than either Grace or Venetia, and her years in the orphanage had prepared her for a life of struggle and deprivation.

“Is Mrs. Hilliard all right?” Alice asked, her pale face tight with tension.

“Mrs. Gibson assures me all is well.”

Alice nodded and went about her preparations, her movements sure and economical. By midnight, Alice had reheated the kettle several times and Grace had worn herself out with pacing, but the baby had yet to come. Venetia’s tortured screams filled the silence, but as the hours ticked by, the cries went from loud and robust to low moans and pathetic whimpers. Edgar had not returned, and Grace didn’t think he’d make an appearance until morning.

Mrs. Gibson emerged just after midnight. She looked tired, her round face flushed and tense with anxiety.

“Is everything all right, Mrs. Gibson?” Grace asked, but the midwife shook her head.

“I think you had best send for the doctor, Miss Hilliard. Something is wrong.”

Grace didn’t wait to hear what Mrs. Gibson had to say. She grabbed her reticule and sprinted down the stairs.

“Fetch Dr. Moore. Mrs. Hilliard needs him urgently,” Grace ordered Alice.

Alice looked shocked, her gaze on the impenetrable darkness beyond the kitchen window. It was still raining hard, but the snow had washed away, and the streets were slick with rainwater.

“Here,” Grace exclaimed as she fumbled with the clasp of the reticule and handed Alice a handful of coins. “Take a cab. Hurry!”

Alice nodded, but her reluctance to go out alone at night was obvious, her fear right there in her reddened eyes. She had been on her feet since well before dawn, and she looked exhausted.

“I’ll go. You stay here and give Mrs. Gibson whatever assistance she requires,” Grace exclaimed.

“Yes, miss,” Alice replied, visibly relieved.

Grace pulled on her wool cape and hastily tied the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin. She hated to admit it, but she was afraid. She had never been out after dark alone and wished Edgar were there, but he had chosen to stay away at a time when the women in his life needed him most. Grace inwardly raged at his selfishness, but now wasn’t the time to focus on Edgar. Venetia needed her.

Grace breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted a hansom coming down the empty street. The cabbie sat hunched on his perch, his shoulders around his neck and his hat pulled low to keep out the rain. The plodding horse looked miserable and worn out, its mane dripping rainwater onto the cobbles. The cabbie pulled on the reins when he saw Grace, and the conveyance slowed down.

“Ye shouldn’t be out by yerself, miss,” he said reproachfully when Grace called out the address and climbed into the carriage, gratefully pulling a mangy rug over her sodden skirts. “It ain’t safe for a young lady to be abroad at night.”

“It’s an emergency,” Grace cried. “Please, hurry.”

The hansom lurched as the cabbie whipped the reins, and Grace sank back against the seat, hiding in the shadows when she spotted a group of young men sauntering down the street, their slurred words carrying on the wind. She felt safer in the dark and prayed that they wouldn’t see her and choose her as the object of their night’s sport. A woman was never safe on her own, even in a cab. One drunken lout called out something to the cabbie, but the man ignored him and kept going, leaving the rowdy young bucks behind to find an alternative source of entertainment.

Grace’s heart pounded with fear, and the blood roared in her ears as the alleyways and houses that lined the streets went from modest but respectable to decidedly shabby, and the men who stumbled out of taverns and vomited into the gutter or shamelessly relieved themselves against the walls looked rougher and more down-at-the-heel than any Grace had ever seen on the streets near the shop. Dr. Moore had taken rooms close to the hospital, but Grace hadn’t realized just how seedy a neighborhood he lived in and prayed she would return home safely.

“Please wait for me,” she pleaded with the cabbie when he pulled up before the address Julian had given her.

“Don’t ye worry, love. I’ll be right ’ere, waiting for ye.”

Grace thanked him and pounded on the door, hoping someone was still awake and would admit her. A woman of middle years, wearing a drab dressing gown and a cap over her graying tresses, eventually opened the door.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I need to see Dr. Moore. It’s an emergency.”

“No women permitted on the premises.” The woman was clearly the landlady and would protect the reputation of her establishment even when there was no one about to see her bend the rules and allow a drenched young woman to wait inside. She seemed unsure whether she should fetch Julian.

“Please, Dr. Moore’s cousin is very poorly. She might die,” Grace cried.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hobbs.” Julian’s voice came from somewhere behind the woman. “Please, allow Miss Hilliard to come inside.”

“Dr. Moore—” Mrs. Hobbs began, but Julian cut across her.

“Let her in.”

Mrs. Hobbs finally stepped away from the door, and Grace came in out of the rain, grateful for the short reprieve before she had to go back out again.

“Grace, what is it?” Julian asked.

“It’s Venetia. She’s been laboring for hours. The midwife said she needs a doctor.”

“I’ll get my bag.”

Julian sprinted upstairs and returned a few moments later, coat and hat on, bag in hand, and a reassuring smile on his face.

“All will be well, Grace. Let’s go.”

“I have a hansom waiting,” Grace said.

Julian nodded his approval and opened the door. The rain was coming down in sheets now, sharp bits of ice pelting Grace’s face and making her shiver inside her damp clothes. She was so cold, her teeth were beginning to rattle.

“Are you all right?” Julian asked once they were on their way and Grace was wrapped up in the rug. Feeling was returning to her extremities, but she was still cold inside, fear for Venetia growing despite Julian’s presence.

“I’m very frightened,” she admitted.

“Where’s Edgar? Why did he not come for me?”

“He went out hours ago.”

“Bloody coward,” Julian muttered under his breath.

“Don’t judge him too harshly. I think he was afraid.”

Julian sighed heavily but refrained from maligning Edgar any further. There seemed little point.

The streets were nearly deserted, and they made it to the shop in good time. Julian tossed a few coins to the cabbie while Grace unlocked the door, her hands shaking so violently, she nearly dropped the key. Grace took a moment to divest herself of cape and bonnet, while Julian went directly upstairs. Grace heard him conferring with Mrs. Gibson, and then the door closed behind him, and she heard nothing more but Venetia’s low moans.

When Grace went into the kitchen, Alice was asleep at the table but woke with a start and stared at Grace guiltily, clearly bracing for a reprimand.

“It’s all right. Go to bed, Alice. It’s nearly two in the morning.”

“Thank you, miss.”

Alice shuffled out of the kitchen, while Grace, still quaking with nerves and shivering with cold, made a pot of tea. Normally, she took it with milk, but she was too tired to fetch the milk from the larder. Instead she sank into a chair and drank the tea black, grateful for its warmth and rejuvenating bitterness. She was bone tired and terrified. So many women died in childbirth, their babies with them. How could Edgar leave her to deal with this on her own when it was his wife and child who were in peril? What if Julian was too late?

Having drunk two cups of tea, Grace trudged up the stairs to the parlor and stared at the darkness beyond the lace-curtained window, the clock on the mantel ticking off the minutes as she waited for word. It was just past three o’clock in the morning when an agonized scream pierced the dense silence, and then all was quiet once again, until the bedroom door finally opened, and Mrs. Gibson hurried down the stairs. She didn’t see Grace, but Grace had seen her face and knew that tragedy had struck their family once again. She forced herself to stand and walked slowly up the stairs, stopping before the closed door and begging God for strength as she raised her hand to knock.

Julian opened the door but didn’t allow Grace to come inside, using his body to block Grace’s view of the room. He was in his shirtsleeves, the shirtfront stained with blood and his jaw covered with dark stubble. His expression was grim, and he looked like he would rather be anywhere in the world than where he was. Grace spotted bloodstained linens in the basket by the bed and caught a glimpse of Venetia’s gray face when Julian lifted his hand to rub his tired face. Venetia’s eyes were shut, her hands very still atop the coverlet.

“I’ll be right back,” Julian said quietly.

He disappeared inside, then stepped out into the corridor a moment later, a tiny bundle in his arms. An anguished cry tore from Grace as she looked down at the child’s lifeless face. Its skin was bluish, the eyes swollen shut. Grace’s hand flew to her mouth as she tried to stifle her sobs, but Julian shook his head.

“It’s a blessing, Grace,” Julian said, his voice low.

“How can you say that?” Grace choked out.

Julian sighed, covered the child’s face with a corner of the blanket, and leaned against the wall. He was clearly in need of propping up. “The child shows signs of syphilis.”

“What?” Grace cried. She had understood the words but not the implications of what Julian was telling her. “How can that be? Julian, I don’t understand.”

Julian looked like he’d rather stick needles in his eyes than provide an explanation, but he was a doctor first, Venetia’s cousin second, and it was his duty to be truthful. “I have suspected for some time that Edgar has syphilis. From the first, actually. Had I been here, I might have prevented Venetia from marrying him, but I was too late.” Julian looked like he was going to cry. “All I could do was watch and wait and pray that Venetia and the child had been spared.”

“No!” Grace wailed, tears streaming down her face. “No, it can’t be. You’re mistaken. How would Edgar contract syphilis?”

“The same way everyone else does, by engaging in sexual congress with prostitutes.” Julian was visibly angry now, his jaw pulsing with tension. “There was nothing I could do, Grace. Edgar and Venetia were already married. He must have infected her early on, and the disease was passed on to the child.”

“I don’t believe it,” Grace wailed. “Edgar would never—”

“He would, and he has. And this is the result.”

“And Venetia?” Grace whispered, finally grasping the full extent of the tragedy.

“Venetia might not show symptoms for a while yet, but it’s in her blood. She cannot be allowed to bear any more children.”

“What do we do?” Grace cried, her grief and desperation threatening to overwhelm her.

“I will speak to Edgar and explain the situation. They may continue to live as man and wife, but if Venetia gets with child, there’s a strong possibility that the child will be afflicted.”

“But how can they—?” Grace didn’t know how to phrase her question, but Julian understood what she meant.

“There are ways to prevent conception, but Edgar has to be willing to abide by what I prescribe.”

“He won’t,” Grace said, her voice and her resolve near to breaking. She had loved Edgar all her life, had trusted and supported him, but he was a selfish, at times cruel man who cared only for his own needs. Edgar wouldn’t listen or care. “What now?” she asked quietly. “Does Venetia know?”

Julian shook his head. “She knows only that her son was stillborn.”

“And the baby?” Grace asked, her gaze sliding to the child in the crook of Julian’s arm.

“We will find a place to bury him. The Church does not allow unbaptized babies to be interred in hallowed ground.”

“But that’s so cruel,” Grace exclaimed.

“It is, but there’s nothing we can do. Some women bury their babies at the edge of a cemetery, or beneath the wall, but if discovered, the remains will be removed and disposed of.”

Grace’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. She couldn’t bear to hear any more. All she wanted was to go to her room, shut the door, and hide away until morning came. She would sell her soul for Venetia to tell her it was all a horrible dream and she and Edgar had a beautiful baby boy.

Grace stilled when she heard the shop door open downstairs and then Edgar’s heavy tread on the stairs. Grace moved toward the top of the stairs, watching as Edgar ambled up, reeking of spirits and unsteady on his feet. He grinned when he saw Julian behind her, the child in his arms. “Is that my son?” Edgar slurred.

“Your son is dead,” Julian said, his pronouncement devoid of any trace of compassion. “The child was born with the pox.”

Edgar looked stunned, then shrugged dismissively. “A mercy, then.”

His callousness broke something in Grace, and she stepped forward just as he reached the top of the stairs. “The baby is dead because of you, Edgar,” she exclaimed. “Venetia is heartbroken.”

“Babies die all the time,” Edgar growled.

“He died because you couldn’t control your basest needs,” Grace rebuked him.

“Don’t you dare blame me,” Edgar roared. “What do you know of a man’s needs, you dried up old hag?”

Grace heard Julian’s sharp intake of breath and felt his hand on her arm, but the fury that surged inside her was like molten magma, years of abuse culminating in this awful night, the latest victim of Edgar’s indifference the tiny corpse in Julian’s arms. Grace let out a roar of anger and shoved Edgar with all her might.

She watched with mounting horror as he tumbled down the stairs, an ominous crack filling the silence when he reached the bottom step. His body lay sprawled on the landing beneath, his head resting at an unnatural angle.

“Oh dear God,” Grace cried. “What have I done?”

Julian shoved the child into Grace’s arms and sprinted down the stairs. He knelt next to Edgar, but a moment later, he looked up at Grace and shook his head. “He’s dead.”

“I killed him,” Grace whispered. “I murdered my own brother.” It was surreal, the stuff of nightmares. “No,” she wailed, and ran down the steps to kneel beside Edgar’s body, the child’s lifeless body between them.

It was only when Julian finally helped her to her feet that she noticed Alice. The girl was standing at the top of the stairs, silent and watchful. The landing was lost in semi-darkness, the three of them hardly more than shadowy silhouettes. All was quiet, but the vicious words still hung in the air, the scene that had just played out like something out of a stage production. But it had been real, and in mere moments, everything had changed. New allegiances had been formed, and the axis of power had shifted. As Grace’s and Alice’s eyes met in silent acknowledgement, they knew that nothing would ever be the same, for either of them.

Chapter 63

Nicole

“Grace pushed Edgar down the stairs?” I cried, then immediately lowered my voice and looked around to make sure no one was watching. The café was nearly empty, but a woman seated at a table by the far wall stared at me, openmouthed, then immediately turned away when she saw me looking.

“Far be it for me to defend a murderess, but Edgar Hilliard had it coming. What a reprobate,” Quinn said, and shook her head in obvious disgust.

“Still,” I said, my voice softer now, “I never imagined this.”

“Neither did I. I don’t think Deborah Dolan will be very happy to learn that her illustrious ancestor gave his wife and son the pox and then broke his neck when his sister shoved him down the stairs.”

“Deborah agreed to give me full creative control,” I said, realizing how ridiculous that sounded in view of what Quinn had just divulged.

“I don’t think this is what she had in mind,” Quinn said. “She probably wanted you to make Edgar out to be the doomed hero.”

“He was certainly doomed, if not very heroic.”

Quinn sighed as she stirred a sachet of sugar into her coffee. “I did some research before coming here today, and let me tell you, Nicole, dying of syphilis had to be one of the worst ways to go. A horrible, prolonged degeneration that robbed those afflicted not only of their physical features but of their sight, hearing, sanity, and eventually the ability to care for themselves. It was a silent epidemic in the nineteenth century, when so many men availed themselves of prostitutes and did not use any protection to prevent the spread of disease.”

“Did every woman who was exposed become ill?” I asked, thinking of the countless women whose husbands paid for sex and knowingly ignored the risk of infection to themselves and their wives and children.

“There are different stages of syphilis, not all of them infectious. According to my online research, the most contagious period was before the person was aware they had the pox or experienced any symptoms.”

“Would the signs be immediately obvious in a newborn child?”

Quinn pulled out her phone and Googled my query. “A child born with congenital syphilis might exhibit a rash on the palms and the soles of their feet, a symptom an experienced doctor might notice right away,” she said.

“And Julian Moore would know the signs since his area of interest was contagion and immunology. And he would know what awaited that child had it lived.”

Quinn nodded. “I saw photos of individuals in an advanced stage of syphilis, and they were absolutely horrific. Most people went into hiding once the physical symptoms began to manifest themselves, with women wearing thick black veils to hide their facial deformities. Of course, rather than decry the sex trade and spousal infidelity, some clergy called those afflicted sinners and proclaimed their suffering to the be will of God, blaming innocent women and children who never had any say in the matter.”

“Disgraceful,” I said.

“Bad behavior was always excused when undertaken by those who had all the power, and in Victorian England, men held all the cards.”

“Speaking of cards, I thought Edgar might have been caught cheating.”

“I think he might have been, in time. He was growing increasingly careless and noticeably belligerent.”

“What do you think happened to Edgar’s remains?” I asked.

Quinn shook her head. “I don’t know yet, but given that Julian Moore married Grace and left the country, I’d say the two of them probably disposed of Edgar’s body and fled before Grace could be arrested.”

“And Venetia?”

“The poor woman lost her child and husband in one night. I wouldn’t be surprised if she went mad when she learned the truth,” Quinn replied sadly.

“But that still doesn’t explain how the Hilliards managed to hold on to the shop. We know that Grace and Julian never returned to England, and I doubt Venetia remarried and bore another child. The Hilliard line came to an abrupt end, only to resurface a generation later.”

“I don’t think we’ll ever know what happened since Grace left her manuscript behind, therefore severing her connection to the object,” Quinn said. “Some truths are lost to time, so you can write whatever ending you want.”

“I don’t think I’m going to stick to the facts,” I said. “What happened is just too grim, and dredging up the truth will destroy Deborah and by extension Blake. They lost the man they loved to suicide. That’s tragedy enough for one lifetime.”

“I agree. Best not to be unkind.”

“So, what’s next for you?” I asked carefully, not wanting to expressly ask about the accusations on social media. “Are you still going to do the Christmas special?”

“I don’t think so. At least not right now. I always knew the world would judge me harshly if the truth of my psychic ability came out, but Gabe was right; it was time to stop hiding.”

“You make it sound as if it was your decision.”

“It was,” Quinn replied. “I intentionally mentioned it to someone I knew I couldn’t trust.”

“Who was it?”

Quinn shrugged. “The person’s name is not important. What’s important is that now everyone knows, and most people don’t care. The ones that do have had their say and have begun to move on. By next week, I will be old news.”

“Then why not do another series of Echoes?”

“Watching Grace’s story unfold reminded me how much it takes out of me to live through other people’s most harrowing moments. Their suffering, fear, and the dawning realization that nothing will ever be the same is as real as my own feelings and fears. Grace and Julian managed to survive and move on, but they could never go home. And Venetia’s hopes for the future were irrevocably destroyed.”

“Perhaps Venetia remained in London and managed the shop, but who was her heir?” I asked, still wondering about the link that connected Edgar to the next known Hilliard.

Quinn shrugged and gathered her things. “I must go. Do let me know how you decide to end this tale of woe.”

“Thanks, Quinn. I would have never solved this mystery without you.”

The scent of Quinn’s perfume lingered for a few moments before it was overlayed by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the buttery goodness of piping hot croissants. Normally, I would enjoy the delicious smells, but today I felt queasy and sad. Quinn had helped me because she was my friend, but now that I knew what it took out of her and the lengths she’d gone to in order to reveal the truth, I wouldn’t be too quick to ask for help again. It wasn’t fair to take advantage of her ability or her friendship.

Chapter 64

Needing a quiet moment to absorb what I had learned and outline possible outcomes for a story that would no longer be based on fact, I was still at the café when my mobile vibrated, an incoming text from Sean asking if we could meet and stressing that it was a matter of urgency that we speak as soon as possible. I hadn’t known Sean long, but I trusted him implicitly. He wouldn’t summon me unless he had something important to say. Heart fluttering, I grabbed my things and left the café, opting for speed instead of economy. I hailed a taxi and directed the driver to take me to New Scotland Yard.

Sean was waiting in the foyer, and when he saw me, his smile was a cross between smugness and genuine concern. It was strange to see him at Scotland Yard but out of uniform, a visitor’s pass hanging around his neck as if he were someone who needed to be kept track of rather than a man who’d stood at the helm of the Yard for years, his face synonymous with the Met and all it represented. I thought Sean was acutely aware and a little bit insulted by his new civilian status, but he had come to Scotland Yard for me, and I appreciated his sacrifice.

“What is it? What happened?” I asked as soon as I was within earshot.

Sean’s expression was difficult to read, but he reached out and took both my hands, his voice gentle and his gaze soft on my face. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry for what?”

“I asked you to meet here because you need to give a statement.”

“A statement?”

“Yes. You are now a witness in an ongoing investigation.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. As far as I was aware, no crime had been committed, but given what Sean had promised to do, there could be only one case that pertained to me.

Sean walked me over to security, and the woman behind the desk issued me a guest pass and watched as Sean and I walked toward the bank of elevators.

“She’s a fraud, isn’t she?” I asked as soon as the elevator doors closed and we were alone.

“I ordered a DNA test, and you two are not even distantly related.”

“Wait, what?” I exclaimed. “Dove agreed to a DNA test?”

Sean smiled kindly at me, as if I were a tad daft and needed something ridiculously obvious explained to me. “She did not agree to a DNA test. I never asked her.”

“So, how did this come about?”

Sean’s smile grew wider, his expression changing to one of professional pride. “Rita and I became suspicious when your solicitor agreed to a payout without insisting on a DNA test. Now, Martin Stillwell has a solid reputation and has never come up on our radar, but something just didn’t feel right.”

“So you and Rita decided to do a little investigating of your own?” I asked, amused despite my initial shock. My in-laws might be retired, but they were far from inactive. I thought Kyle would do well to consider starting a new series and casting his parents as the lead characters. There was quite a demand for stories about crafty, older civilian sleuths, who weren’t averse to breaking a few rules and getting their hands dirty in the name of justice. After all, a high percentage of mystery readers were retirees, and they liked to see their age group represented, which accounted for the roaring success of murder mystery series like The Thursday Murder Club.

Sean nodded. “Some things Dove told you were true. Lark Mitchell and your dad worked at the same bank for many years. It’s safe to assume that they knew each other well and were probably on friendly terms. Lark never married, but she had a daughter named Danielle, whose paternity was left blank on her birth certificate. Danielle moved to Montreal after her mum died. She is a dental technician, an avid ice skater, and a fanatical hockey fan.”

“How do you know this?”

“I spoke to her.”

The elevator stopped, and we exited on our floor but didn’t immediately proceed to the interview room. I needed to hear the rest of the story and understand the full extent of the conspiracy to defraud me. Sean escorted me to a waiting area, and we sat down, talking softly so we wouldn’t be overheard.

“Dove friended a number of Danielle’s contacts on social media, so when she sent her a friend request, Danielle thought nothing of it. Dove then mined her account for anything she could use, including that photograph she showed you. The original photo is of Danielle and her mum. Your father was edited in.”

“But the photo looked so real. And old,” I added.

“I expect the image was Photoshopped, then printed. Did you ever post any pictures of your dad on Facebook?”

I nodded. I hadn’t made the connection at the time because the image had been taken out of context, but now that I was aware that the photo Dove had shown me was fake, I knew exactly which picture she had used. It was a snap I had posted about a decade ago, on what would have been my dad’s birthday. My mum had taken the photo at a neighbor’s barbecue, with Dad sitting on a bench, his expression one of pure devotion because he had been looking at his wife.

“All Dove would have to do was carry the photo in her wallet for a few weeks and it would get that dogeared look,” Sean said. “She must have been planning this for a while,” he added, as if reading my thoughts.

“And the birth certificate?” I asked, but I could already guess.

“A clever fake. She also added the data to various ancestry sites, in case you decided to investigate her on your own. Did you?”

“No. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I trusted Martin to verify her claim.”

“And that’s where you went wrong,” Sean said.

“Are you saying that Martin intentionally misled me?”

“Not intentionally, no. Martin Stillwell tasked his clerk, Dennis Walters, with verifying the validity of Dove’s claim, which he did. As far as Martin was concerned, Dove was your father’s daughter and Dennis had the paperwork to prove it. But a little peek at Dennis’s bank records showed that a sum of ten thousand pounds had been deposited into his account two days before Dove accosted you at the book signing.”

“Dennis accepted a bribe?” I balked at the suggestion, but Dennis wouldn’t be the first person to be seduced by money.

“Dennis is in debt. He owes close to twenty thousand on his credit cards. Ten thousand quid to slip a phony birth certificate into a file probably seemed worth the risk, and his gamble would have paid off had Rita and I not interfered.”

“So, how did you manage to get a DNA test if Dove never agreed to one?” I asked, more than a little impressed by my crafty in-laws.

“Rita obtained several strands of hair from Dove’s scarf and took the glass Dove drank from when she came to your house for Easter. We were able to get not only DNA but prints.”

I nodded, a slow smile of understanding spreading across my face. “She is a repeat offender.”

“With a criminal record in both her native Netherlands and the U.K.,” Sean added.

“I must admit, the woman has guts,” I said. “To try to defraud someone who’s related to two experienced police officers takes serious bollocks.”

“Rita has been retired for several years, and I left under a cloud, so perhaps she thought she was safe.”

“Is she?”

“Dove’s accomplice, Neils Larson, was brought in an hour ago and will be charged with a slew of offenses. He impersonated a well-respected solicitor, and I expect he was the one who forged the birth certificate and the photograph. He’s the brains behind the operation, and Dove is the face.”

“I suppose it must have been Neils who kept ringing her when we met.”

“I’m sure they had the timing worked out. That way Dove could tell you what she had come to say and play on your sympathies, then have an excuse to leave before you had a chance to ask too many questions.”

“Will I have to see her?” My voice quavered with apprehension, and Sean laid a calming hand on my wrist.

“You do not have to see her unless you want to, but your testimony is imperative if we want the charges to stick.”

“Who’s we?” I asked, assuming Sean had handpicked a favorite disciple to work the case.

“I brought the evidence to DI Mina Hewlett. She is on the Fraud Squad and has had Dove on her radar for years. She’ll take it from here.”

“Will DI Hewlett be able to present illegally obtained evidence in court?” I asked, but I had already guessed the answer. She wouldn’t need to. She would use the fingerprints and DNA swabs taken at the time of arrest and then compare them against the ones in the system, legalizing the process. No one would have to know that she’d been tipped off.

“Dennis Walters will testify in order to get a reduced sentence,” Sean said. “And there are other victims, who’re chomping at the bit to see the person who scammed them get what she deserves.”

“Thank you, Sean.”

“What for?”

“For looking out for me. You and Rita have not only protected the assets that will one day go to Ava, but you have also saved me from heartbreak.” Tears pricked at my eyes. “I was beginning to care for Dove, or whatever her name is.”

“Inga,” Sean replied. “Inga Vorhees.”

“What will happen to her baby if she goes to prison?” I asked, but deep down I already knew the answer to that as well.

“There’s no baby. It’s all part of her MO. Inga wanted you to feel protective toward her. It would also prevent you from questioning her motives too strenuously. A young woman who’s alone, pregnant, and fearful of her abusive boyfriend is not someone people tend to mistrust.”

“And she’d be long gone by the time I figured it out,” I concluded.

“Exactly. Inga was booked on a flight to Amsterdam for the day after the transfer.”

“Thank you,” I said again.

“My pleasure, my dear.” Sean smiled widely. “You’re one of my girls, and I will protect you with my life.”

“And I would like to see her,” I said, making the decision before I had too much time to think and change my mind. I needed closure, and I would never get it unless Inga and I came face to face one more time.

“I thought you might,” Sean said. “That’s why I made sure you had a front row seat when she was brought in.”

It wasn’t a long wait, although it felt like hours, until the elevator doors opened and two uniformed officers escorted Inga Vorhees outside. She was wearing cuffs and an expression that would have really frightened me had she been free to come at me. All traces of Dove were gone, including the jet-black hair and slightly goth makeup. Inga Vorhees had short white-blond hair, and fair eyebrows and lashes that made her blue eyes look strangely naked, but despite the change in coloring, her features were unmistakable.

Our eyes met, and she held my gaze, her lip curling with disdain. If I had expected to see remorse or even a hint of apology, I was to be disappointed. Inga laughed in my face, then turned away, leaving the two police officers no choice but to follow her down the corridor. They escorted her to a room midway down the corridor, then left her to await whoever was coming to speak to her.

I let out a strangled breath, silently acknowledging how close I had come to becoming Inga and Niels’s next victim. If not for Rita and Sean, the next few weeks would have proved to be not only eye-opening but downright hellish.

Sean laid a fatherly hand on my back as he guided me toward the interview room where DI Hewlett waited to speak to me. I thought Sean would come in, but he remained outside since he was now a private citizen. His part in this affair was over.

Chapter 65

“Did you know?” I asked Kyle as soon as I walked through the door at home.

Kyle didn’t bother to insult my intelligence by feigning ignorance but looked at me with concern, as if trying to gauge how my interview with DI Hewlett had gone and what sort of mood I might be in.

“Not until a few days ago,” he said at last.

“Why didn’t you tell me Sean and Rita were investigating Dove? Inga,” I amended. I could never think of her as Dove again.

“Because I needed to be sure. If Dove proved to be your sister, I didn’t want you to start off your relationship with her by accusing her of fraud.”

“Did you help your mum gather the evidence?” I asked, a smile tugging at my lips despite my earlier annoyance. Kyle had offered to clean up after our Easter dinner and had been the one to load the dishwasher. Had I done it, I would have noticed that one of the glasses was missing.

Kyle nodded. “I distracted Dove while Mum pulled a few hairs off her scarf and bagged them before her scarf could come in contact with the rest of the coats. I also used a serviette to pick up the glass, bagged it, and slipped it into Mum’s handbag while she was talking to Dove.

“Some would call that entrapment,” I teased.

“I will use any means necessary to protect my family,” Kyle replied. “And if I have to involve my parents, I will.”

“Were you suspicious of Dove from the start?”

“I was inclined to trust Martin, but once she made her intentions clear, I wanted to make sure she was really who she said she was and not a clever fake, so I took a look at her social media. Everything looked legit, but all the accounts had been created quite recently. That was a red flag. A woman her age would have been on social media for years.”

“It never felt quite right, but for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to stalk her online.”

Kyle nodded. “Your instincts won’t steer you wrong if you listen to them.”

I sighed. “She came very close to cleaning out my savings account.”

“And she would have, had I not asked Martin Stillwell to put a hold on the transfer.”

“You did that?” I exclaimed.

“I went to see Martin, but he refused to speak to me. He cited client confidentiality.”

“You’re my next of kin and my appointed beneficiary,” I argued.

“Precisely, but he wouldn’t budge. So I threatened to file a complaint against him unless he stopped the transfer pending further inquiry.”

“You did?” I gaped at Kyle. I had no idea so much had been happening behind my back, but although I was angry at not being told, I was also incredibly grateful because not only had everyone done everything in their power to protect me; they had also worked hard to safeguard my feelings and not put me in the middle of a situation that could have played out quite differently.

“Martin didn’t do his due diligence when it came to confirming Dove’s claims. He accepted a birth certificate that proved to be a forgery and didn’t run any sort of in-depth check into her background. He based his legal opinion on the say-so of a clerk who’d been bribed and Dove’s supposed solicitor, who proved to be her accomplice. Had he bothered to ring the real solicitor’s office, he would have discovered that they had never heard of Dove Mitchell. If this story gets out, Martin’s reputation will suffer if he’s named in the press.”

“I hope it doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve that. He made a mistake,” I said.

“A mistake that could have cost us dearly. I’m sure Martin will be announcing his retirement within the next few days. If he doesn’t, he might very well get disbarred.”

“I’m relieved this awful episode is behind us, although I might have to testify if the case comes to trial.”

“Maybe not,” Kyle said. “Dove, or Inga, might accept a plea deal, then the case will never go to trial.”

“Here’s hoping,” I said. I was more than ready to move on from the whole sorry tale and find a solicitor with a reputation for being a barracuda.

I was also ready to get to work. Now that I knew what had happened to Edgar, I had to decide how I wanted to approach his death. There were several possibilities. A robbery that had resulted in murder when Edgar tried to fight back would make him an innocent victim and satisfy Deborah’s desire to revere her ancestor. A targeted attack carried out by someone Edgar had fleeced at cards would be closer to the truth but would paint Edgar as a grifter and a libertine if I revealed his penchant for sex with prostitutes. Or I could have a disillusioned and depressed Edgar leave his family and board a ship to New York under a false name. Only Edgar would never reach the shores of America. In those days, ships had gone down in the Atlantic all the time, and in most cases, all souls had been lost. Edgar’s watery death would explain his disappearance, the lack of a body, and the absence of any historical document since Edgar would have sailed under a false name. Venetia’s baby boy would live and inherit the shop when he came of age. This was an ending that would please Deborah and help her to move on, but compared to the truth it paled in comparison.

I would write the real story or nothing at all, and I would leave it up to Deborah to decide whether she would prefer that I rename the characters. Satisfied that this was the best way forward, I texted Deborah asking if we could meet so that I could present her with the facts. I now knew what happened and could reveal that Quinn had been instrumental in getting to the truth, but still that little voice niggled at me, demanding to know what had really happened after Edgar died.

Chapter 66

Grace

In the days that followed, Grace could barely recall the details of Edgar’s death. She was in shock, her mind refusing to accept that Edgar was gone and she had been the one to end his life. She couldn’t picture Edgar’s still face, feel the slight weight of the child in her arms as Julian bent over Edgar, or recall what had been said. But she remembered Julian’s kindness as he’d helped her to her room and got her into bed. He had given her laudanum to help her sleep and smoothed back her unruly hair, and she thought he had kissed her forehead and told her to rest before tucking her in and leaving her on her own, but she couldn’t be sure. It might have been a dream, just as Edgar’s death could have been a nightmare.

By the time Grace woke, the sky was a delicate shade of lavender, the first stars of the evening twinkling like diamonds. She had slept the entire day, something she had never done before, not even when she had been ill. The house was silent, and for one panicked moment, Grace thought that everyone had gone away and she was alone, about to be taken up on a charge of murder. She might have remained under the covers, waiting for whatever fate had in store for her, but Grace had discovered that she was made of sterner stuff. Surrendering the safety of her bed, she got up, washed her face and hands, dressed in a fresh gown, and left her room, prepared to face whatever waited for her downstairs.

Grace was surprised to find Julian in the parlor, a tumbler of brandy in his hand as he stared into the leaping flames in the hearth. He turned when Grace walked in and smiled as if it were any other day and he had stopped by to see them after work. Grace’s heart leaped in her breast. Perhaps she had been ill and had experienced fever dreams, but now she was quite recovered and all would be well. Venetia and Edgar would be in their bedroom, gazing lovingly at their newborn son, and Julian would be hailed a hero, having saved mother and child. Alice would ask Grace if she was hungry and would bring a pot of tea and a plate of sandwiches that would fill the emptiness gnawing at Grace’s insides.

But that was not to be. Julian set down his glass, gave up his seat by the fire, and came toward her. He took her gently by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. “Grace, are you all right?”

“Edgar?” she whispered, still praying that she’d had a nightmare.

“It’s all been taken care of.”

“What do you mean?”

“Grace, we’ll need to leave London.”

“And go where?” Grace asked. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, and she couldn’t seem to grasp what Julian was talking about.

“Austria.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“We can’t stay here. Any of us. If we do, we will be arrested.”

And hanged, Grace’s sluggish brain supplied. “But you told Alice it was an accident. You said it wasn’t my fault,” she whispered.

“Mrs. Gibson is an experienced midwife. Her testimony will establish motive. And Alice saw and heard enough to convince a judge that you’re at fault. We can’t risk a trial.”

Grace’s knees buckled, and she would have fallen had Julian not wrapped a supportive arm around her waist. It felt like a band of steel, and some unaffected part of her brain wondered how it was that a physician was so strong. Julian led Grace to a chair and eased her down, then went to the sideboard and poured her a large brandy. Grace had only ever had the occasional glass of sherry, but she accepted the glass and took a large swallow. The brandy burned her throat, but she barely noticed. All her attention was on Julian, who seemed miraculously composed. He knelt in front of Grace, looking up at her like an adoring puppy.

“Grace, I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Please, let me take care of you.”

“Take care of me?” Grace repeated, uncomprehending.

“We can be married in Vienna,” he added. “We can make a life together, a wonderful life. No one has to know what happened.” Julian cupped her face with gentle hands. “I love you, Grace. I will do anything to make you happy.”

Happy. It was an odd word to use when Edgar and his son were dead and Venetia had just lost everything, including her future and quite possibly her health. Grace didn’t think she could ever be happy again, but even in her acute state of misery, she wasn’t ready to give up on life. The prospect of being hanged for Edgar’s murder was terrifying, and she realized just how badly she wanted to live and to get a chance to atone for what she had done.

“Where’s Edgar?” Grace asked. She couldn’t bear to think about the future until she understood what was happening in the present.

“Edgar is gone. And no one will ever find him.”

“And the baby?” Grace cried, tears spilling down her cheeks as she recalled the lifeless bundle.

“The baby is with Edgar. They will sleep together for eternity.”

“Where? Where are they?”

“They’re in the cellar.”

“What?” Grace screeched.

“Alfie and I worked all day to shore up the damaged wall. We bricked up Edgar’s body in the alcove. No one will ever have cause to demolish that wall, at least not anytime soon.”

“So Alfie knows,” Grace whispered.

“He does, and we have agreed on a price for his and Alice’s silence. They will take over the shop and move into the rooms upstairs. Everyone will be told that Alfie is your cousin, Alfred Hilliard, who fell in love with your maidservant and married her. Venetia has agreed,” Julian added.

“You mean she was blackmailed,” Grace croaked.

“None of us are in a position to negotiate, Gracie, not if we hope to retain our freedom. You will go to the police and tell them that Edgar went out and never returned. Venetia will back up your story. The police will see nothing more than a terrified sister and the grief-stricken wife. And then, once we make a show of coming to terms with Edgar’s disappearance, we will leave. Start a new life together, away from London, and away from danger.”

“What about Venetia?” Grace asked. She couldn’t begin to imagine what Venetia had to be feeling, but the only way they could get through this was if they focused on the practicalities rather than emotions.

“Venetia has expressed a desire to return to her parents, but I don’t think that would be wise. Sooner or later she’d tell them the truth, and then they’d either try to protect her or demand justice.”

“Justice for a man who infected their daughter and grandchild with syphilis?”

“Justice for their daughter and consequences for the two people who benefitted from the situation,” Julian explained. “The building, the shop, and everything in it now belongs to Venetia, but she won’t see a farthing of her inheritance.”

“So, what do you propose?”

“I asked Venetia to come with us.”

Grace angrily swiped at the tears that coursed down her cheeks. “Will we ever return?”

“Maybe someday, but as long as Mrs. Gibson and Alice can cast doubt on our version of events and Alfie can testify to the fact that I asked him to dispose of the corpse and knowingly denied Edgar a proper burial, we’re not safe.”

“Why would Alice speak up? She would lose the shop if she did.”

“Alice and Alfie have no reason to betray us, not if they hope to improve their lot, but if Mrs. Gibson decided to go to the police, they might say that they had been offered the shop and the rooms above as an incentive to keep quiet.”

Julian’s gaze caressed Grace’s face, his eyes asking for an answer. Grace shook her head.

“Julian, I don’t know if I can ever give you what you need,” she whispered. “I murdered my brother, and even if I’m never openly accused of murder, I know what I did, and that knowledge will always stand between us.”

“Grace, Edgar’s death was an accident. You never meant to hurt him. You pushed him away when he came at you. Anyone would have done the same.”

Grace looked down at her folded hands. She needed a moment to think. Had Julian truly believed that Edgar’s death was an accident, he wouldn’t have been so quick to dispose of Edgar’s body and allow Venetia to agree to extortion. They could have said that Edgar was drunk, fell down the stairs, and broke his neck. Then they would have buried him, grieved, and tried to rebuild their lives instead of running away. But Julian obviously thought Grace was in real and immediate danger and had compromised himself to save her. If she refused his offer, Julian would still have to leave London, since he would never be safe, and Grace and Venetia would be left with nothing. And as long as Alice lived and could testify that she had seen Grace push Edgar to his death, Grace could hang.

“All right. I’ll come with you,” Grace said at last.

“You never gave me an answer,” Julian said softly.

“To what?”

“I asked you to marry me.”

The tears came harder. “You’re only trying to protect me, Julian,” Grace sobbed. “You needn’t sacrifice your whole life for me.”

“Grace, I love you. And I’m not just saying that. I never thought I’d find someone I could devote my life to, not after losing Helen, but I don’t want to live without you. I need you by my side for the rest of my days, and I hope you can envision a future with me.”

“I love you too, Julian,” Grace sobbed. “I’ve loved you since the first time you walked into the shop, but I never imagined our life together could be tainted by murder.”

“Everyone’s life is tainted by death. There’s not a couple out there that doesn’t walk through their own personal graveyard in their nightmares. Edgar and the baby are gone, and I don’t yet know the extent of Venetia’s affliction, but that’s the nature of the human condition. We are born, we suffer, and then we die. All we can do is try to snatch some happiness from the jaws of tragedy and leave a mark on the world.”

“Well, we know what my mark is. I will be forever known as a murderess.”

Julian shook his head and smiled. “You will be known as Mrs. Julian Moore, wife of a respected physician and mother to beautiful children who will think you an angel.”

Grace smiled through the tears. It was such a beautiful dream that she couldn’t bear to wake from it. “Yes,” she whispered thickly. “Yes, Julian.”

Julian pulled her to her feet and drew her close, his lips coming down on hers. For just a moment, Grace forgot everything but the strength of his arms, the gentleness of his mouth, and the beating of his heart against her chest. Despite everything, she was happy, and a tiny seedling of hope took root in her soul and began to grow, allowing her to believe that all would be as Julian had said and they would have a future. And a family.

Eventually they broke apart, and Grace looked at Julian, awaiting his instructions, since he was now in charge and would have to guide her and Venetia through this ordeal. Neither of them was strong enough to do this on her own.

“It’s settled then,” Julian said, and handed Grace his handkerchief. It smelled of lavender and was embroidered with Julian’s monogram in dark blue thread. “Dry your tears, have something to eat, then we’ll go see Venetia. She should be awake by then. I’ve given her something to help her sleep.”

“Will she be all right, Julian?” Grace couldn’t bear to elaborate, but Julian understood what she was asking.

“Venetia has had a terrible shock and will need ample time to grieve, but she will feel better, and we will take good care of her. As far as the other matter, only time will tell. I will do everything in my power to safeguard her health and ensure that she lives a full and active life.”

“What do I say to Alice?”

“Nothing. You will go on as before until it’s time for us to leave.”

Julian made it all sound so reasonable, so manageable. A few weeks and they would be away from here, taking their first steps toward a new life. Grace dabbed at her eyes and held out Julian’s handkerchief. From this moment on, they were partners in this deception, and she couldn’t afford to give vent to her emotions or allow her fear to jeopardize Julian’s reputation.

“I’m ready,” Grace said. And she was.

Chapter 67

It wasn’t until Grace finally fell into bed that night that she was able to truly grasp the enormity of the situation. One moment of devastating grief and blind fury had resulted in murder, blackmail, illegal disposal of a body, and a string of lies that would haunt them all for the rest of their days. Grace’s heart broke for Venetia, but she had no thought to spare for Alice, whose betrayal left Grace reeling. She was willing to admit that she had never really known Alice, but Grace had taken the girl from an orphanage and had given her a home and a job, never imagining the shy orphan could be capable of such malice. Grace could understand Alice’s longing for a better life, but to demand that the Hilliards hand over everything they held dear was diabolical, and in some ways, Grace felt as if she had sold her soul to the devil. The irony was almost amusing.

Alfie visited the shop with infuriating frequency, greeting the customers, and insisting that Grace introduce him as her cousin and instruct him in the running of the business. If the customers noticed anything untoward, Grace’s behavior was easily enough explained given the dual tragedy that had struck the Hilliards. Everyone who knew was gentle and kind, and treated Alfie with patience and respect as he learned the ropes.

Mrs. Gibson had not come by, nor had she made any accusations as far as Grace was aware, but Mr. Brynn showed up two days after Edgar’s death. He insisted on going down to the cellar to check on the job and didn’t seem the least bit surprised by Alfie’s initiative.

“I am sorry to hear your brother’s missing, Miss Hilliard,” Mr. Brynn said. “I hope he’ll return to you and Mrs. Hillard safe and sound.” Niceties out of the way, he got down to business. “Alfie did a fine job, if I say so myself. That wall will outlast you all, if you don’t mind my saying so. Now, if you would take care of the balance, I will leave you in peace.”

It hadn’t occurred to Grace that she would have to pay the balance, given that Mr. Brynn had not completed the job as agreed, but she wasn’t about to argue or draw attention to the newly constructed wall. She paid Mr. Brynn fifty pounds, and he wished her well and tipped his hat, shaking stone dust onto the clean floor before walking out of the shop with the air of a man who was responsible for a job well done.

It was once that bit of business was complete and Alfie was firmly installed in the shop that Grace’s mind turned to the impending journey. She had never been further than Essex, but now she would have to make a life in a foreign country. As she packed her things, she reminded herself that she was the lucky one. She would be married to a good man and God willing have a family of her own, unlike Venetia, who floated about like a ghost. She hardly ate and barely spoke, her eyes glazed with suffering and her hands trembling with nerves. Grace helped her pack and insisted on being present when Venetia’s parents came to say goodbye. She had to make certain that Venetia didn’t divulge anything of what had happened or mention her illness.

Venetia wept softly when Julian explained the situation to her, her face a mask of shock and disgust, but there was a glimmer of good news. Julian had consulted a specialist and was certain that Venetia was in the latent stage of syphilis. She might not exhibit any symptoms for years, possibly ever. It was later, in private, that Julian explained the rest to Grace. Venetia might live out her days without ever suffering the worst of the symptoms, but if the illness entered the tertiary stage, the prognosis would change, the illness robbing her of every bit of humanity before she died of either heart failure or stroke. Julian prayed that wouldn’t happen and vowed to look after Venetia and search for a cure.

It was then that Grace knew what she would sell her soul for. Innocence. Both literal and figurative. She wanted to go back to a time when she’d loved and respected Edgar, when Venetia had been a shy young girl with her whole life before her, Grace had been free of guilt, and her relationship with Julian could be built on mutual affection rather than subterfuge. Julian might have saved her from paying for her crime, but he could never wash her soul clean. Not even his love had the power to do that. They were forever tainted, the three of them, and they would live together in their shared deceit until the day the Lord called them to Him and asked them to account for their actions.

Grace buried her face in her pillow and wept until the down within was lumpy and damp. Had it been just her, she would have marched to the nearest police station and confessed her crime, but she had Venetia and Julian to think about, and she had no right to compromise either of them. Come morning, she would splash cold water on her face, force herself to eat, then act the worried sister. She would do this day after day until the lie became second nature and she began to believe that Edgar really was missing and they would never learn the truth of his fate.

She supposed she no longer had reason to fear happy days since the worst had already happened, and now she would savor every peaceful moment and the promise of a future because what she had previously taken for granted was now the ultimate gift.

Chapter 68

Nicole

Deborah and I met after the shop closed for the day, the space low-lit and eerily quiet with only the two of us there. Deborah made a pot of tea, and we sat in her favorite alcove, an amended family tree on the table between us along with Grace’s manuscript in its protective sleeve.

“So, I’m descended from Alfie and Alice?” Deborah said once I finished my tale, her finger going to the two names at the top. “How do you know this, Nicole?”

“I had some help from Dr. Quinn Allenby-Russell.”

Deborah gaped at me. “The one from Echoes from the Past?”

“The very one. We’re good friends.”

“Is she sure this is what happened?”

“If you require proof, you can look in the cellar.”

Deborah sighed. “There are no architectural plans for this building, at least none that have survived, but there is a bricked-up section of wall in the cellar.”

“What will you do?” I asked, relieved that Deborah wasn’t more upset.

“I don’t know. Part of me wants to take a sledgehammer to that wall and see what’s behind it, but part of me is ready to let go of the past.” Deborah sighed, her forehead creasing with worry. “Do you think Grace’s descendants might make a claim against the shop if the truth comes out?”

“After all these years, I don’t think they would have a case, but you might want to seek legal counsel.”

“Do you know a reputable solicitor?” Deborah asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t, but if you hear of one, do pass on the name.”

“Perhaps it’s best if we leave Edgar and his son to rest in peace,” Deborah said. “I don’t want to jeopardize my livelihood or my son’s inheritance. Would you mind changing the names?”

“Not at all. The book will be marketed as a work of fiction with a different family at its heart,” I promised.

“How about the Hartwells?” Deborah suggested.

“Why that name?”

“Because Grace and Julian’s hearts were in the right place,” Deborah replied. “At least that’s what I would like to believe.”

“And what name would you like to give Alfie and Alice?”

Deborah grinned. “The Prospectors, because they were gold diggers. Or the Fortunes because good fortune smiled on them.”

I didn’t quite agree that fortune had smiled on the two blackmailers, but I wasn’t going to argue. Deborah had a lot to process, as did I. Her current situation had come about through blackmail and fraud, and I had narrowly avoided being defrauded myself by someone who had claimed to care for me and expressed a desire to be part of my family. Some things never changed because as long as human nature remained what it was, there would always be people who’d engineer opportunities to exploit others. Sometimes they got away with it, like Alfie and Alice had, and other times they went to prison, as Inga Vorhees was likely to do now that the police had a solid case against her.

With luck, I wouldn’t have to testify, but if it came to it, I would do my part to get her off the streets and save someone else the hurt that Inga had inflicted on me. After I left the shop, I resolved to visit my parents’ graves at the weekend. I owed them an apology for not having faith in them or their devotion to each other. Inga had taken that from me, but now that I had it back, I would never doubt myself or those I loved again.

Epilogue

Quinn and I hadn’t seen each other for several weeks due to our conflicting schedules, but when we met, it was as if no time had passed. Quinn slid into her usual seat, and I saw the change in her before she said a word.

“You decided something?” I fished.

Quinn nodded, and when she smiled, she looked happy and carefree. “My parents offered to take the children for the summer, so Gabe and I signed up for a dig.”

“Really? Where are you going?”

“Bursa, Turkey. We will be excavating near the basilica.”

“What basilica?” I asked.

Quinn’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “In 2014, the ruins of an ancient basilica were discovered in Lake Iznik. It’s widely accepted that the Council of Nicaea, which was spearheaded by Emperor Constantine, took place at the basilica in 325 C.E. The bishops met to discuss what’s now known as the Nicaean Creed, a resolution intended to confirm Jesus’s divinity. The ruins are under water, but we will be excavating very close by, on the shore of the lake.”

“And if you happen to unearth an object that belonged to someone from that time, you can see it happen for yourself,” I said, the implications of that nearly short-circuiting my historian’s brain.

“I don’t hold out much hope of finding an item that belonged to one of the bishops or the emperor himself since the basilica was extensively excavated and the findings meticulously catalogued, but there are always artefacts to find in these ancient places that saw some of the world’s most significant events. At any rate, I’m not going to Turkey as a psychic but as an archeologist. I miss getting my hands dirty.” Quinn took a sip of her coffee and studied me across the table. “And what about you? What’s next on your agenda?”

“I submitted a proposal for my new book, A Fall from Grace, to Gilcrest and Logue, and it has been accepted. I expect to sign a contract this week.”

“So, you’ve decided to go the tradition route after all?” Quinn asked.

“For now. At this stage in my life, I’m not equipped to take on the entire process myself and hope to succeed. I just can’t do it all, not when I have a small child and might want to expand our family.”

Quinn’s expression changed to one of surprise. “Are you…?”

“No,” I hurried to reply. “But we are thinking about it. Ava is nearly two, and it’s nice when siblings are close in age. We have a lot on our plate, but there’s no such thing as the perfect time. There’s always something.”

“I can attest to that,” Quinn said. “But it’s so worth it.”

“Have you completely given up on Echoes from the Past?” I asked.

The storm surrounding Quinn’s psychic ability had blown itself out, and if there were still those who felt duped, they were keeping quiet, especially after Marcie Munro had issued a public statement in support of Quinn and requested that her name not be taken in vain.

“I don’t know,” Quinn said. “For now, I’m focused on the coming dig, but the offer to continue Echoes is open, so I might change my mind at some point. There are definite rewards to being friends with the producer,” she said with a grin.

“I bet. So, when are you leaving for Turkey?”

“Once school is out for the summer. We’ll take the children to Spain, then go on from there. I’m really looking forward to it, and to spending some one-on-one time with Gabe. To work together on a dig will feel like we’ve come full circle.” Quinn looked down at her wedding band. It was a symbol of never-ending love. A full circle, just like history. There was no future without a past, and no resolution without a mystery. And with or without Quinn, I had many more mysteries to solve.

The End

Please turn the page after the Notes for an excerpt from

The House on the Hill: A Ghost Story

Notes

I hope you enjoyed A Fall from Grace. It’s such fun to bring Nicole and Quinn together and let them use their combined talents to solve a mystery. If you would like to learn more about Dr. Quinn Allenby and her program, Echoes from the Past, please check out the Echoes from the Past series. There are currently nine books. If you like historical mysteries, I think you might enjoy it.

I love hearing from you. You can always reach me at www.irinashapiroauthor.com or irina.shapiro@yahoo.com. If you’d like to join my mailing list, please subscribe at http://irinashapiroauthor.com/mailing-list-signup-form/

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And lastly, if you enjoyed the book, a review on Amazon or Goodreads would be greatly appreciated.

An Excerpt from The House on the Hill

Prologue

If walls could talk, what a story they’d tell—a story of love, betrayal, and murder, the woman thinks as she stands at the top of the stairs watching the newcomer, who is completely unaware of the woman’s ethereal presence. The newcomer is moving around the house with the uncertainty of someone who’s trespassing in someone else’s space, trying it on for size to see if she could make a life for herself there. Many others have passed through the house over the centuries, but this one is different. She’s young, by modern standards, but she’s known the pain of loss and the heartbreak of betrayal. It’s right there in her shadowed eyes and the unhealthy pallor of her face.

Maybe this one will be able to help me, the woman at the top of the stairs thinks. Maybe she’ll succeed where others had failed, and finally set me free so I can fulfill my promise at last.

Chapter 1

Lauren

The Present

The morning was bright and brisk, with wispy clouds racing across the aquamarine sky and playing peek-a-boo with the pale orb of the sun. It was mid-March, but there wasn’t a hint of spring in the air, winter stubbornly clinging on. The roads were clear, but snow still covered much of the ground since the temperature refused to rise above freezing, and the icy breath of the ocean held the shoreline in its thrall.

Lauren peered at the GPS as it instructed her to make a right. The road she turned onto was narrow and surprisingly steep, flanked by ancient trees whose branches moved eerily in the wind. The house was about a mile away, perched on a hill that overlooked Pleasant Bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

Lauren hoped she was going to like this one. She’d seen several potential rentals over the past few weeks, but the ones she liked were too pricy and the ones she could afford were little more than shacks that smelled of mildew and had such low ceilings she could reach up and touch them. She hadn’t planned on leaving Boston, but the desperate need to escape her apartment and spend a few months in a place that held no painful memories overwhelmed her.

In two weeks, it’d be a year since Zack died, killed by a sniper’s bullet during the spring offensive in Afghanistan. It had been his third tour and would have been his last. They’d made plans. They were going to sell their apartment in Brookline and buy a house in the suburbs, start trying for a baby, and live a wonderfully boring life where Lauren didn’t lie awake night after night waiting for him to call from overseas or avoid watching the news for fear of hearing something that would send her into a tailspin.

While Zack was away, she’d concentrated on her work, finally completing the last book of the military romance series she’d been writing. She’d often heard the advice “Write what you know,” and this was something she knew—the heart-wrenching goodbyes followed by tearful reunions, the worry, the fear, and the pure joy of those first few weeks of togetherness after Zack finally returned to her, safe and sound. Those first few days were like a second honeymoon, but more intense, more precious. Zack had joked that the months of separation kept the marriage strong because the romance never fizzled out. It stoked their desire for each other and transformed the mundane details of their lives into something magical. They’d talk nonstop, their words tripping over each other and falling like a waterfall from their parched lips, and the need to touch, to feel, to worship each other’s bodies was so strong, they barely got out of bed.

Zack had often remarked how lucky he’d been in his life, but his luck had run out a year ago on a windswept mountaintop just north of Kabul. Their life was like a record that had screeched to a halt, the song left unsung, the melody interrupted. Suddenly, Lauren was alone, widowed, a status people tended to associate with elderly women who’d lost their husbands to illness or old age, not with someone who was still in her twenties. She couldn’t bring herself to utter the word; it made her loss all too real. The rational part of her brain understood Zack was gone, but the emotional part, the loving part, still looked for him everywhere she went. She still spoke to him, sometimes out loud, and slept on her side of the bed, unable to move to the middle for fear of acknowledging that he’d never sleep next to her again. She needed to have pictures of him, but looking at them tore at her heart. She wanted to be in the place he’d called home, but every piece of furniture, every picture, every item of clothing reminded her of the husband she’d lost. Seeing his favorite mug for the first time after he died had led to a two-day cryfest that resulted in her hiding the cup from view lest she fall apart again.

She’d put off clearing out his side of the closet, unable to get dressed in the morning without touching his shirts and sniffing desperately in the hope that a hint of his smell still clung to the laundered fabric. She’d finally done it a few months ago, but she hadn’t thrown anything away. Getting rid of Zack’s things seemed too final, too real. Despite her valiant efforts to cope, her life became reduced to eating, sleeping, watching TV, and reassuring everyone that she was fine, a lie no one really believed.

She’d stopped writing. She simply couldn’t form an original thought as she sat day after day, staring at the blank screen of her computer. Her agent had been able to get her several ghostwriting gigs. It was much easier to organize someone else’s thoughts and turn them into a narrative than deal with her own. Her clients were happy, and her reputation as a ghostwriter grew, resulting in more commissions. She was glad; it was imperative to keep busy in order to keep the worst of the pain at bay. But after a long, snowy winter spent mostly indoors, she needed to get out. She had to get away from the ghost of Zack, to inhabit a new place, to try to put the pieces of her life back together and come to terms with a truth that had come knocking on her door several months ago and shed a new light on her life as she’d known it. She had to get away, to spend a few months in a place that made her feel peaceful and whole.

Cape Cod had naturally come to mind. She’d loved the place as a child. Her parents had rented a house on the beach for two weeks every August, and they’d spent their days tanning and swimming, followed by burgers and grilled seafood eaten on the deck as they watched the sun sink below the horizon. It was a golden memory of her childhood she still clung to and had hoped to recreate with her own children someday.

The summer season wouldn’t officially start until Memorial Day, but if she found the right place, she’d be ready to move in as soon as the first of April, eager to watch spring arrive in a place that was nearly free of memories—her own rebirth, for lack of a better word. She owed it to Zack. She’d made a promise.

“Promise me you won’t grieve for me should anything happen,” he’d said that last morning at their apartment.

“I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you,” she’d replied, clinging to him amid the rumpled sheets.

Zack had kissed her tenderly and brushed her tangled hair away from her face. “Lauren, promise me you’ll move on. I need to know that you’ll be happy; that’s the only way I can leave and get on with my job. Promise me,” he’d demanded, his gaze anxious and intense. “Promise me.”

And she’d promised, even though she’d been lying through her teeth. “Yes, I promise. I will get on with my life if the worst happens.” But she’d never imagined that anything could be worse than death, or that some secrets lived on, haunting those left behind from beyond the grave.

Lauren’s eyes widened in surprise when the house finally came into view. She hadn’t bothered to look it up online, preferring to see it for the first time in real life and form an impression. It was a lot grander than she’d expected, the type of house one saw in advertisements for a holiday on the seashore. It even had an actual name, rather than just an address—Holland House. She parked the car and got out, smiling at Susan McPherson, who’d been waiting in her car but was now coming to greet her.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic out of the city was monstrous.”

“It always is,” Susan replied breezily. “No worries. I caught up on some calls while I was waiting for you. It was too cold to hang around outside anyhow.”

“Susan, are you sure this place is within my budget? It looks too—I don’t know—glamorous.”

Susan gave a dismissive shrug. “Glamorous is not a word I’d use to describe this house. The location is perfect for someone who wants to spend the summer in blissful isolation, but it’s not overly appealing to families who prefer to be close to the beach. There’s a private dock, but no boat,” she added as she led Lauren around the side of the house to show her the breathtaking view. Beyond Pleasant Bay, the Atlantic stretched like a blue-gray quilt toward the horizon, its surface decorated with foaming whitecaps whipped up by the wind. Several small islands were visible from their vantage point on the hill. According to Susan, they were uninhabited, being too small and steep to build a summer residence to rival the one she was looking at.

A wide patio hugged the back of the house, complete with wrought-iron furniture and a covered grill. A narrow wooden staircase led to the water’s edge, where a short dock extended into the bay. Both the stairs and the dock looked old and rickety, unlike the house, which appeared solid, if windswept, by comparison. It had the pleasing proportions often found in homes of colonial design, but Lauren didn’t think this house was a modern-day replica—it looked like the real thing.

“When was this place built?”

“The original house was constructed in the eighteenth century. It had two rooms downstairs and two bedrooms above. I believe the widow’s walk dates to the nineteenth century,” Susan said, glancing at the white-painted rooftop platform that was such a common feature of houses on Cape Cod. “Over time, the owners added indoor plumbing, several rooms, a patio, a sunroom, and, of course, the driveway and the garage. However,” Susan shook her head in dismay, “it’s not wired for cable or internet. Another nail in the coffin for the current owner. Families want TV and internet. Kids don’t spend their free time reading and playing board games as they did when I was a kid.”

“No, I don’t suppose they do. Why doesn’t the owner just bring in the cable company?”

“I think he just forgets about this place until it’s time to rent it out again, and then it seems like too much of an expense, or too big a hassle. I honestly don’t know. He lives in L.A., where he makes movies.”

“He’s a film producer?” Lauren asked, curious.

“No, he does special effects. One of those artistic types,” she added, as if that were the worst thing a person could be. “I think he’d happily sell the place if he could be bothered to deal with all the details of putting it on the market. As long as he gets a few tenants in each summer, he’s content to let the property sit empty for the remainder of the year.”

“So, the isolated location and the lack of internet are enough of a drawback to keep renters away?” Lauren asked, amazed that anyone would pass up such a wonderful place.

Susan looked furtive for a moment, then exhaled loudly, as if she had no choice but to tell the truth. “This house has a bit of a reputation.”

“A reputation for what?”

“Look, it’s an old house. It creaks, doors slam shut, probably because there’s a draft. Lights occasionally go on by themselves, but the wiring hasn’t been updated since it was put in, whenever that might have been. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Are you saying, in a very no-nonsense, dismissive kind of way, that the house is haunted?” Lauren asked, amused by Susan’s desire to explain away the ‘reputation.’

“I’m saying it’s old, and it gets buffeted by winds from the Atlantic. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Neither do I,” Lauren replied. She wished she did because then maybe Zack would come to her. She needed closure, something she’d never have now. “Can we go inside?” she asked as she huddled deeper into her coat. The house’s location ensured it would be cool in the summer, but in the middle of March, it was arctic on that hill.

“Sure. Sorry. I always tend to pontificate about the view. I must emphasize the sellable points.”

“So, the house is a dump?” Lauren asked with a chuckle.

“No. It’s nice.” Passable, in real estate speak, Lauren thought as she followed Susan toward the front door.

The inside wasn’t too bad. The place could use a good airing out, but aside from the stagnant smell, it was more than passable. There was a sofa and comfortable-looking chairs arranged before the fireplace, several lamps, and a colorful rug that made the living room look cozy and inviting. The windows faced the bay, a major plus as far as Lauren was concerned. The kitchen was outdated, but she had no plans to do any serious cooking, so it would do.

“This is the office,” Susan said as she threw open the door of a room that faced the front of the house and held a desk, several bookshelves, and a swivel chair. The white walls were bare, and the window faced the side of the garage. “You could write in here.”

I doubt it, Lauren thought as she sized up the unappealing room. No inspiration would strike her within its utilitarian confines. Whoever had used this room in the past had left nothing of their personality behind, not even a picture on the wall or a tattered paperback they no longer wanted.

“Shall we go upstairs?” Susan chirped, clearly happier now that she thought Lauren was interested. “There are four bedrooms: two kids’ rooms, a guest room, and a master bedroom. The master bedroom is not exactly in keeping with the rest of the house, but it’s very quaint.”

“Sounds ominous,” Lauren joked.

“Not at all. See for yourself.”

The three smaller bedrooms were reminiscent of any B&B Lauren had stayed at. Flowery quilts thrown over twin beds with scratched wooden headboards, neutral carpeting, and colorful curtains to brighten the space. The master bedroom, however, was a surprise. A four-poster bed dominated the room, its massive mahogany posts intricately carved. The seafoam-colored quilt appeared to be made of thick damask and decorated with silver braid that matched the delicate pattern. A heavy wardrobe stood in the corner, the design matching that of the bedposts, but the item of furniture that really grabbed Lauren’s attention was the lovely secretary desk that faced the window, which opened onto the vista of tall pines and shimmering sea. The desk was mahogany, its surface smooth and satiny despite years of use. There were three drawers on each side, plus several small drawers in the top section. Each drawer had a polished brass knob and a fanciful pattern carved into the wood. The desk was reminiscent of something Charles Dickens or Jane Austen would own, but it had probably been crafted before their time.

“All the furniture in this room is original to the house,” Susan said. “Eighteenth century. This room belonged to the last owner of the house, Mrs. Lacey. She was the current owner’s aunt. Died five years ago.”

“Not in this bed, I hope,” Lauren said.

“No, in a hospice in Chatham. She was a nice lady. My mom knew her well. So, what do you think?”

“I think I love it,” Lauren said, already picturing herself at the desk, her computer in front of her as she began a new project, her own this time.

“Great. Let’s get the papers signed, then, shall we? Why don’t we stop by the office, take care of business, and then grab some lunch? I’m starving.”

“I don’t know,” Lauren replied lamely. She’d actively avoided social situations since Zack’s death, but Susan looked so crestfallen, she felt mean for refusing.

“Come on. It’s on me,” Susan tried again. “I hate eating at my desk.”

“Okay. Sure. Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Susan replied, smiling broadly. “Jerry will be thrilled to have rented this place so early in the season. When do you want the lease to start?”

“April first through Labor Day,” Lauren replied.

“Perfect,” Susan said, already heading toward the stairs. “I’m already spending my commission in my mind.” She laughed merrily. “I think you’ll be happy here.”

“Billy will love it.”

“Oh? Who’s Billy?” Susan’s arched eyebrows made Lauren laugh. She obviously thought Billy was her boyfriend.

“Billy is a puppy. My brother, Xavier, gave him to me for Christmas.” He thought a dog would make me less lonely, Lauren added in her head. And he had. Billy was a joy. A brown furball with limpid brown eyes and a velvety nose. “Pets are allowed, aren’t they?” Lauren asked, realizing she’d never thought to inquire.

“Yes, the owner has no issue with pets. What breed?”

“Chocolate lab.”

“I love those. They’re so cute.” Susan locked the house behind them and headed for her car. “Just follow me back to the office, and we can walk to lunch from there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Lauren said.

As she got into her car, she felt lighter than she had in months. “You’d like this place,” she said, addressing Zack, her vow to stop talking to him momentarily forgotten. “The view is stunning, and it’s nice and private, away from the mob of tourists. I think I can write here,” she added, her voice tinged with hope. “What do you think?”

I think it’s time you let go, Lauren, Zack’s voice replied in her head. Lauren ignored him and drove down the hill.

Chapter 2

Moving into Holland House didn’t take long. Susan McPherson had had the house cleaned and aired out before her arrival, so the rooms smelled pleasantly of pine cleaner and the sea. Lauren brought only the essentials: two suitcases of clothes, Billy’s crate and toys, her Kindle, which had at least ten books she had yet to read on it, and several framed photographs.

She set her favorite picture on the nightstand next to the four-poster. It had been taken at Xavier’s graduation party nearly ten years ago, the night she’d met Zack. Xavier had caught them unawares, gazing at each other with all the desire and wonder of two people who’d made a sudden and intense connection. They looked young and carefree, and already halfway in love. Looking at the picture always made her happy. It served to remind her that something wonderful could happen when you least expected it and change your life forever.

Lauren threw open the curtains and opened the window a crack to let in some fresh air, unpacked her clothes, and placed some personal items on the old-fashioned bureau, claiming the previously impersonal space as her own. She’d known she’d pick this bedroom before she even signed the rental agreement. She’d always been something of a history buff, and the colonial decor had appealed to her on sight, but it was the four-poster and the lovely writing desk that sealed the deal. Lauren positioned her laptop on the polished surface of the desk, then stowed some office supplies in the drawers, running a gentle hand over the pattern carved into each mahogany rectangle. She couldn’t help wondering about all the people that had used the desk before her, especially its original owner, who must have written all their correspondence as they gazed out over the bay, a quill suspended in their hand as they considered their next words.

Her reverie was interrupted by Billy, who pushed his nose into her calf, making her laugh out loud. He’d been nosing around the second-floor bedrooms, yapping excitedly, but now he probably wanted to get outside and explore. Lauren scooped up the puppy and carried him downstairs. He was too small to navigate the stairs on his own, which was a blessing in a way since that would ensure he’d stay put instead of running all over the house, but she’d have to install a security gate soon to keep Billy safe. The little dog ran toward the sliding door and pressed his nose to the glass, his eyes wide with curiosity as he took in the placid bay and the open space beyond the patio.

“All right, all right,” Lauren said as she reached for her coat. “We can go outside.” She grabbed Billy’s leash and pulled on a pair of gloves before opening the door. It was warmer than it had been when she came to see the house, but not by much. The wind lifted Lauren’s hair and whipped it around her face, momentarily blinding her. She loosened her grip on the leash, and that was all it took for Billy to take off. He raced toward the wooden steps to the dock and had managed to clear the first two on pure inertia before falling headfirst down the rickety staircase.

“Billy, no!” Lauren screamed as she plunged down the steps after him, hoping she wouldn’t follow his example and tumble headlong down the hill. The puppy looked like a brown ball of fur as he rolled toward the bottom, then landed with a hollow thunk. Lauren was beside him in moments, crouching next to him as she reached to stroke his head. Billy whimpered pitifully but didn’t get up. His gaze was glazed, and his back leg was folded at an odd angle beneath his body.

“Billy?” Lauren called to him. “Billy, get up.”

But the dog didn’t budge. His head lolled to the side as he rested it on his paws, his eyes closed against the glare of the sun. His breathing was shallow, and his whimper was carried away on the wind. Lauren pulled off her gloves and yanked her phone out of her pocket, searching for the nearest vet. She called two numbers, but both offices were closed, the recording advising her to leave a message. She didn’t want to leave a message; she wanted Billy looked at immediately. The third call was answered by an actual person.

“Good morning. How can I help?” a perky female voice asked.

“Hi. My dog fell down some steps. I think he’s badly hurt.”

“Are you a current patient?”

“No, I just moved to the area. Is there any way you can fit me in?” Lauren pleaded.

“Please hold,” the young woman said. She came back a few moments later. “Dr. Kelly will see you at noon. Can I have your name, address, phone number, and the name and breed of your dog?”

Lauren provided all the information, her gaze never leaving Billy’s face. He was perfectly still, lying there as if unconscious. “I’m afraid to cause him more pain,” Lauren said to the receptionist as she considered the logistics of getting him to the vet.

“Is he bleeding?”

“No, but he’s not moving.”

“Pick him up very carefully and settle him in the back seat,” the woman advised.

“Okay. Thank you.”

Lauren glanced at the clock on the phone. It was almost eleven and the drive wouldn’t take longer than fifteen minutes. There was no sense disturbing Billy twice, so she sat on the step next to him and waited, hoping he’d miraculously come around, but Billy didn’t stir. At eleven thirty, she picked up the puppy and carried him to her car, settling him in the back seat. He whimpered but never opened his eyes and put a paw over his face as if to block out the light.

“We’ll be there very soon,” Lauren told him as she got in the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. “You’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

Lauren drove to the vet’s office, parked, and carried Billy inside. The young woman at reception looked even younger than she’d sounded on the phone. She had to still be in her teens. She checked them in, took down Billy’s medical history, since in her agitation Lauren had forgotten to bring along his medical records, and asked Lauren to have a seat.

There was no one else in the waiting room, so Lauren looked around, studying the framed prints on the walls. Some of the prints were black and white, and the light made the subjects leap off the paper, particularly a photo of a lighthouse in a gathering storm.

“The doctor usually takes lunch at twelve,” said the young woman, whose name plate proclaimed her to be Merielle Kelly. “But he could never leave an animal in pain.”

“That’s very kind,” Lauren said, wondering if Merielle was the doctor’s wife or daughter. Daughter, most likely.

“He’s really sweet,” she said, nodding toward Billy. “I’m more of a cat person myself, but I can appreciate a cute puppy. Oh, you can go in. First door on the left,” she said when a woman with a French bulldog came out into the reception area and approached the desk.

Lauren cuddled Billy as she followed the corridor to an examining room. The doctor smiled as she walked in and asked her to place Billy on the examining table. He appeared to be in his mid-to-late thirties, with unruly dark-brown hair that brushed the collar of his doctor’s coat at the nape, and dark green eyes, so like Merielle’s. He was tall and fit with strong, capable hands, Lauren noted as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves and bent over Billy.

“Hello, little guy,” he said gently. “Let’s see what’s wrong with you.”

Lauren waited anxiously while Dr. Kelly examined Billy. He was thorough and didn’t waste time on small talk, but asked several questions, which Lauren answered to the best of her ability. Billy, displeased at being prodded, opened his eyes and glared at the doctor, who took the opportunity to shine a light into his eyes, making him growl.

“I’m sorry, Billy,” Dr. Kelly said as he shut off the light. “I know that’s bright.”

Billy relaxed once the offending light had been switched off and rested his head on his paws, lying quietly and watching the doctor with obvious suspicion.

“Will he be all right?” Lauren asked anxiously.

“He’ll be just fine. Nothing is broken. He’s bruised and has a mild concussion. He’s scared himself silly more than anything,” Dr. Kelly said, pulling off the gloves.

“Concussion? What should I do?”

“Nothing. Allow him to set his own pace. He might be a little lethargic for a few days and will probably be in some pain from the bruises, but he’s young and strong, and his body will heal itself. I’d like to see him in about three days to make sure he’s recovering.”

Lauren nodded, relieved Billy hadn’t broken anything or suffered serious brain damage. “Thank you for seeing him. And giving up your lunch hour.”

Dr. Kelly shook his head. “Merielle talks too much,” he said with an indulgent smile. “So, you moved into Holland House?” he asked, his surprise evident.

“Are you going to warn me that it’s haunted?” Lauren quipped, noting the amusement in his eyes.

“No. Is it?” he asked, smiling down at her.

“I couldn’t say. I’ve only just arrived.”

“I’ve heard the stories, of course, but I was always more interested in Hog Island myself.” He pointed to one of the pictures on the wall. The island was nothing more than a heavily forested clump of land rising from the sea, with nothing on it to attract attention.

“Did you take these photos?” Lauren asked.

“Yes. I love photography and history, so I spend my free time photographing places of historical interest. Or at least I used to,” he amended.

“You’re very good,” Lauren said, suddenly realizing that one of the photographs behind him was of Holland House. “So, what’s so special about Hog Island?”

He was about to reply when the intercom buzzed and Merielle’s voice announced that his next patient had arrived. It seemed Dr. Kelly didn’t take long lunches.

“Thanks, Merielle.” He laid a gentle hand on Billy’s head. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you have any concerns, and I’ll see you in a few days. Bye, Billy.”

Lauren thanked him and carried Billy back to the waiting room, where she paid for the visit and made a follow-up appointment. She stole another peek at the wall, noting that there was a picture of Hog Island in the reception area as well, taken from a slightly different angle, which didn’t make the island any more photogenic.

Having returned to the house, Lauren settled Billy on his bed in the living room and sat down on the sofa, watching him sleep. She’d picked up a breakfast sandwich on the way from Boston early that morning but hadn’t had anything since, and she was getting hungry. The plan had been to run out to the grocery store and pick up some supplies after she unpacked. There was nothing to eat in the house except for the bag of dog food she’d brought for Billy. Lauren went to the kitchen, shook some puppy chow into a bowl, refreshed Billy’s water, then returned to the living room. Billy was still asleep.

“I’ll be back soon,” she said softly, and left him to rest.

She drove to the nearest supermarket, stocked up on the basics, and returned to the house. She’d expected Billy to start barking when she unlocked the door, but he still lay on his bed, his gaze brightening when he saw her. Lauren glanced at his bowl as she came into the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten or drunk any water.

Not a great first day, Lauren thought as she put away the groceries. With Billy so quiet, the house was silent around her, and she suddenly wished she had a TV to keep her company. At home in Boston, there was always noise. She could hear the hum of conversation from neighboring apartments, the blare of a TV from across the hall, and the traffic beneath her windows, but here, it was eerily quiet.

She looked out the window, her attention fixing on the island in the distance. Was that the same island she’d seen a photograph of in Dr. Kelly’s office? Hog Island, he’d called it. She really couldn’t understand the fascination, so she filled a pot with water and set it to boil, took out some chicken, and began to slice celery and carrots. She’d make a big pot of chicken noodle soup, she decided. She needed comfort food but didn’t want to have anything too heavy like mac and cheese, or fried chicken. Soup would do her very nicely.

“Tomorrow will be a better day, buddy,” she told Billy as she ate her soup on the sofa in the living room to keep him company. He still hadn’t moved, so she brought his bowls of food and water closer to the bed in an effort to tempt him. Billy lifted his head and sniffed at the food but didn’t touch it.

“Come on, you have to eat,” Lauren pleaded with him. “Just a little bit.”

Billy closed his eyes and went back to sleep, leaving a worried Lauren to eat alone.

Chapter 3

Lauren came awake slowly, her thoughts crowding in long before she opened her eyes. Her first concern was for Billy, whose warm body was pressed to her side, his breathing even in sleep. He’d finally eaten a little last night, a hopeful sign, in her opinion. Lauren lay very still, taking a moment to recall exactly where she was and why. A gusty wind blew off the Atlantic, and the house creaked, the wooden walls sighing like an elderly woman pining for her youth. A soft half-light crept toward the bed, its gentle fingers stroking the comforter and caressing Billy’s round bottom.

Lauren turned toward the window, hoping to watch the sunrise, but the sight that greeted her left her breathless with terror. Her heart pounded in her chest as she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream that caught in her throat. She sank deeper into the mattress in order to make herself less visible, but she needn’t have bothered.

The woman seemed completely unaware of her presence. She sat at the desk, the soft light of dawn illuminating her pale face. Her back was ramrod straight, her hands clasped in her lap, and her troubled gaze fixed on the horizon. A blank sheet of paper lay before her, a quill left forgotten in the inkwell as if she were about to write a letter but had changed her mind. Lauren lifted her head slightly to get a better look at the woman’s profile. She was young, mid-twenties Lauren guessed, and attractive. Her old-fashioned gown was sober, and a modest lace-trimmed cap covered her dark hair. Her only adornment was a necklace, the pendant resting just above the V of her lace tucker. It shimmered in the pearlescent light, the fiery stone reminiscent of an opal.

Billy raised his head and looked at Lauren, then turned toward the window. She expected him to let out a bark of alarm, or growl at the intruder at the very least, but he rested his head on Lauren’s hip and drifted back to sleep, as if completely unaware of the stranger. He hadn’t seen her or caught her scent because she wasn’t real. She was an apparition, an echo of a time gone by.

Feeling less frightened, Lauren sat up and leaned against the pillows, watching the woman with interest. After a time, she replaced the paper in a drawer, stood, and turned toward the door. Lauren could have sworn she saw tears in the woman’s eyes as she walked across the room, but with her face turned away from the window, it was difficult to be certain. As the light changed from pearl-gray to salmon pink, the woman’s silhouette grew fainter until she vanished altogether, leaving nothing but an unnatural stillness in her wake. Lauren laid a gentle hand on Billy’s head, needing to feel a connection with a living being. He lifted his head and looked at her, his brown gaze clear and alert.

“Good morning,” Lauren said, but made no move to get up. She was in no rush to start her day. As she watched the sun come up, Lauren reflected on what she’d seen. Had the woman been a figment of her imagination, or had she seen an actual ghost? She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she also didn’t believe that a person simply ceased to exist. Zack was physically gone, but she had often felt his presence, especially for the first few months, and when she spoke to him, sometimes an answer simply dropped into her brain, as if he’d whispered it in her ear rather than saying it out loud. Perhaps it was wishful thinking and she wasn’t ready to let him go, but she had felt him close, especially when she was alone, and when Xavier first brought Billy over, the dog had growled at something, baring his teeth and staring into nothingness. He hadn’t done it since their first week together, so perhaps he’d grown used to Zack’s otherworldly presence, and he seemed oblivious to the woman Lauren had just seen.

At long last, Lauren got up, took a shower, and dressed in a pair of leggings and a warm sweater. She lifted Billy off the bed and carried him downstairs, where she set him on the floor. He trotted over to his water bowl and drank deeply before turning his attention to his food. It seemed Dr. Kelly had been right, and Billy just needed a little time to recover.

After taking him out for a wee, Lauren made herself a spinach and cheese omelet and a cup of coffee, then returned upstairs, sitting down at the desk where the woman had sat only an hour before. There was no trace of the letter she’d been writing or the implements, only Lauren’s laptop, which hummed accusingly as soon as she powered it up. She hadn’t done any work in nearly a week and it was time to get started. She was working on an autobiography of a popular reality star whose life was of little interest to Lauren, but it was a job, and she would do it to the best of her ability. Once she finished the project, she’d devote some time to her own writing.

“How about writing a ghost story?” Zack’s voice whispered in her mind. “You always said you wanted to try a different genre.”

“I don’t think so,” Lauren replied. “Ghost stories are really not my thing.”

“Okay, how about a historical romance, then? You used to love reading those. Remember that series you gobbled up about the woman who went back in time to eighteenth-century Scotland? You couldn’t buy those books fast enough.”

“All right. I’ll think about it,” Lauren replied grudgingly. “Now I must concentrate on my client’s meteoric rise to fame. She wants to devote an entire chapter to Twitter and how a nude selfie she posted went viral.”

She could almost hear Zack’s chuckle as she pulled out her notes and began to type.