Georgie had shared kisses with Hubert during the eight months of their betrothal. Those kisses had been tender, playful, shy, thrilling—and absolutely nothing like Vickery’s kiss. There had been nothing tender or shy or playful about Vickery’s kiss. It had been fierce, heated, and intensely passionate.

She’d been a girl when she’d kissed Hubert, and his kisses had made her feel treasured; she was a woman now, and Vickery’s kiss had made her feel desired. Deeply and desperately desired. The bold play of their tongues, his crushing embrace, the breathless urgency.

Georgie wasn’t at all ashamed of kissing Vickery, but he was clearly mortified. He hadn’t met her eyes during the rest of their walk, hadn’t met her eyes during dinner, hadn’t met her eyes at breakfast this morning.

She was hurt, but only a very little, because she thought she understood him quite well. Vickery had kissed her because he wanted her, and not asked her to marry him because he was worried about his parentage.

The fault was hers—she shouldn’t have told him the truth—but there was no undoing that mistake. They could only go forward, not back.

Georgiana looked across at Vickery, seated in the far corner of the coach. She would have to be blunter, have to say Vic, I don’t care who your parents were. In fact, why not be even blunter than that? Why not simply ask him to marry her?

She turned that thought over in her head, and then gave a short, decisive nod. Yes, why not?

Georgie studied Vickery’s face, trying to imagine what his reaction might be to such a proposal.

He was gazing out the window, his lips pressed into a flat line, a tiny furrow between his eyebrows, and he looked so unlike Vickery, so remote and unhappy, that she wanted to do what she’d done yesterday, to tell him it was all right, to kiss him, to make him feel better.

Except that kissing hadn’t made him feel better.

Georgie sighed and turned her head and looked out the window herself. She hoped Vickery would find some ease today, that once he’d seen the house where he’d been born and visited his parents’ grave he’d go back to being the man she knew and not the grim, tense stranger he’d become.

The road was rough and narrow, little better than a cart track. The coachman was holding the horses to the slowest of trots. Even so, the carriage lurched and jolted on its springs, giving her jerky glimpses of hedgerows and sloping fields and a sparkling blue sea. She couldn’t see the steep bluffs that lay between the fields and the sea, but she knew they were there, just as she knew that the farmhouse where Vickery had been born lay a scant mile ahead.

Georgie looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap, and felt the farmhouse draw closer. Closer. She didn’t need to look out the window to see it come into view; she knew.

“Papa,” she said, when they were fifty yards from the farm gate.

“This is it?”

She nodded.

Her father rapped on the carriage roof. Their pace slowed still further and the carriage came to an obedient halt.

They climbed down from the traveling chaise. Vickery seemed even tenser, his face tight and expressionless.

The second carriage, bearing their servants, rolled to a halt behind them.

The farmhouse where Vickery had been born was a modest one. Its yard was small and muddy and no place for two traveling coaches-and-four. “The carriages can turn half a mile ahead,” Georgie murmured to her father.

“Drive on,” Lord Dalrymple told the coachman. “Find somewhere to turn and come back for us. There’s no rush.”

The coachman was too professional to show his surprise, but the footman on the bench seat at the back was younger and less well-trained; he glanced at the farmhouse and then back at them, astonishment on his face.

The first carriage moved off. The second followed. The clatter of hooves and jingle of harnesses faded. Georgie heard the clucking of hens. A dog barked distantly.

“Shall we?” Lord Dalrymple said.

Vickery gave a short nod.

They stepped into the farmyard. Hens squawked and bustled out of their way. Georgie lifted her skirts, glad she’d worn half boots. Mud squelched with each step she took.

They halted in front of the farmhouse. It was built of gray stone, two-storied, small and plain, with a gray slate roof and whitewashed window frames and a whitewashed door.

“You were born in that room,” Georgie said, pointing at the topmost window on the left.

Vickery stared up at the window. She saw tension and curiosity on his face.

At that moment a dog barreled around the side of the house, barking, hackles raised, teeth bared.

Vickery grasped Georgie’s arm and thrust her behind him so forcefully that she almost lost her balance.

Hard on the dog’s heels was a man dressed in farmer’s garb: a smock shirt, leather leggings, wooden clogs. He scowled at them. “Who are you? What d’ you want?”

Vickery had no hackles like the dog, no sharp teeth, but his stillness was dangerous. His hands were curled almost—but not quite—into fists. He looked like a man ready for violence.

Lord Dalrymple touched Vickery’s arm lightly and said, sotto voce, “Let me handle this.”

Vickery didn’t move, didn’t say anything, just stood there looking dangerous. His gaze was on the dog, not the man.

Lord Dalrymple stepped forward and inclined his head courteously. “Good day,” he said. “Are you the owner of this property?”

“I am,” the man said, arms akimbo, belligerent. “What of it?” At his feet, the dog growled, a low thread of sound.

“There was a family lived here thirty years ago,” Lord Dalrymple said, his voice mild. “Do you know anything about them?”

“The Prowses? Don’t know nuthin’ about ’em. ’Cept they’re dead.” The farmer spat into the mud, as if to punctuate this statement.

“Yes,” Lord Dalrymple said. “We are aware of that. Could you perhaps direct us to someone who can tell us about them?”

“Try old Bill Kernow. He’s got nuthin’ better to do than talk.” The man’s tone made it clear that he had a great many things to do and that they were wasting his time.

“Thank you,” Lord Dalrymple said, and inclined his head again. “Good day.” His quiet courtesy cast the farmer’s rudeness into stark relief, and the man noticed. His face reddened slightly.

They made their way across the muddy yard towards the road. Georgie wanted to pick up her skirts and run, but she matched her pace to her father’s, unhurried and calm, while her shoulder blades prickled with awareness of that growling dog. Vickery fell in behind them. Guarding them?

They reached the road. The carriages were nowhere in sight. Georgie glanced back; both man and dog were gone.

She blew out her breath, and turned to Vickery. “Were you really going to fight that dog?”

“If it attacked.”

“But it would have torn you to pieces!”

Vickery shrugged.

Georgie stared at him, so appalled that she was speechless.

“Old Bill Kernow,” her father said. “I wonder where he is?”

Georgie’s Faerie gift told her. She stared at Vickery a moment longer, searching for the right words to tell him exactly what she thought of his even thinking he could fight a vicious dog, gave up, and answered her father’s question. “He’s at his cottage, beyond those far trees.”

“Oh?” Her father turned and eyed the row of trees, a quarter of a mile distant. “Then let’s visit him.”

They walked three abreast, back along the cart track that they’d rattled and jolted over less than five minutes ago. Georgie looked around her, noting the hedgerows and the green fields, the glimpses of the sea. What a beautiful place to be born.

She glanced past her father at Vickery. He no longer looked dangerous, but he didn’t look happy, either. He was wearing the same expression he’d worn in the carriage: frowning, closed, deep in thought.

Georgie studied the hedgerows again, the fields, the sea, and tried to see them through Vickery’s eyes. What did he feel at this moment? Why was he frowning?

The carriages caught up with them just as they reached the row of trees. Lord Dalrymple gestured ahead, to where the cart track widened slightly. “Wait for us there.”

“Yes, sir,” said the coachman.

Behind the row of trees was a cottage, basking in the mid-morning sun. It was a very small cottage. Georgie, familiar with the cottages in Eype, could tell at the glance that it had only two rooms, and most likely a dirt floor. Even so, it looked welcoming. The whitewash glowed in the sunshine and red hollyhocks were vivid against the walls. The door stood open and an old man sat on the doorstep, a pipe in his mouth and a dog at his feet.

The dog didn’t lunge to its feet and bark at them as they crossed the yard. It didn’t even growl. Instead, it thumped its tail on the dirt.

The old man took the pipe from his mouth and squinted up at them. “Good day to yer.”

“Good day,” Lord Dalrymple said, and Georgie dipped a curtsy and echoed his words: “Good day, sir.” Vickery said nothing; he nodded his greeting.

The dog heaved itself to its feet, tail wagging, and came to greet them, touching its nose to each of them in turn. Georgie patted its head.

Satisfied, the dog returned to its place at its master’s feet.

“Those your rattlers just drove by?” the old man asked, resting his hand on the dog’s head. “Lost, are yer?” A clatter of crockery came from the open door behind him. Georgie smelled woodsmoke, tobacco smoke, and the scent of baking bread.

“They are our rattlers,” Lord Dalrymple replied. “But we’re not lost. We’re looking for you, if you’re Bill Kernow.”

“Oh, aye?” the old man said. His skin was leathery, creased into a thousand wrinkles from a life spent outdoors. “That’s me name.”

A hen strutted out the open door, gave a comfortable cluck, and began pecking at the dirt. The dog paid it no attention. Neither did the old man.

“Mr. Kernow, can you tell us anything about the Prowse family?”

“Prowse?” The wrinkles rearranged themselves on Bill Kernow’s face. He looked momentarily sad. “What d’ yer want to know about ’em?”

“Anything,” Lord Dalrymple said. “What were they like? How did they die? Do they have any relatives?”

“Hmm,” the old man said. He put his pipe back in his mouth and chewed on it meditatively.

They waited in silence.

The old man removed his pipe, drew in a deep breath, and said, “Joe Prowse was the best man I ever knowed. Good Joe Prowse, everyone called him, an’ I don’t mean church good, like the parson preaches. I mean good in his ’eart. Would’ve given his last penny to a beggar, Joe would’ve.” He put the pipe back in his mouth, ruminated for a moment, and then removed it again. “An’ Martha were goodhearted, too. There’s them as are born sour and them as are born sweet, and Joe ’n’ Martha was born sweet. Always smilin’, they was. Never saw either of ’em cranned in all the years that I knowed ’em.”

“Cranned?” Lord Dalrymple said. “You mean . . .”

“Out o’ sorts. Sour. Like that cutty bastard up the road.” Old Bill Kernow jabbed his pipe in the direction of the gray stone farmhouse.

Two more hens hurried out the door, squawking indignantly. On their heels was a young woman wearing a homespun dress, a neckerchief, and an apron. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she’d been working close to a fire, and a smear of flour adorned her right cheek. She planted her hands on her hips, squinted into the sun, and looked them up and down.

“My nephew’s daughter, Nancy,” old Bill Kernow said, by way of introduction. “Comes twice a week from Polruan to cook for me.” He smiled up at the girl. “Best cook in all Cornwall, is our Nance.”

The girl smiled back at him, and then lifted her gaze to the three of them. She seemed to bristle slightly, like a cat guarding its kittens. “What do you want with me uncle?”

The question was directed at them, not Bill Kernow, but it was Bill Kernow who answered: “They’re asking after the Prowses, as farmed across the way before you was born.”

The girl eyed them a moment longer, then nodded and swept back into the kitchen.

“A good girl, she is, Nancy,” old Bill said. “As good as ever lived.” He patted his dog, and then said, “Never had any children of me own. Me wife died young, God rest her soul.”

“I’m sorry,” Lord Dalrymple said.

Old Bill shrugged. “There’s some folk as the Lord takes early, and my Anne was one of ’em, and the Prowses were, too.”

“How did they die?” Lord Dalrymple asked. “The Prowses.”

“Fever.” Old Bill screwed his face up in a grimace. “Took ’em both in the same week, an’ the little girl, too.”

“There was a daughter?”

“Two children they had. A boy and a girl.”

Georgie glanced at Vickery. How did it feel to know that he’d once had a sister? She couldn’t tell from his face. He was utterly focused on Old Bill, standing so still that it seemed as if he wasn’t even breathing.

“What were the children’s names?” her father asked. “Do you remember?”

“Charley an’ Dora, they was.”

Charley. Vickery’s name was Charley.

She glanced at him again.

“What happened to the boy once his parents died?” her father asked. “Who took him in?”

“I did,” the old man said. “It were a right joy to ’ave a young ’un about the place, only Joe’s aunt come and took him away, said she’d raise ’im to be a genilman.”

“Do you know what happened to him after that?”

Old Bill shook his head. “That were the last I ever saw of ’im.” His wrinkles were regretful. “Fine, bonny boy he was. As like his father as if he’d been spit from his mouth. Same smile, same good heart. Even ’ad Joe’s eyes. Piebald.” He reached down and patted the dog’s head with a gnarled hand. “I’ve allus been sorry she took ’im away. Would’ve liked ’im as me own son.”

Georgie’s throat tightened. There was a long moment of silence. She waited for Vickery to break it, to tell the old man who he was—and then looked at him and realized that he couldn’t. His jaw was clenched tight and his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

She almost expected the old man to see those eyes and recognize Vickery as Charley Prowse, and if the sun had been falling on Vickery’s face perhaps he would have, but the sun was at their backs and she doubted the old man could make out the color of Vickery’s eyes, let alone his features.

“You’re goin’ to look for ’im? Young Charley?”

Lord Dalrymple hesitated, and glanced at Vickery and must have come to the same conclusion that Georgie had, because he said, “We’ll look for the aunt, certainly.”

“Can’t remember ’er name,” Old Bill said. “But I do know she come from Liskeard.”

Where is the woman who took little Charley Prowse from here? Georgie asked silently.

She saw a graveyard in her mind’s eye, a headstone.

“Then we shall go to Liskeard,” her father said.

“If you find Charley, tell ’im Bill Kernow sends ’is regards.” The old man chuckled. “Only I don’ suppose ’e’ll remember me. Only a wee nipper he were.” He patted his dog once, twice, and then said, “He’ll ’ave grown up to be a good man, I know it.”

He is a good man, Georgie told him silently.

“We will,” her father said. “Thank you.” He didn’t insult the old man by offering him money in exchange for his information; instead he removed his hat and gave Bill Kernow a respectful bow.

Vickery didn’t bow, or speak, he stood as if frozen, staring at the old man, his face taut, his eyes bright with moisture.

Tell him who you are, Vic, Georgie urged him silently, but Vickery didn’t. He turned hastily, almost losing his balance, and walked away from the cottage, his stride fast and uneven and his path not quite straight, as if he couldn’t see clearly.

“Thank you,” Georgie told the old man, and she took her father’s arm and soberly followed Vickery. Her father laid his hand over hers. She looked up at his face and he smiled at her, faintly, gravely, and the touch of his hand and that faint smile seemed to say, It will be all right.

Vickery halted when he reached the road. They came up alongside him and halted, too. Vickery said nothing. Neither did Georgie. Neither did her father.

They stood together silently, the carriages waiting twenty yards away. After a moment, Georgie stole a sidelong glance at Vickery. His head was averted, as if he didn’t want them to see his face, but she saw the hinge of his jaw. The muscles were tightly clenched.

Georgie reached out and took his hand. He was tense. So tense. “Vic . . .” she said softly. “Would you still like to see your parents’ grave?”

There was a long moment of silence, then his jaw muscles unclenched. “Yes,” he said, his face still averted.

“I’ll give the coachman directions.” She squeezed his fingers gently, trying to convey sympathy and understanding, and released his hand.

* * *

The church lay less than a mile away, in the tiny village of Lansallos. It was built of the same gray stone as the farmhouse Vickery had been born in and stood on a slight rise. The headstones were gray, too, some of them illegible with age, covered with lichen, tilting. Joe and Martha Prowse’s headstone was legible, but its message was brief:

Georgie’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, but they returned. Her eyes stung and her nose stung and her throat was tight. She groped for her handkerchief, blew her nose, wiped her eyes.

How did Vickery feel seeing this? A tragedy, baldly engraved on a headstone. The deaths of his father, his sister, his mother.

She wiped her eyes again and looked at him. His face was taut, jaw tightly clenched again. He hadn’t reached for his handkerchief, but there were tears on his cheeks.

Georgie wanted to put her arms around him and hug him, but instinct told her that that wasn’t what Vickery wanted right now.

She exchanged a glance with her father. They both stepped back, leaving Vickery standing alone at his family’s grave.

Georgie took hold of her father’s arm and hugged it tightly. His hand came to rest over hers, comforting.

When they were out of earshot, she whispered, “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

“Yes,” her father said quietly. “It is.”

They strolled silently for several minutes. The churchyard felt peaceful—the sunshine, the lush grass, the trees, the gray headstones. The church itself was small, but surprisingly handsome, with beautiful arched windows and a tower.

“Shall we go inside?” her father suggested.

The church was cool and silent and even more beautiful inside than it was outside—the wide, arching windows with their carved stone mullions, the fine wagon-roof ceiling, the oak pews with their carved bench ends.

“Tudor,” her father said, resting his hand on the back of one of the pews.

The church had a feeling of age to it, and it also had the same peaceful feeling as the graveyard. Georgie found herself wondering if Vickery had been christened here. She rephrased that question in her mind—Where was Charley Prowse christened?—and her gift gave her the answer.

She led her father to the font. It was large and square and made of stone, with a wooden cover. “Norman,” her father said, running his fingers over the carved stone.

“Vic was christened here,” Georgie said, and wondered if the date had been recorded anywhere. “Oh!” She lifted her head and turned swiftly, crossing the nave, moving almost blindly, not seeing with her eyes but with her gift.

“The parish register,” she said, bringing the book back to her father. The register was large and leather-bound. “Vic’s christening is recorded in here. And his birth.” She laid the register on the font and carefully opened it, turned a few pages, seeing dates and names inscribed in spiky black handwriting, and then closed it again. “I think we should wait for Vic.”

* * *

Vickery joined them ten minutes later. His cheeks were now dry, but his face was still taut, still tight.

“You were christened here,” Georgie told him. “In this font. And look, the church register. I thought . . . would you like to see the entries about you?”

He nodded, but didn’t speak.

Georgie carefully opened the pages. There was no need to search; her gift told her where each entry was. She found his parents’ wedding first, in February of 1784. Fifteen months later came his birth—Charles Prowse, May 18^th, 1785—followed by his christening. Twenty-one months after that, his sister’s birth. And lastly, the three deaths.

Vickery read the entries silently. He didn’t speak. He looked as if he couldn’t speak, as if his throat was so choked with emotion that speech was impossible.

Georgie turned back to the entry recording his birth. Charles Prowse, May 18^th, 1785. “You’re four months younger than we thought.”

Vickery made no reply to this comment.

She glanced at him, saw the tightness of his jaw, the moisture bright in his eyes, and said, “Have a look through the register, Vic. Take as long as you like. Father and I will wait outside in the sun.”

At the door, she looked back. Some trick of perspective made Vickery look very alone—the arched roof, the long nave, his solitary figure. She wanted to catch up her skirts and run back to him and say fiercely, You’re not alone, Vic.

Her father held the door open for her. Georgie cast one last, anxious glance at Vickery and stepped outside. She blinked in the sudden, bright sunshine and released her breath in a sigh. “Poor Vic.”

“Let’s see if we can find some accommodation in the village,” her father said. “He’s had enough for one day. Liskeard can wait.”

“The aunt in Liskeard is dead,” Georgie told him.

“Is she?” Her father sighed, too. “Well, we’ll tackle that tomorrow.”