And that was the truth. He didn’t care that there would be consequences. Rockwell needed her. He was so cut up inside and now filled with such anger for his friend and family, that he needed Farah’s touch to calm him. She would know how to help his friend and for that, he would be forever grateful.
She smiled like an angel. “I’m glad I’m here with you, too. I’m so happy you’ve found your friend.”
*
They easily foundLucien’s cottage. Nestled amidst the rolling green hills near to the sea, stood the cottage, weathered by time and the elements. It was nothing like Lucien’s ancestral country house, but it was obvious that he took pride in it, as the gardens were immaculate and the stone fences well kept.
The cottage was constructed of rough-hewn stone, its walls coated with a layer of whitewash that had faded to a soft, weathered hue over the years. A thatched roof, now patchedin places, sloped gently downwards, offering shelter from the frequent rains that swept across the countryside.
Outside, a small garden flourished, its borders delineated by neatly stacked stone walls. To the side of the cottage were rows of potatoes, cabbages, and carrots thriving in the rich, dark soil. A path of worn cobblestones led from the garden gate, passed the swing to the cottage door.
As they approached the cottage, the scent of peat smoke hung heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the surrounding fields. Rockwell glanced through the small, paned windows, and noted the warm glow of a fire flickering within, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floorboards.
Lucien flung the door open and waved them in. He’d placed chairs by the fire for them to sit.
Inside, the cottage was cozy and inviting, despite its modest size. A hearth dominated one wall, its stone mantle adorned with an assortment of trinkets and keepsakes—a wooden pipe, a faded daguerreotype, a rosary blessed by the local priest. Above the mantle, a crucifix watched over the room, its presence a silent reminder of the family’s faith. Another lie. Lucien wasn’t Catholic.
Furniture, though sparse, was sturdy and well-made—a wooden table and chairs, but Lucien sat in a worn but comfortable armchair by the fire, a simple wooden bed tucked into the corner looked feminine with a quilt a rainbow of colors. Was that Ava-Marie’s bed? Shelves lined the walls, filled with books and crockery. Each item appeared cherished for its practicality or sentimental value.
Despite the obvious hardships of rural life, the cottage was an inviting place of warmth and hospitality. Only Rockwell understood how Lucien would feel about this cottage once he returned to England.
“Ava-Marie and her cousin Caitria, are in the barn. I thought it would give us privacy to talk, as I’m pretty sure I will not like what I hear.”
Rockwell smiled. “I can see the head wound hasn’t scrambled your brain. You were always a clever man.”
“I must be mad to believe this tale, but something inside me always felt that this wasn’t really my home. Besides, why would anyone come and tell me I’m English nobility unless it were true? Plus, how is it I can talk like this?” Lucien had swapped to a very upper-class English accent. “I take it you know me and know me well?” Lucien’s eyes swept over them.
He leaned forward. “We were—are—best friends since we could walk.”
With desperation in his voice, Lucien said, “Please tell me. Who am I?”
It was Farah’s soft voice that responded. “You’re Lucien Cavanaugh, Viscount Furoe, heir to the Earl of Danvers. You have two sisters called Lauren and Madeline, and your father is still alive.”
Lucien looked at them as if they’d gone mad and promptly burst out laughing. But his laughter turned into a croaking cry as he said, “Then how did I end up here?”
Rockwell told Lucien bluntly, not holding anything back. “We know some of the story but have had to surmise the rest. You left England to help quell the Irish rebellion in 1803. Your mother was Irish and you could speak Gaelic, so you thought you might stop the bloodshed.”
Farah butted in. “You were in the British Army in Ireland fighting in the Irish rebellion. I think you got wounded and taken into a gentlemen’s club where Ava nursed you back to health.” She swallowed and looked at Rockwell, who nodded his encouragement. “I think Ava must have fallen for you, and whenshe learned you’d lost your memory, she brought you here as her husband.”
The anguish in Lucien’s eyes was almost too much for Rockwell to bear. “She tricked me. It was all a lie. We were never married, were we?”
“I don’t think so,” Farah said. “We would have to check the parish records in Dublin. If you married Ava, it must have been before your injury or you would remember. And I don’t think you were in Dublin long enough for a marriage to occur.” She didn’t want to tell him about Courtney just yet. Lucien had enough to take in.
“That means Ava-Marie is illig…” And Lucien swore and got to his feet to pace the room. “How did you find me? After all this time, why did you come looking?” Lucien retook his seat.
Rockwell leaned back and told him the tale. “I was in Ireland on an errand for my brother, the Marquess of Wolfarth. I thought I saw you in a tavern one night. I tried to follow you but lost you in the street.”
“That was you? I thought some drunkard was after my money. I had just sold some potatoes to the grain merchant. I hid from you because you kept calling me Lucien.” He sighed. “Now I understand why.”
“I came back a few days ago to see if it was you.”
“On a hunch? You really were—are—a good friend. Thank you, I guess.”
Rockwell didn’t know what to say. “I know this is a lot to take in, but your family needs you. Your father—”
Farah interrupted. “You deserve to know the truth. It’s over to you what you want to do with it.” Farah gave him a stern look, as if to say,don’t overwhelm him all at once.
“Do my family in England know I’m alive?”
