“Margery has the right of it, Lenora,” Lady Tesh said, her voice quiet and yet strong with her conviction. “It was a tragic accident, nothing more.”
Lenora’s stunned gaze swiveled between the two women. “Don’t you understand that I broke his heart? If I had stayed quiet, he would not have been careless on the ride back home, and he would still be alive. How can you not hate me for it?”
A watery smile flitted over Margery’s face. “All you did was tell Hillram your true feelings. I knew my cousin, and he would rather you were honest than to stay silent for his sake. Besides, I could never hate you, dearest. You’re like a sister to me and always shall be.”
Shaking her head in disbelief, Lenora pulled her friend close. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve either of you.”
“You deserve every happiness, Lenora,” Margery murmured into her hair.
They stayed that way for a time. And as she held on tight to her dearest friend in the world, Lenora felt the guilt she had carted about like a loadstone melt away. She breathed in deeply, freely, for the first time in too long.
They broke apart, hands going to cheeks to wipe away the wetness there. “What shall you do now, dearest?” Margery asked quietly.
What would she do, indeed? Before Lenora could answer, however, Lady Tesh’s hand, its paper-thin skin smooth and cool, landed on top of hers. “Well, my girl, you shall just have to stay here with me.”
Lenora’s chest swelled with love. But she knew deep down that would be the easy way out, going from being dependent on her father to being dependent on Lady Tesh. She could not do it. She had to stand on her own two feet.
Somehow.
“I do love you, Gran,” she said with a smile. “Though I think you know I cannot do that. And no, Margery,” she continued, “I cannot live with you, either. Your portion is barely enough for you to live on as it is. I will not be a burden to you.”
“You could never be a burden,” Margery declared fiercely.
“Well, if you will not stay with Margery, and you will not stay with me, where will you go?” Lady Tesh asked.
Unerringly Lenora’s gaze found the drawing bag she had left half the room away. “Gran, how much would you say my paintings are worth to you?”
Confusion clouded the viscountess’s brow before, with a suddenness that completely transformed her, understanding bloomed. “I would say,” she said with a grin, “that they will just about pay for the first year’s rent on the small dowager cottage that has been sitting empty on the far side of the property. Wouldn’t you?”
Lenora clasped the woman’s hand and grinned. “That sounds splendid, Gran. Absolutely splendid.”
***
It had not taken Peter long after arriving in Liverpool to learn that Quincy had not yet sailed for Boston. He’d located the inn easily enough—the most luxurious one in the port city, naturally; Quincy was not one to deny himself the comforts in life.
What took much longer was locating the man himself.
He searched every pub and house of ill repute he could find, and yet not a one remembered seeing Quincy. Finally, frustrated and heartsick, he made his way through the narrow alleys to the docks.
The place was bustling with humanity as he walked the worn boards. The sights and smells of the place had him remembering better times. Life aboard Captain Adams’s belovedPersistence, Quincy at his side. The wind in his hair, the lurch and sway of the ship beneath his feet. Revenge had driven him, keeping him going when most men would have given up, propelling him to move up in life, to succeed, to thrive. The world had been full of possibilities then.
Now he didn’t know where to go, what to do. Everything seemed duller now for the loss of Lenora.
“Peter.”
He started, turned. Quincy stood behind him, looking as forbidding as Peter had ever seen him. A bruise stood out in stark contrast on his jaw, already turning a sickening green. Peter clenched his fist, felt the pull of newly healing skin on his knuckles, and nodded. “Quincy.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m returning to Boston.”
His friend’s brows drew down in the middle, confusion breaking through the barely banked animosity. “But your promise to your mother—”
“Broken.”
There was a pause as Quincy searched his face. “Your mother meant the world to you. That love drove you all these years.”
“You’re right” was Peter’s quiet answer. “And I will never stop loving her. But it’s time to move on.”
