REMEMBRANCE AND REGRET

CAROLINE WARFIELD

MERLIN’S OWL PRESS

Copyright 2022 by Carol Lynn Roddy, writing as Caroline Warfield

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

ISBN and ASIN to be determined upon publication.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Epilogue

About the Author

DEDICATION

This story was made to order for Kim Vizzini who won the right to specify the heroine and other elements, in gratitude for her support

CHAPTER 1

Ashmead on Afon, May 1820

Mary Malone sat at a small iron table in the shelter of willow trees along the Afon River, the air around her redolent of spring flowers, and humming with bird song. She smiled up at the sun, content for a moment.

She had come to a small village in the Midlands that reminded her very much of the village of her childhood, one blessed with loving parents, friendly neighbors, and great joy. She remembered all of it and the beloved church where she delighted in singing. Others praised her voice. She remembered that. She remembered nothing else. Not even why she left twenty-five years before.

Mary had been told her memory disappeared after a carriage accident in London, though she could not recall ever having been to the place. Her companion, a young woman who assured Mary repeatedly that she was Mary’s daughter, had been kind and loving in bringing her to this place. For that reason alone, Mary was inclined to believe the relationship. The woman, young but no longer a girl, called herself Bianca, an Italian sounding name for an English lady.

She glanced at the book in her lap, and her mood darkened. Bound in pasteboard, it was the earliest of a series of journals Bianca had brought with them. It looked no more familiar that the newest one, a richly leather-bound piece with a title embossed with gold letters, had looked. The cover of the newest one had proclaimed, Journal, and, below that Madam Della Rossa. The journal of a stranger. And yet Bianca insisted that Madam Maria Della Rossa was Mary herself.

She tried to read the fancy one, but the fantastical writings of an opera singer, the toast of Paris, Milan, and London had meant nothing to her. The life described was glamorous, exciting, and rather shallow. The entries had a wistful quality, as if that life somehow fell short of real happiness. None of it jogged any memory loose. Bianca then suggested she try the earliest journal, the simple pasteboard one in her lap. Peering at it, fear gripped her. She opened it to the beginning.

September 3, 1793

How kind of Mrs. Manley to give me this journal. She said a sixteenth birthday ought not to go unnoticed.

Manley. Mary closed her eyes. Something in the feel of the breeze on her face tickled her memory. Manley. Yes. The vicar’s wife. She sat upright with a gasp. Mrs. Manley had been the choir director. Her mentor and friend. The one who told her she had great talent. Music flooded her mind… Rejoice the Lord is King, echoed through her being, but something wasn’t quite right.

“Enjoying the sun, Madam Della Rossa? It is the very thing for you.” Paul Farley, Ashmead’s respected physician came into the clearing. “Miss Bianca told me where I might find you here. How are you feeling today?”

A sense of safety and well-being wrapped itself around her. What was it about this man that he always had such an impact on her. “I am well, Dr. Farley.” She held up the pasteboard journal. “Bianca suggested I try beginning at the beginning to fill in the gaps in my memory and move forward.”

“Has it helped?” He imbedded the question with such avid concern that she wondered if he brought the same level of interest to all his patients.

“As it happens, yes. A name. Mrs. Manley led the choir I recalled. She was a dear woman who encouraged me to believe I had talent. I held her in great affection. Do you suppose she had some influence on my entrée into the world of opera?”

His brows drew together and a deep line appeared between them. It marred his otherwise handsome appearance. Mary thought the lines in the corners of his eyes spoke of kindness and compassion. Laugh lines, she thought. Those and the silver streaks in his dark hair gave him a distinguished appearance. “How did you feel when that memory returned?” he asked.

“Confused. Everything that comes back leaves me feeling something else is just out of reach,” Mary said.

“Ashmead has already done you good,” Dr. Farley said. “Be patient. Keep reading. Perhaps it will all come back to you gradually.”

* * *

Paul left his patient with her journal at the river and walked back up to The Willow and the Rose. Her memory had begun to awaken. Will the rest of it come back?

Bianca had described a horrific accident. An out-of-control phaeton driven at great speed through traffic by a carless lordling had overturned, causing a series of catastrophes. Three people had died, including the wild young man who caused it. Madam Della Rossa’s town carriage had been forced up and into the window of a draper, killing her coachman. The team had to be put down. Madam herself had escaped broken bones, but she had been crushed against a wall and concussed. When she had regained consciousness two days later, her memory had been erased. Entirely. That was three months ago.

The Willow’s tavern beckoned. Paul approached the bar and accepted a mug of ale from Alice behind it. “Difficult day, Dr. Farley?” she asked.

“I’ve had worse,” he admitted. He carried his drink to a corner table and soon lost himself in thought.

He’d heard of such cases, but had never known a patient as severely impacted. Could a traumatic accident trigger deep memories, perhaps of an earlier trauma, memories too painful to face so that the patient remained frozen in time, unable to go back and unable to move on? This case may, he thought, might be one of those. He sat a long while sipping and staring.

“You’re deep in thought this morning, Paul.” Robert Benson, the innkeeper and Paul’s friend handed the empty mug to the serving girl and set down a fresh one. He sat down across from Paul.

“Memories. Devilish things,” Paul said.

“Madam Della Rossa? Pity that. My son Rob wrote to me from London. He said she was at the height of her fame. In huge demand at diplomatic gatherings in London as well as on stage.” Benson shook his head sadly.

“My own actually,” Paul admitted.

“Eloisa?” Benson asked sympathetically.

“Earlier.” Eloisa, Paul’s wife, had been gone ten years. The memory of their time together had faded into comfortable warmth, rather like a favorite jacket one wrapped in. No, memories of Eloisa no longer hurt so sharply. The ones he struggled with today brought pain.

Paul didn’t clarify the memories he meant, however. The two men sipped companionably for a while.

“Do you supposed we’ll have a chance to hear her sing?” Benson asked.

“We can hope,” Paul said. Hope was all he had in this case.

CHAPTER 2

The following day being Sunday, Mary and Bianca walked to church in the company of Mr. Benson, their generous and sympathetic innkeeper. They had come to respect him in the three weeks they had been in residence at The Willow and the Rose.

A few blocks along they saw Emma and Ellis Corbin, Mr. Benson’s daughter and son-in-law, walking in the same direction with their three children in tow. Mr. Benson tipped his hat and made his excuses, crossing to join his family.

A bit later a familiar sensation of well-being came over Mary, and she turn to see Paul Farley exiting his premises.

“Good Sunday morning, Madam Della Rossa, Miss Bianca,” he said. “On your way to church?”

“We are indeed, Signore Farley,” Bianca responded. “My mother attends faithfully.”

He smiled at that, a private sort of smile aimed directly at Mary, who felt her cheeks heating. She looked away.

“I will join you then. I’m also on my way. Reverend Sykes always says something to brighten my week.”

“Good to hear,” Bianca said. “Hell-and-damnation preachers are not to be tolerated.” She cast Mary a pointed look.

Have I subjected her to that sort of thing? Mary had no memory of it, and it didn’t match well with the flamboyant opera singer she had read about… Unless that woman had much to repent.

Saint Morwenna, constructed on the foundations of an ancient Norman church that had been built over, restored, and generally refurbished higgledy-piggledy over the centuries, felt like home. Stepping under a stone archway onto the flagstones, memory shimmered, and she shuddered, drawing a puzzled glance from Bianca. She smiled to reassure the younger woman.

The vicar was cheerful enough to please even Bianca. He took his sermon that week from the gospel according to Matthew, “For if you forgive others, so also your Heavenly Father will forgive you your sins… And who among us does not need forgiveness,” he boomed. He went on to speak of family and friendships, tolerance and strengthening bonds, concluding with a resounding, “Forgive and then forget. Put the past behind you and live in joy.”

Forget. She done a thorough job of that she thought wryly, but did she have aught to forgive? She rather suspected she needed forgiveness, more likely. She brushed the thought away and let the joy of the place take over.

For the first time since the accident, she felt like singing, and so when the people of Ashmead rose to their feet for the final hymn, Mary joined them. She raised her voice to sing, Oh, for a Thousand Tongues to Sing. Beginning softly, her voice surged upward, filling the little church to the rafters overhead. Eyes closed, she lost herself in the song. Many Church of England clergymen forbade the use of Methodist hymns, but Mrs. Manley always said it was a sin to waste good music. Mary smiled as she sang. For those moments she was in another time, another place.

She opened her eyes to see Reverend Sykes beaming at her. Some around her smiled joyfully. Others appeared stunned.

“Oh well done M… Madam,” Dr. Farley murmured. He offered his arm.

She felt her cheeks burn. She took his arm and let him lead her out to face the enthusiastic gratitude of fellow worshipers, all eager to introduce themselves to Madam Maria Della Rossa. The memories that had shimmered just out of sight, dissipated and disappeared.

Still, singing gave her courage. She would read more of the journal when they got back to the Willow.

* * *

Paul watched his companion as they left the churchyard. Madam Della Rossa had disappeared into a faded shadow of a woman. Mary Malone. No. Not Mary. The Mary he knew would be full of life.

Faded she might be, but he had recognized her immediately when Bianca Della Rossa presented her to him as his patient. A bit heavier; older certainly, but her glorious hazel eyes had the same golden center ringed with a soft greenish halo he could never forget. The familiar chestnut hair had been drawn up in a circlet of braids at the crown. For a moment all professional objectivity had disappeared. He longed to see her hair down, to see if it flashed golden highlights still.

But of course, he could not. He was a professional man, not the besotted boy he once was. Nor could he force memories on her as long as hers were gone.

They reached the inn and Mary bustled up the stairs. He managed to catch her daughter’s eyes. “Do you have a moment, Miss Bianca? Perhaps time for tea in the taproom?”

Bianca Della Rossa inclined her head graciously and followed him. Tall, poised, and fashionably groomed, the woman radiated continental sophistication. Twenty years or more his junior she might be, but Paul judged her infinitely more worldly than he. She looked as out of place in a country tavern as a goldfinch in a pasteboard box.

“Tell me about your mother,” he said.

The gently darkened lashes opened wide. “What is it you wish to know, Dottore?”

Everything. “As much as you wish to share. The more I know, the more likely I will be able to help her.”

A stunning young woman with eyes as dark as her raven hair, Bianca accepted tea with a regal nod of her head for the server.

“Madam lives primarily on the continent, does she not?” he asked. It was as good a place to start as any.

“We have a villa near Milan. During the long years of the Corsican monster’s endless wars, we traveled less than we might have.” She spoke in excellent but lightly accented English.

“You were born in Italy?”

There was a faint hesitation. “Yes,” she replied. “My father was Italian.”

“Dead? I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Not dead. Merely gone, and I’m given to understand it was little loss,” she said, faintly amused.

Not married then. An odd mix of relief and compassion flooded him. “You spoke of the war. You’ve traveled more since then?”

“Since Waterloo, we have lived temporarily in all the great capitals, returning home regularly until…”

“Until…” he prodded.

Her proud bearing moved in a way that might have been a shrug in another person. “We came to London two years ago. My mother has not wished to leave England. She hasn’t said why, but I suspect it is comfortable to her to return to the place of her birth.”

“Do you know how she came to be in Italy originally?” He held his breath.

“She came to sing, of course. A teacher recommended her to the school associated with La Scala. She came with nothing. Those were difficult years, but her brilliance was soon recognized and she has been celebrated ever since.” Bianca’s words sounded well-rehearsed.

The official story, no doubt. Pietro Scavo being the so-called teacher, he thought with disgust. The name was burned in his memory. He wondered how much ugliness happened in those difficult years. “You were born soon after?”

“Two years later.”

Mary had done well for herself. She had reason for pride, and yet, something blocked her memory. “Has your mother ever suffered trauma in the past?”

“Nothing! We live well.”

Something in her vehemence struck him as being more about Bianca than Mary. “You don’t like it here.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “London is dirty, grasping, and crude compared to Milan or Paris. The weather is appalling. Winter is the worst.”

He smiled in response. “It is good you have an opportunity to experience our countryside, in that case. Is there nothing—no one—calling your mother back to Italy?” he asked, unable to help himself.

Now Bianca was openly amused. “My dear Dottore. Are you asking me if my mother has a lover? How very English of you. A lady does not reveal her secrets.”

Paul’s face heated. He’d been asking exactly that. What right did he have to ask about Mary’s love life? He’d been married, and was hardly a monk before that. Still, he couldn’t help himself. “Not married then?”

“Never.”

“And no trauma that you know about?” he asked.

“I’m her companion. I would know such a thing. There is nothing.” Bianca grew impatient.

“What about before you were born? Has she spoken about it.”

“She never speaks of it,” Bianca said dismissively. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I will rest.”

CHAPTER 3

Mary descended the stairs quietly and slipped through the lobby. Bianca, she saw, was deep in conversation with her physician. She hurried along, following the path under the willows to the sheltered spot along the river. She passed the little table and chairs and followed a path upriver to a bench nestled among lilac bushes in wonderous full bloom. The scent of the lilacs soothed her. It had always been her preferred scent.

She sat with the pasteboard journal in her lap and closed her eyes, reviewing the morning. The little church had put her in mind of another from long ago. The other came into focus. What was it called? A moment later the name came to her. Saint Luke.

Mary smiled and rested on the thought. She hoped the name of her home village would come to her but it did not. The Cotswolds. Yes. The village is in the Cotswolds. How far from here? she wondered. The thought contented her.

The preacher had reminded her of Reverend Manley and the music—divine. Maria Della Rossa didn’t sing such hymns. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she was certain of it. The friendly faces in the church yard reminded her of others. Names came to her. Mrs. Higgins. Martha something, an old friend. Mama—yes, her mother. Tristan. Tristan? Someone named for one of Arthur’s Knights. When she tried to remember more, the flow of memory stopped. She couldn’t force it.

She opened the old journal with a sigh and turned to a random page.

July 15, 1793

Tris met me again today. He teased me about the solo at Saturday’s assembly, but I could see the pride in his eyes. I let him kiss me this time, and it made me all warm and tingly. I can’t wait to see him again.

Tris. Tristan? A swain from her youth? No face came into focus. She could not remember that kiss or any other. Something must have ended badly. A pain gripped her middle when she read those words. She slammed the journal shut.

Sun warmed her face when she leaned her head back. She breathed slowly, pushing the words in journal away and clearing her head, but no further memories came. She rose to walk back and one name surfaced again, a stab to the heart. Tristan. She must have loved him once. Who was he?

She trudged back the way she came, emptiness filling her. When she reached the stable yard, she encountered Doctor Farley.

“Madam Della Rossa, good afternoon. I see you’ve been reading your journal again. Would you like to take a walk and tell me what you learned?”

She didn’t. Besides, he must have other patients. And yet something about this man made her feel safe. Perhaps saying words out loud would pry memories loose. “That would be delightful,” she said.

* * *

He led her across the bridge between the inn and Ellis Corbin’s livery. Paths trailed both sides of the flowing stream, but the far side, lush with wildflowers and quiet, especially on the way away from town, was his favorite.

Lost in her own thoughts, Mary didn’t speak, and Paul was reluctant to interrupt. He suspected the journal had given her much to consider. Almost thirty minutes passed before he asked, “Have more memories surfaced? Do you wish to talk about them?”

Her smile, sad enough to tear at his heart, disappeared quickly. “Some but not enough.”

As they walked along side by side, she correctly named Saint Luke, the church, but not Little Keswick, the village. She spoke of Reverend Manley and the music in church, memories obviously triggered by the morning service.

“Anyone else?”

“I remembered my mother. Her name was Agnes. She was beautiful. A few villagers.” She glanced at him sideways. “Some person named Tristan, like from the Arthurian legends. Just a name. His face escaped me.”

She colored slightly and Paul held his beath, expecting more, but there was none. “What about music?”

“Yes. I sang in church and at village assemblies. Well, apparently.”

“One would assume so, Madam, given your illustrious career. You mentioned a Mrs. Manley before. She was your teacher?”

She paused and blinked. “She encouraged me to study.”

“Study?”

She breathed deeply, thinking. “Yes. I believe I did. There was a teacher…”

Paul paused as well, watching her letting the memory surface, tension gripping him.

“He was Italian,” she murmured, her brows pulled together in thought. “Scavo. His name was Scavo.” Her face crumpled. “Oh God!”

“What is it? What has upset you?” he asked, his heart pounding.

“I don’t know,” she wailed. “Just the name. Something terrible,” she sobbed.

She came into his arms as if she belonged there, tears flooding his cravat. “I can’t remember. I just can’t remember,” she cried over and over.

He held her until she subsided and for many moments afterward, her soft body nestled against his and his hand making circles on her back. When she finally pulled away, her pale face and shivers attested to her distress.

“I’m so sorry, Dr. Farley. I’ve made an utter fool of myself—and a mess of your neckcloth.” Her embarrassment increased her distress.

“Think nothing of it, Madam Della Rossa. Let me escort you back to The Willow so you can rest.”

They spoke little; Mary stumbled twice. When they reached the bridge, he asked the question that had been burning in him, or at least a veiled version of it. “Did you remember more? About singing perhaps?”

She shook her head. “No. More disjointed names and impressions—and unexplained emotions. It exhausts me.”

They found Bianca at the desk in the lobby handing over a letter for the post. At the sight of her mother, she paled. “What happened.”

“More memories, or at least pieces of them. It upset her. She needs to rest,” he said.

Bianco put an arm around her mother’s shoulder. “Come. Put this whole thing aside. The effort isn’t worth the pain it is causing.”

Mary pulled away gently. “I have to remember. The emptiness is worse,” she said.

“You have the laudanum I gave you?” Paul asked. “Perhaps a bit will help.”

“No! I loathe the stuff. I’ll go rest quietly,” Mary said.

Paul glanced at Bianca. “I’ll have tea and a bit of brandy sent up,” he said.

Bianca nodded and led her mother up, murmuring comforting words.

CHAPTER 4

“Bianca, don’t you have a life of your own?” Mary sat propped on pillows. The woman who was her daughter had added brandy to her tea. It helped. “I remember little of my life, and nothing at all about you. I’m ashamed to say it.”

The young woman went very still.

“Let’s begin with the obvious. How old are you?” Mary asked.

“I’m twenty-four,” she said, her eyes twin wells of sadness.

“Are you married?”

Bianca shook her head.

It was on the tip of Mary’ s tongue to ask why, but she didn’t want to probe what might be hurtful so bluntly. “Tell me about our life. What did we do in London.”

“You were engaged at the King’s Theater for a two-month stand,” the woman said.

“This spring? I must have failed to keep my contract.”

“No, two years ago,” Bianca said. “You chose to stay when it ended. There were enough private invitations and another month at Covent Garden to keep us. We also traveled to York for a month of concerts.”

“Chose to stay? Where would we be otherwise?”

“Our home is in Italy,” Bianca replied.

“Ah. Your name is Italian.”

“I am Italian. I was born there. We live in a villa near Milan. We’ve been there most of my life,” Bianca said. She switched from English to Italian and went on.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t understand a word of that. I can’t envision myself in a villa in Italy either.”

Tears flooded Bianca’s eyes and threatened to spill over. “Two months ago, you did.”

Mary put down her teacup, reached over, and gripped her daughter’s hand. “England wasn’t your choice.”

Bianca shook her head.

“I forced you to stay.” It wasn’t a question, but another one occurred to Mary. “Am I the reason you never married?”

The question startled Bianca. She pulled her hand away and sputtered. “Your career matters, Mama. It is my honor to be your companion in your travels. I could not leave you alone.”

“So yes, I am the reason. You’ve buried your life in mine. Is there no young man?” When Bianca hesitated to answer Mary urged her to tell the truth.

“Lucan. We spoke of marriage, but the England tour loomed. I told him I had a duty to go. He said he would wait, but… He’d already seen us off to Vienna and then Paris. Then, well, two years, Mama. The letters stopped.

Mary dropped her eyes to her lap, swallowing hard. “You gave him up for me. I’m so sorry.” She suspected Madam Della Rosso would have taken it for granted.

“You needed me.” The words faded away, so soft were they.

“You should go home,” Mary said, glancing up.

“When you recover, we’ll—”

“No. I may never recover. You should go home to Italy, if that is where you long to be.” Bianca’s eyes flew wide at Mary’s fierce declaration. “You deserve to pursue your own life.”

“Lucan will be—”

“If that man truly loved you, he waited. If not, it isn’t loss. You will find your joy in Italy. I’m sure of it. You must go.” Mary wasn’t entirely sure why she was certain of it, but she was.

“Will you come home with me? It may help your memory,” Bianca said. She couldn’t hide the note of hope in her voice.

“Did you hear me? You should go. As things stand, I cannot see myself in Italy. I feel at home here in Ashmead. It suits me. That woman in the journals—Madam Della Rossa—is a stranger. I’m not even sure I like her, especially if she took such terrible advantage of you. No. You should go. I should stay.”

“Mama,” Bianca sputtered, “Your career!”

Mary sighed deeply and shook her head. “It sounds unreal. I have no desire to be that person any longer. Maybe that is why my mind refuses to remember. What of you? Do you sing? Or play?”

Bianca colored. “I studied. But I could not compete with the great Maria Della Rossa. There was no point.”

A smile wavered on Mary’s lips. “At the moment—and perhaps forever—I am plain Mary Malone. My singing is confined to church. Perhaps it is your time to shine.”

“Signore Delaconte suggested I begin with small roles at La Scala,” Bianca murmured.

“And why didn’t you?”

“People commented on Maria Della Rossa’s daughter in the chorus. Besides, we began to travel again. You needed me,” Bianca said.

“I begin to suspect cowardice, my dear. It isn’t too late,” Mary said, touching Bianca’s hand.

“It is irrelevant as long as you are ill!”

“I am not ill. I’m relearning who I am. Some of it I like. Some of it I don’t. If my memory doesn’t return, I may stay here and make a life. From what you’ve explained to me, I could afford a country cottage near Ashmead.”

Bianca shuddered.

“Exactly, my dear. No quiet country life in England for you. You are a well-traveled woman of sophistication. You deserve the life you would choose for yourself. Go back to this villa with my blessing.”

Bianca shook her head. “No. At least not yet. You will need to hire a companion if you make that choice, Mama. You can’t stay alone.”

Mary sank back and rolled her eyes. “Ah yes. Proprieties. I remember now. The same is true of you if you return on your own.” She winked at her daughter. “You know, I may not remember facts and faces, but, Bianca, I remember this. I love you. I want you to be happy.”

This time Bianca reached over and took her mother’s hand in perfect accord.

Mary slept after that before dining downstairs with her daughter. They spoke about Bianca’s future—and Mary’s past—no longer. Bianca’s earlier attempts to enliven memory by telling Mary about their life had come to nothing and doctors, including Paul Farley, advised against it. It was better, they prescribed, to allow memories to return naturally.

Instead, the two women took a walk through the village to the church where Mary spent some time admiring the old stones and well-tended garden. The village seemed to bring her peace, reinforcing her belief that it was the sort of place she truly belonged. She returned in a pleasant mood and bid Bianca good night.

Mary drifted off to sleep, only to toss in dream-haunted restlessness, with sights and music of the day mingling with images and voices from her past. She awoke with a start. One face in particular came into focus. Tristan! He had left her. Left her and… What? His face the day he left came to her and she gasped. She threw off her quilt and reached for her wrapper.

* * *

Paul Farley was well accustomed to being awakened in the middle of the night by frantic knocking. A physician’s habit of light sleep brought him fully awake at the unusually soft tap he heard this night. He pulled trousers on over his shirt and padded down on bare feet to open the door.

Though medically impossible, Paul thought his heart stopped completely at the sight of Mary on his steps in the moonlight in her wrapper and slippers. His jaw dropped and speech eluded him.

“May I come in?” she said, her voice a harsh rasp.

How could he say no? He stepped back and closed the door behind her plunging them in darkness. “One moment. I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He charged up the stairs, lit a spill from the embers in his bedroom, and used it to light a brace of candles. He donned his old jacket, the one more comfortable than fine, buttoning his shirt to the chin, and went back down.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “There’s no fire in the parlor.” He led her to the kitchen, put the candles on his table and knelt to add wood to the dying fire.

You’re avoiding her, Farley. You’re afraid why she may have come. Mary looked even less easy. She sat still as a stone staring at the wooden table.

“Shall I boil water for tea?” It would give him something to do. She nodded.

Finally, he sat across from her and she gazed at him in the candlelight. Her words levelled him.

“Why did you leave me, Tris? I only remember that you did,” she said.

Paul could only gape. “What-– How…?”

She waited for him to gain control. When he didn’t speak, she did. “I kept seeing you in and out of strange dreams. Then I remembered you left. I saw you standing there on the little bridge that led to the manor. That’s when I recognized your face. You were leaving, and I was devastated. Your face became clear. The same gentle brown eyes. The hair—no grey but the same thick waves that curl up at your nape. I knew it was you. You must have known all along, but you never said. It is you, isn’t it?”

For a moment, Paul was tempted to lie, to suggest she confused her comfort with him with someone from her past, to assure her they had never met. He couldn’t lie. Not to Mary. She deserved the truth, or at least as much as she could handle. He nodded, unable to say the words.

“Your name isn’t Paul, then?”

“Paul Anthony Farley. Only you ever called me Tristan,” he said.

“My knight in armor…” she murmured studying the table. “Yes, I remember now.” Her head bobbed up and she gazed directly at him. “

“What exactly do you remember—from the beginning.”

“We were friends as children I think,” she said, her face tight in concentration. “When I turned sixteen, something changed. How old were you?”

“I was eighteen that year,” he said.

“I felt different around you. When you kissed me the first time, everything changed,” she said.

His world had been upended by that kiss—his dreams, his hopes for the future, all of it. His mouth went dry. “I believed you welcomed it.”

“Oh my, yes. I wanted another. Your kisses taught me desire. We met somewhere. In secret,” she said.

He waited while she thought, taking a moment to scoop tea into a pot and put water in to steep. He carried it along with two cups to the table. “Do you remember where?” he asked.

“Your father’s granary. Our parents disapproved,” she paused, thinking. “I suppose I was too young to be trysting with a young man.”

If only that were all.

She sat upright. “Your parents didn’t like me!”

“Alas, no,” he murmured.

“My father was some sort of farmer. A tenant?” Memories were returning rapidly

“Yes.”

“But you have no title,” she observed. “So, your father—”

“Didn’t either. A squire only. Modest wealth but enough to lord it over Little Keswick,” he said.

“Is that our village?”

Our. He shouldn’t care about that as much as he did. “Sorry. I should have let the name come to you.” He poured them each tea and sipped his silently.

“You would leave me in the dark? Can’t you tell me why you left me? Did they send you away?” she asked.

She’d come so far, perhaps a bit more, particularly of his side would help. “I was meant for university. He let me choose Edinburgh for the medical training. I had planned to leave the fall I turned eighteen, but after our, ah, time together that summer I dragged my feet. All my dreams held you in them from that summer on.”

“But still you left. It was winter, wasn’t it?” She sat back lost in thought. Paul sipped his tea, reluctant to feed her images she may not remember herself.

“No. Autumn. They caught us,” she murmured. “It was Harvest Festival and we snuck away.”

“Yes. I was sent away after that.”

She sipped her tea, lost in thought. “We quarreled. Did you promise to come back?”

“You don’t remember?”

She shook her head. “Tell me.”

“Yes, but it is better if your memory comes back when you are ready.” Paul suspected it wouldn’t be long. “Or perhaps your journal may help.” He wondered what she might have written after what happened. She may have chosen not to.

“I should go,” she said.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he replied.

“I’m no longer that innocent girl with a reputation to protect,” she said tartly, giving him a glance of Maria Della Rossa.

He stood when she did, to escort her to the door. She paused in the hallway. They stood so close in the narrow passageway that he could feel her breath on his face when she peered up at him. “One thing, Tris,” she said, using their old pet name naturally, “Did we do more than kiss?”

“Do you mean did we consummate our love?” he breathed.

She nodded. “I would think I would remember that,” she whispered.

He smiled at that. He would like to hope so. “We loved each other, but I left you a virgin.” Painful though it had been for the honorable young man that he was.

She leaned closer, and his head bent toward her until their lips touched. He captured her breath in a tender kiss before whispering, “This will not do.”

She moaned when he stepped back.

“Mary, we may not be innocent children, but I’m your physician. I can’t take advantage.”

She opened her mouth—to object he suspected—bit her lower lip and nodded. He escorted her back to The Willow. When the footman assigned to be night porter saw her, still in her night robe, in his company, the young man’s eyes widened.

“Madam Della Rossa walked out in her sleep. Kindly escort her to her rooms safely,” he told the porter. “And it may be wise not to mention this tomorrow,” he added slipping the porter a sovereign.

CHAPTER 5

The sun was high when Bianca raised the curtains. “I ordered your chocolate and a light breakfast on a tray,” she said.

Mary blinked awake. “What time is it?” she moaned.

“Well past ten. You slept so soundly, I had no heart to wake you, but since you napped so long yesterday as well, I began to get concerned.” Bianca busied herself readying the small table.

“That nap did me little good. I had a hard time sleeping.” Mary pushed herself up, set pillows behind her, and pulled the covers up. “Sorry.”

“Not a worry!” Bianca barely looked at her. She opened the wardrobe. “May I lay out the peach day dress? I’ve had quite enough of your mauve and violet, as if we were in mourning.”

Breakfast arrived, and the heavenly smell drew Mary to the table. “Light? I see coddled eggs! Are those Chelsea buns?” She uncovered the chocolate and steam poured out to her delight. “The peach will do. Do we have plans today that I should fuss about my appearance?”

“As it happens, I have a suggestion.” Bianca sat across from her and poured from the teapot that had come unbidden. “The English and their tea!”

“What is this suggestion?”

“I inquired about a piano. I have been assured that there is one in the parish common room that is in decent tune. I thought we might practice.” Bianca said.

“Practice for what?” Mary glared suspiciously. “I am in no condition to perform.”

“But you are always ready to sing,” Bianca said.

“You tried to prod my memory with opera that first week after the accident. That I recall clearly. Who was that soprano you dragged to the house?”

“Some chit from the chorus with a false French name. Actually, from Liverpool. That was two months ago; you’ve improved. I actually thought perhaps I would practice. You suggested I get back to it. I thought you might coach me,” Bianca said.

Sun blessed them yet another day as the Della Rossa ladies made their way toward Saint Morwenna. Some villagers stared as if the two of them were some sort of exotic creatures. More greeted them cheerfully, a change brought on, Mary suspected, by her spirited participation in the hymns the previous Sunday. It had felt good to sing.

Perhaps Bianca’s idea is a good one.

Mrs. Sykes, the vicar’s wife, had offered the hall as soon as Mr. Benson had forwarded their request. She met them at the door and welcomed them, leading them to the piano. It had been, she assured them, tuned recently by a man from Nottingham. She politely left them to it.

Bianca completed some scales and chords, pronounced the instrument sound, if not as fine as the instrument in their own home, and began to sing as she played.

Her first efforts were traditional folk music, cheerful Italian tunes meant to keep toes tapping or to ease the burdens of repetitive work. Mary quickly began to sing along, startled at how quickly the lyrics came to her. One humorous ditty made her laugh.

Bianca began another along more classical lines. Mary had a flash of memory, Bianca and her vocal coach in a finely furnished music room. She joined her daughter on the chorus and the two women smiled in one accord. Her daughter had a rich mezzo soprano voice.

Two similar songs passed. Neither tickled Mary’s memories. Then Bianca sang Caro Mio Ben. It was from an opera. By Gordiano, Mary thought, an odd scrap of memory. The words came to her first. My dear one, without you my heart languishes… Sharp pain gripped her heart.

Pietro Scavo, her teacher, taught her the song. He made her practice it over and over until her Italian pronunciation was perfect. It was her first. “Think always of a lover when you sing,” he taught her, “so you might put heart into the song.”

Bianca moved on to something else, oblivious to her mother’s distraction. Mary heard only Caro Mio Ben and Scavo’s deep voice. They began every lesson with it. “Look at me,” he would insist. “Sing to me, not that fool of an Englishman who deserted you, Caro Mio.”

…who deserted you. Tris. Tristan. He deserted me. That day on the bridge he called her a child—after he had given her a toe-curling kiss. He said he wasn’t much more. He needed to see the world. Those were his words, “See the world,” while Mary was left to languish in Little Keswick, a farmer’s daughter with no prospects of anything better. She had shouted at him in anger. “Don’t expect me to wait for you.”

More memories flooded back. Pietro came soon after, in response to Mrs. Manley’s advertisement. He was to serve as organist and choir master in three small parishes, and, thanks to Mrs. Manley, teach her prize pupil. Mary. He brought music and stories of places Mary could not even dream of seeing. Tris was gone; she had her singing. And yet when she sang of languishing, she sang about Tris.

An ugly detail came to her, Pietro’s face, resentful and contorted when he thought she longed for Tris. She shook her head and stood back up. Bianca continued to play. None of the arias brought additional memory with them. Perhaps she’d had enough for one day.

“Shall we return to the inn? It grows late.”

“One more, Mamma. This one you sang many times. You must love it. From Keiser’s Fredegunda. Do you recall it?” Lasciami Piangere she sang, Let me weep. Tears hovered in Mary’s eyes, but she joined in, unable to help herself. Her voice swelled, filling the little room, and pouring all the sorrow of her injury, of her losses known and unremembered, of her truncated life into it. Let me weep, let me weep, let me weep. And then she did.

Bianca finished on a brace of reverberating chords and turned to smile, but Mary sank to a chair and sobbed.

* * *

“You best be careful if you want to keep that hand, Isaac,” Paul told his patient. The carpenter had cut his hand on a nail, blessedly clean. He’d been dragged, complaining, to Paul’s surgery by his sister. “Soak it, as I said, tonight, and I’ll give you a new dressing in the morning.” Isaac Norton grumbled but would do as he was told. His sister would, in any case.

Eunice Norton thanked him for “putting up with Isaac’s nonsense,” and pushed her brother toward the door. “How is that Italian patient of yours, Dr. Farley?” she asked, eyes avid. Eunice was Ashmead’s greatest gossip.

“You know I don’t discuss patients,” he replied.

Eunice tossed her head in resignation. “They went down to Saint Morwenna’s a while ago. They’re going to practice at the parish assembly room. Elsbeth Simmons walked down to stand outside and listen. Rude, if you ask me.”

With that announcement she was gone. Paul gave her two minutes before she followed Mrs. Simmons. It wasn’t every day the people of Ashmead could hear a renowned opera singer, even if it was through the windows of the parish common room.

He cleaned up his tools and wrapped up the unused dressings. He fought temptation for five full minutes before he was on his way. Village physicians don’t often hear world class opera either.

A half dozen or so lovers of music stood silently, ears toward the window. Eunice stood several feet back, trying to appear as if she disapproved. Mrs. Simmons cast Paul a sheepish grin, but kept her attention on the singing.

A voice—lovely but not Mary’s—Bianca’s perhaps—finished one song. He heard some scales and piano flourishes, a few words, and then a new piece. At first it was the one voice, but very soon another, Mary’s, joined her. The sound soared until the parish assembly must be full, and Paul thought the windows might burst to allow it out, glorious and soul stirring, mournful and heart breaking, ending softly on one long note allowed to slowly fade.

The listeners drew a collective sigh. Mrs. Simmons had tears in her eyes. Another woman held her clenched hands to her bosom. The music stopped. There was no more. The listeners lingered for a moment and then Eunice and one or two others bustled off, probably fearful of being caught listening.

Paul turned to follow them, but a sound from inside the hall stopped him. Deep racking sobs. The music had moved others to tears, but this was the sound of heartbreak. He froze, unwilling to walk away, afraid to intervene.

He couldn’t help himself. He went in. Bianca was kneeling by Mary, cooing soothing words. Mary, his Mary, sat at a table, her head on her arms, sobbing.

“Dottore Farley. I’m glad someone sent for you. Music has done this. I am more certain than ever that we should let the past lie and go forward,” Bianca said, rising. Her fierce protection may be misguided, but its roots were in love.

Paul took her place at the crying woman’s side. “Mary, calm yourself.” He hesitantly put a hand on her heaving shoulder. “Whatever memory distresses you, it is in the past.”

Mary stiffened. She turned anguished eyes toward him where he knelt next to her. “You came.”

He wasn’t certain if she meant now or all those years ago. “Of course. You needed me,” he said. He wasn’t prepared when she slid from the chair onto her knees and into his arms. He held her close. What else could he do?

“Oh God, Tris. Pietro promised me the world, but he took my virginity and left me penniless on the streets of Genoa as soon as we docked. You should have shot him as you threatened,” she wailed, before burying her face in his shoulder. His stomach curdled and for a horrid moment he thought he would shame himself by being sick.

Bianca, hovering nearby, breathed in sharply, her expression equal parts shock and puzzlement. “Tris?” she squeaked. “What is this?”

“I’ll explain. But could you give us a few moments. She’s been overwhelmed by unpleasant memories, but she’ll be safe with me. I promise,” Paul pleaded.

Bianca appeared ready to object, but decided against it. “I have no better ideas. I will give you ten minutes,” before striding out.

He kissed Mary’s temple and rubbed her back. “Easy, my love. We need to talk. Come. Stand.” He led her by the hand to a bench along the wall where they could sit side by side. “What is it you’ve remembered?” he asked, still holding her hand, and bracing himself for more revelations.

“All of it. I think. You came back. I don’t know why.”

“Do you remember Tom Findley?” he asked.

“Your father’s secretary? He was your friend I think.”

“The best. He was in the choir. He saw how Scavo treated you. How he looked at you. Mrs. Manley, all enthralled with your brilliant future, brushed his concerns aside. He wrote to me. I came home to check. I came home for you.”

She gazed at him as if she couldn’t take it in. “You came for me,” she breathed. “But you barged in like an angry bull.”

“When I got home, my father was furious that I left university mid-term. I attempted to imply I had become homesick, but Tom took me aside and told me Scavo had held you after choir that afternoon for ‘an extra lesson.’ I saw red and stalked out all full of pride, as though I really was that knight you named me.”

“You accused him of trying to seduce me,” she said.

“Was I wrong?”

She answered with one word, long and wavering. “No.” She swallowed hard. “But I didn’t know that then. I was horrible to you. I was still angry that you left me. Angry that you thought you could order my life.”

“You told me it was unfair that I could go out into the wide world while you were stuck in Little Keswick. That you wanted to expand your horizons. You certainly succeeded.”

It was unkind. Her face crumpled, and he felt like a cad. “I’m sorry, Mary. I am so sorry.”

“He baited you. He called you a weak English school boy. You said if he didn’t leave me alone you would shoot him and he smiled. He smiled.”

“He that said my accusations were a blot on his honor. He challenged me to a duel.” Paul struggled to remember details. He’d been too angry to pay attention then.

“You agreed to meet him in the meadow below the village. He told me after you left that he was an expert marksman and he would have no problem dispatching you. He called you my pathetic village schoolboy. I sent a note to warn you. Is that why you didn’t come?”

“No. I had too much pride for that. But it explains how my father got wind of it. He locked me in my bedroom. He said that if you let some Italian rogue turn your head, he would not let me ruin my life over it. When I got out you were gone.”

“You would have come,” Mary gasped. That detail appeared to please her. She kissed him then. Well and thoroughly. “I’m glad your father protected you, though. Pietro would have killed you, and I would have gone anyway.”

“You were in love with him.” The thought depressed him as much as ever.

“I tried to convince myself I was, but I didn’t know the meaning of the word. He told me I was meant for better things. He disparaged Little Keswick. He disparaged my parents. He fed me descriptions of opera houses and fine instruments. He promised me fine dresses and great things.”

“To seduce you.”

“Yes, but I also think he hoped to mold me into his creature, to use me on the stage. For money,” she said.

“I followed you to the port, determined to rescue you from the clutches of a villain, naïve fool that I was, but I was three days behind because of my father.”

“I had no idea,” she breathed.

A detail occurred to him. “You said he deserted you in Genoa. Left you on the streets.”

“Some very nasty men caught up with him. He had run afoul of a gang of criminals long before. It was why he had left Italy. When they threatened, he ran like a coward. Leaving me alone.”

“Were you pregnant?”

“No, that came later.” She eyed him directly, but he asked no questions, not about that.

“What did you do?” It came out a whisper.

“I worked as a cook until I could get myself to Milan where I knocked on the door of the man he hoped to impress. I arrived in the rumpled dress I traveled in, penniless, and told him I was Pietro Scavo’s student. He laughed, but I intrigued him. He found me a place to stay. Work at the opera house. Eventually a place in the chorus.”

“Was he Bianca’s father?” Paul asked, immediately regretting it when her face went blank.

“I did many things to get by, Tristan. The world was not the golden place I hoped for.”

He took her in his arms. “You were still young. Too young. We both were. It was not mine to judge then or now.” He saw the door open over her shoulder. “Come. Your daughter worries. You need to rest. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

Mary nodded. “I remembered one other thing, Tris. The day you left for university; you said you loved me. You always would.” A multitude of emotions swirled in her eyes. He thought he found hope among them.

CHAPTER 6

“Thank goodness your friend knew the river path. I couldn’t bear the stares of all of Ashmead,” Bianca said later that evening when they finally met for a private meal before bed.

Mary nodded. Too wrung out emotionally, she had said little since they returned. She slept for an hour before dinner and had been attempting to process the flood of memories, bad and good, that had overtaken her. She owed Bianca better.

“You were right about the music,” she murmured.

“You remembered things,” Bianca said gently.

“Everything, I believe, although there may be blanks.” She smiled as best she could. “You will be pleased to know I fully remember your childhood, running along the tiled floors of the villa and giving Georgio grief.” Georgio was their loyal gardener. “I remember Lucan, too. A decent man but, unlike you, he lacks fire.”

“Perhaps I have enough for both of us. A passionate man and I might burn out.” It was an old argument. Mary took Bianca’s hand, and her daughter lay her head on the mother’s shoulder.

“So will we go home now?” Bianca asked.

“I think not,” Mary said.

Bianca bobbed upright. “But—”

“Hush, daughter. I still think you should go home and resume your studies—and see Lucan if you must. I like it here.”

Bianca sighed and subsided back down. “Tell me about this ‘Tris” business.”

“You know the story of Tristan, the noble knight, and Iseult?” Mary said, her lips twitching upward in memory.

“Of course, star crossed lovers. Their story ended badly.”

“And therefore, more apt than I intended as a child. I called him Tristan, my noble knight. I longed to be a princess. But alas I was a farmer’s daughter and far beneath his touch, or so his father believed.”

“Paul Farley,” Bianca said. “Was his family powerful.”

“They were minor gentry. I see that now, after the people I’ve met and the places we’ve gone. But in the world of Little Keswick they were the power, and he was the prince.”

“In the story, she was the princess.”

“Yes, well, I was young. Tris was my best friend. My joy.” Mary sighed.

“What happened?” Bianca asked.

“We grew up, but perhaps not quickly enough.”

“Tell me all of it,” Bianca said.

Mary did, leaving nothing out, not even the horror of Pietro’s rough treatment. “Tris said he followed us, but he was too late.”

“Do you love him still?”

“Don’t be absurd. It was over twenty-five years ago. Life has changed us,” Mary said.

“And yet you wish to stay in Ashmead.” Bianca raised an eyebrow. “What of your career?”

“I’m finished. I knew that before the accident. I had grown weary of being Maria Della Rossa. I yearned to be plain Mary Malone again. Coming to England reminded me of quieter times, different times, and I began to wish for it. That’s why I dragged my feet. Since coming to Ashmead, I have found what I wanted. I have sufficient wealth to buy my cottage, and leave you, my darling, the villa. What of your career?”

“I have none. What do you plan to do about Paul Farley?” Bianca asked.

“Some things can’t be planned, daughter. Careers, however can. Stop hiding. Go after what you want!”

Bianca left then, stepping into her adjoining bedroom. Mary stared at the dying embers. What about Paul Farley…

“We shall see,” she murmured. “We shall see.”

* * *

The surgery crowded with patients on the one morning Paul wished to be elsewhere. He promised Mary a conversation. Promised himself more like.

But it couldn’t be helped. He treated a case of ague, a broken toe, a nasty splinter, and a burn. He also treated the imagined ills of an entire tribe of people burning with curiosity about what happened in Saint Morwenna’s assembly room the day before. Every one of them went away unsatisfied.

After his second ale, he’d come close to pouring out all of it to Robert Benson at the Willow the previous evening, but some things were too private even for that wise counselor. A few more drinks left him with a queasy stomach the morning after, which wasn’t helping.

He had just bandaged Tommy Edwards’ scraped knee when a sudden silence in the crowded parlor that doubled as his waiting room startled him. He patted Tommy on the head, turned him over to his mother, and escorted them out of the surgery. He stopped in his tracks.

Mary stood in his doorway. His Mary, dressed like springtime, in a green gown embroidered with flowers. Elegant and yet simple. Full of life, exactly as he always remembered her and yet not. Maturity gave her depths that hadn’t been there before. Her glorious hair, he noted abstractly, was done up in a simple knot at her nape. She wore no jewelry. She—

“May I have a word in private?” she said with a wavering smile, waking him from his absorption in her very presence.

“Of course!” He glanced at the avid watchers in his parlor, pulled her into his surgery, and shut the door. She stood so close he felt her warmth. He could have her in his arms without taking a step. The scent of lilacs filled his sense.

“I’ve remembered all of it. At least my part of it,” she said, her eyes probing his. “What would have happened if you found us before we embarked?”

“I might have killed him and been hanged for it. Would you have come back with me if we could have escaped without that?” he asked.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I was terrified he would kill you. I wanted him far away from you,” she said. They stood so close now he could feel her breath on his face.

“Why didn’t you come home after he abandoned you in Genoa?” he asked softly.

She turned away then and went to the other side of the little room. She shrugged. “I had no money for the fare. And I was ashamed. I couldn’t face you or my family. If I had, would you have loved me still after being with him?”

“I would like to believe so,” he said. “But I was still young and had no way to support a wife.”

“So many regrets,” she murmured.

He made a dismissive gesture. “Regrets are fruitless. We can’t change the past, and perhaps wouldn’t want to. My work, my marriage, would never have happened. I can’t regret them. What of Maria Della Rossa, the toast of Europe. Can you regret that?”

“No. And Bianca most of all. Losing my memories left me empty and yearning. We have to embrace the good and the bad. But I learned one thing. There are some memories that must be faced, and then put to rest. Not forgotten exactly, but put aside where they can’t harm us.”

“What now? Will you go back to London? Italy?” he asked, heartsick at the thought.

“No.”

His eyes flew open wide. He feared she could see his heart and hopes he had barely acknowledged in them.

“Bianca is leaving in the morning.” She grinned then. “She hired Alice from the inn as a companion. They will go to the villa near Milan where she plans to resume her studies. I— I have lost the desire for life as Maria Della Rossa.”

He approached her with care. “And you then, Mary? What will you do?” he asked.

“I will buy a house here. Near Ashmead. I’m a wealthy woman, Paul.”

“No longer Tristan?” he asked sadly.

“I want to put aside childish dreams—they were ever fantasies—and find what is real between us. I thought we might get acquainted again—truly acquainted.” Her breath tickled his cheek.

He gestured around his surgery without turning away from her. “I am as you see, a simple country physician. You are wealthy, I am not.”

A sly smile tipped her mouth sideways. “Our situation has reversed. Does that bother you?”

Did it? “We’re who we are, Mary. Who we always were. You’re right. We need time to explore that.” He leaned so close their mouths were within inches.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I would like that.” She closed the distance, and he met her half way, as he always would.

Paul Farley’s hope soared. The kiss they shared was full of passion and promise, promises they could explore at their leisure. They had all the time in the world.

EPILOGUE

Mary paused at the door to Saint Morwenna Church a year later. It had been an eventful year. She had gone to Little Keswick to discover, to her grief, that her parents were deceased. Her brother, now a successful farmer with a freehold of his own, welcomed her warmly, however, and scars she wasn’t even aware of began to heal. Paul, for his part, had visited his older brother at the manor, one she found much less impressive from the vantage point of experience than she had as a girl. The visit brought her and Paul even closer.

She’d found the perfect little cottage surrounded by trees on a piece of land close enough to Ashmead to go back and forth daily, if need be, making Paul’s frequent visits easier. She had gradually made it her own, inside and out. The gardens flourished.

Now, all of Ashmead had crowded into the church. The famous opera singer Bianca Accardi was going to sing at the wedding of their own Paul Farley and Miss Mary Malone, recent resident of the shire. Madam Accardi was enjoying the success of her first tour of England accompanied by her husband and manager, Mr. Lucan Accardi.

Even the Earl and Countess of Clarion, his sister Mrs. Morgan, his steward Eli Benson and all the Benson relatives she had come to know sat in pews along with their families from Little Keswick. Soon they would all return to The Willow, which Mr. Benson had turned over entirely to a wedding breakfast. It wasn’t the cathedral of Milan or any of the grand assembly rooms she’d visited, but it was good. It was very good.

She took a step forward, and Paul moved into the center in front of the alter, tall distiquished, and utterly adorable. Their eyes met and joy filled her heart. Yes, all of it was very, very good.

The End

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Caroline Warfield is an award winning author of family-centered, sweetly sensual Regency and Victorian romance.  She reckons she is on at least her third act, happily working in an office surrounded by windows where she lets her characters lead her to adventures in England and the far-flung corners of the British Empire. She nudges them to explore the riskiest territory of all, the human heart.

Caroline is delighted to finally write a story for Paul Farley, who appears as a much-loved physician in all four books in her series, The Ashmead Heirs.

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