There were also books written in French and Spanish, which she couldn't begin to read, and an entire series on the history of England, not surprising since Australia, was a Crown colony. But she was surprised at the extensive papers and volumes on the American colonies, one titledThe Birth of a Nation, American Independence,and several others including a thick volume by Thomas Jefferson, and a plain, leather-bound book she found by accident.
Opening it, Elyse discovered that it was a journal. She stared at the words on the first page, and the name of Zach's father, Nicholas Tennant.
Dare she read it? A journal was a private thing, not meant to be shared with everyone, much less a stranger. But she wasn't a stranger. Her fingers trembled as she turned the first page.
London, England
June 7, 1839
I begin this journey into hell. One day I will return and have my day of justice for the crime I am accused of.
I will reclaim my birthright from those who have taken it from me. And, God willing, Felicia will be waiting for me.
I shall now be called Nicholas Tennant, a new name for a new life.
Elyse stared at the words she'd read at least a dozen times.
Felicia. He could mean no other than Felicia Barrington!
She didn't want to continue. It was almost as if she was afraid of what she would find. But Zamora's words whispered at her, and she slowly turned the next page.
She read on, feeling all the desperation and futility that poured forth in those words. Then, she read about Resolute. The struggle, the daily fight to carve a home from the wilderness of New South Wales. She sensed the iron-willed determination of Nicholas Tennant in his descriptions of that new life. She saw frustration in his bold, short strokes, and calm acceptance of a small victory when an entry recorded the number of lambs born that first spring.
And she read about Felicia—the longing in words so private that she had to close the journal several times, of letters sent that went unanswered, then the news that arrived by ship—and another entry written by someone else, Zach perhaps, that Felicia Seymour had wed. She was Felicia Barrington, the scrawled angry words that gave way to a sad acceptance that reached deep inside her and left her crying.
Felicia Seymour had loved only one man—Alexander Nicholas Barrington, who took the name, Nicholas Tennant. Alexander Barrington was Zach's father!
"My pendant," she whispered as she finally understood. There had always been two of them—the earbobs Felicia had worn for the portrait. Alexander Barrington had given them to her when they were engaged to be married!
For the longest time, she sat there, too stunned to think, to even move. Zach's father had been engaged to Felicia Seymour, and then the crime he was accused of, tried for murder, and sent to Australia banned from every returning to England.
What had happened to Felicia? What was she told? That he was dead?
She had eventually married Charles Barrington, and Zach's father made what he could of the life that was left to him. All those unanswered letters, the questions, the wounds that never healed when two people were torn apart.
Elyse closed her eyes at the pain and anguish that must have brought them, felt all over again, deep inside, as real as when it first happened. She looked up. Zach watched her from the doorway of the cabin, then looked down at the journal in front of her.
"Now you know," he said, crossing the cabin. "That journal is all I have of him."
"Jerrold's father... " she whispered.
He nodded. "He took the one thing that meant more to my father than anything else."
"And Felicia...” she whispered.
Tears streamed her cheeks. "She died the day of the shipwreck when my parents were returning to England." She looked up at him then.
"Zamora said..." she closed her eyes as she struggled with what the old woman had told her.
"The dreams; that I had lived before. I don't understand all of it, but she said that it was here," she opened her hand and stared down at it. She looked at him then, "She said that I was waiting for you to find me..."
Then still struggling with all of it, she rose and replaced the journal on the shelf. When she turned to leave, he stopped her, a hand at her arm.
"Lys," he whispered.
Alex Barrington's nickname for Felicia, the woman he had loved and lost. He whispered it again as his hands cradled her face. He wiped the tears away with his fingers. Then the whisper of his lips against hers.
Then there were no more words as he touched her as if he was seeing her for the first time, memorizing her, each touch as he slowly removed one of the blouses he'd purchased for her, her hands covering his as, together, they pushed the pants from her hips, and, together, removed his pants and shirt, her fingers lightly brushing the wound that still healed at his side.
