I hear dishes rattling in the kitchen. A man whistling as he comes closer, his stubble against the back of my shoulder when he kisses the place my dress does not cover. There’s bread rising on the sill and children laughing on the walk outside. I feel something soft and silky against my arm, and I can’t tell what it is. And there’s something important, but it’s just out of my vision…
William closes the note without finishing it. Nothing about Covington. He thought the most recent memory would be the most helpful, but it only confuses him. One never begins by reading a story’s final chapter, though.
He digs deeper until he reaches the one with the earliest date, and it’s in the notebook. Small white petals, dried and crumbly, float onto his boots, the impression of them remaining on the paper. The inside cover bears a simple handwritten inscription that sends a shiver up his back:Merryn’s book of found memories.Then he leans back and prepares to read her story.
Orange Blossoms
They have haunted my wedding day, casting a dark pall over St. Peter’s Cathedral. I wore a gown of French lace and satin slippers, and had 347 guests in attendance. I’ve no wish to dwell on the other particulars, but I’m noting here, for the record, that it occurred.
Also, the orange blossoms must mean something. The mere scent of those wretched flowers produced such a clear picture in my head, a flash of something once lived, that I cannot deny what I’ve tried to ignore—the memories are returning. A lost part of my past, surfacing at last. Perhaps it’s mere fancy, but I fear it isn’t. I shall soon find out…
William blinks at the faded writing. Flashes of memory? What was in them?He flips the page over, but his connection to this Merryn begins to waver as he reads what’s there.
I’m not certain whether I’m still in love or not,it begins, and William’s brain stumbles to a full stop. One cannot undo falling in love, any more than a man can un-dive from a cliff. And if it doesn’t happen like that, it isn’t a true fall.
He skims ahead—where do I come in? And…did you marry him?
Then his eyes skip back to the first line he read:Sabine’s men have found me…and he meets the gaze beaming down from that portrait—what became of Merryn?
Chapter 3
Merryn, 1913
Ifallhardonmywedding day—I pitch forward and tumble onto the rug in the vestibule at St. Peter’s, heart pounding and silk billowing around me. I blame the dress. No, I blame AJ, for one glimpse of him so very fresh and dynamic through the tall pillars in the sanctuary had my heart in my throat and my slippered feet tangled in the hem.
But a pair of small black shoes in the cloakroom catch my attention—and they’re still being worn. Muffled sniffles sound between the coats.
Poor lad.
With a quick glance about to be certain no one’s watching, I part the coats and crawl in to sit beside Cecil. I tuck my wedding gown beneath me, allowing the miserable lad plenty of space. “Can I be sad with you?”
Cecil twists away from me, chin jutted.
“Might I guess the problem? You’ve left the front door open and your elephant has escaped.”
He flicks a glance of annoyance my way.
“Oh! No, that’s not it. He wouldn’t fit through the door.”
A smile twitches, then vanishes.
“You…taught the squirrels chess and now they beat you.”
This earns a snort-laugh. He’s dreadful at chess.
I stare at my slippered feet. “Might it have something to do with me marrying AJ?”
The tiny tic in Cecil’s cheek confirms my guess. It isn’t that he doesn’t like Ansel—in fact, he adores the man. But it means I am about to do what every other adult in his life has. “You believe I’m leaving you.”
He edges closer and I pull him to me, longing to tell him the real reason I’ve rushed into this. I adore the man more than is reasonable, but I might have been content to carry on with our subtle flirtation, allowing it to unfold naturally, had it not been for the small boy now leaning against me.
Cecil Linwood came under my protective wing by accident. He is one of those precious boys who God decides must survive a bit longer when he gets himself into danger, so he’d sent me to rescue him from a runaway car. Apparently.
Rescuing him cost me my memories and for the three years since that accident, I served as his grandmother’s companion…and his surreptitious protector. Then his grandmamma, the lovely Lady St. Laurent, named me his official guardian in her will, and I determined to see that through, no matter what it costs me.
Or whose plans I must spoil.
Heels click sharply on stone nearby, and I throw a hand over his mouth. “Cecil?Cecil!” calls a voice.
