“Jennie came to us under extremely unusual circumstances, Mr. Carlton. And by being the warm, loving, gentle woman she is, she has touched all of us in this community.”
Winthrop’s smile was both self-deprecating and a little wry. “In case you didn’t notice, Avalon is… well, unique. And those of us who live here—who have lived here for generations—have become complacent and, to put it bluntly, more than a little smug about our obviously superior place in the world.”
Pausing briefly, the vicar continued. “Jennie’s needs—”
“What?”
Winthrop shook his head. “In good time, Mr. Carlton. You of all persons must know how special she is. Jennie’s needs jarred our self-created pedestals, forced us to look at ourselves and to reach into ourselves to give help to someone other than us or our immediate own. To give—because Jennie is who she is, because she responded to our care and caring with such openness and innocence—to give love to someone other than us or our immediate own.”
Edward again felt questions building inside of him. This woman the vicar described was the woman he’d thought he’d known, not the woman who’d left him. He felt his features hardening. What the hell was going on? He lifted the folder, now caught in a death grip.
“If she’s so open and honest and loving, then why—why did you find it necessary to do this?”
Winthrop reached over and peeled Edward’s fingers from the folder, which he dropped to the floor beside the chair.
“I’m sure our sheriff will want to ask you some questions, Mr. Carlton—”
“What-”
“Jennie was injured when she came to us.”
Edward felt himself trying to jerk to his feet, but Winthrop had hold of his hands, patting them as consolingly as he had earlier patted Edward’s shoulder. “I didn’t tell Jennie of my plans to contact various newspapers because I didn’t want to agitate her—or raise any false hope.”
“She’s still here, then?”
Winthrop nodded.
“Then why was the picture necessary? Why didn’t you just ask this open, honest, innocent?”
Winthrop looked at him through ageless, knowing eyes. “There is so much pain in you. What could have caused this?”
“Ask her.”
“I wish I could, Mr. Carlton. I pray daily for that option.” He raised one hand, either in supplication or to stop Edward’s continued attempts to stand. “I told you that Jennie was injured. It was rather more than a minor accident. We almost lost her. Even some of her doctors lost heart, at least for a while. I don’t ask her because she doesn’t know, Mr. Carlton. When she regained consciousness, Jennie had no memory of anything that had gone before.”
The concrete bench sat in a shaded arbor in the vicarage garden and was slightly cool, but the May sunshine, dappled through the leaves, and the gentle breeze were caressingly warm. Jennie raised her face to both sun and wind and laughed softly in delight.
“There, love,” Matilda said from her protective stance beside her. “Didn’t I promise you would enjoy this?”
“That you did, Matilda.”
“Now, drink your tea.”
Jennie grimaced but spoke with mellow good nature. “You’re beginning to sound like a nanny again, Mrs. Higgins.”
“Oops. Sorry.”
But Jennie could tell that the woman wasn’t sorry at all. She smiled in the general direction of her mother hen, took a sip from her cup, set it on the bench beside her and reached for Matilda’s hand. “Now, the guided tour you promised me. Please.”
“Where shall we start? The herb garden? The perennial garden? There is some spring color there. Or the maze?”
Jennie breathed deeply, fighting the sense of frustration and loss that bombarded her, fighting the tears that welled in her eyes. “Let’s start with something simple,” she suggested, hating the quaver she heard in her voice, “something I’m at least a little familiar with.” She found a bright smile for Matilda—the woman deserved no less. “Let’s start with—”
“Matilda? Mrs. Higgins?” Reverend Winthrop called from the house.
Matilda put a comforting hand on Jennie’s shoulder. “Would you like to wait here? I’ll just hurry and see what he wants and be right back.”
Jennie smiled and nodded. “Of course. I’m enjoying being out here. Take your time.”
She’d finished her tea, and Matilda still hadn’t returned. The bench was getting cooler. And the ray of sun had moved so that it no longer lay warm on her face. Jennie squirmed on the bench, easing tight muscles and trying to ignore the growing sensation of someone, or something, watching her. Maybe she could walk a short distance by herself. The paths were well defined; she’d learned that already. And the garden was walled—she’d learned that, too—so there was no way she could get lost.
The fine hairs on her nape prickled; her arms responded to the caress of unseen eyes. She twisted on the bench to face the direction from which those sensations seemed to come. “Is anyone there?” she whispered.
She shook her head, answering her own question. “Of course not.” Of course there wasn’t anyone there. The birds were still chirping merrily. She was just being… fanciful. She supposed it was the newness of being alone in the garden. She really ought to take advantage of this opportunity for independence. Her keepers were loving but much too protective. Surely she had some skills. But how was she ever going to discover them unless she explored?
For a moment, fear tightened her throat and raced her heart. For a moment, her hands clenched on the edge of the bench. She could do this! She could. Then she became aware again of the sensation of unseen eyes watching her. Panic welled up within her, unexpected and unexplainable. Giving a little cry, Jennie rose from the bench and stumbled along the garden walk.
Edward stood in the shade of an ancient oak tree watching the woman on the bench. She was lovely—selfcontained, beautiful. His wife. He felt pain twisting inside him again, as demanding and unwelcome as the desire that tightened and readied his body as he let his wayward eyes caress her.
For a few minutes after the older woman left her, Jennie had sat calmly, to all appearances enjoying her solitude. And Jennie in repose was truly beautiful—truly a beautiful sight in any attitude, he corrected. He’d always been aware of that, but the past six months had refined her beauty. He mourned the loss of her hair, but without the weight of its length, it curled softly—a dark chestnut cap to frame her finely drawn features and emphasize dark brown eyes that had always seemed to be alight with the joy of discovery.
A wide-brimmed, floppy hat with ribbon streamers lay on the bench beside Jennie, and she was wearing a softly floral-patterned, flowing dress. Edward felt the pressure of his lips drawn against his teeth. How appropriate, Jennie, he thought. And how much in character for your setting.
Did she really not remember the past? Edward doubted that, just as he doubted she would thank the minister for his well-intentioned interference with her plans for a haven.
He couldn’t fault Reverend Winthrop for his innocence, for being taken in by Jennie’s act. Hell! He’d been deceived, too. And he was experienced in facing the dark side of his fellow creatures. Before Jennie, many had tried; the Carlton money, the Carlton power were too tempting for