Page 50 of The Condemned (Echoes from the Past #6)

FORTY

London, England

Quinn set aside the comb and glanced toward Alex, who was still fast asleep, his mouth slightly open and his hands curled into loose fists.

She hadn’t been spending much time with Mary, given the amount of time she dedicated to the baby and the sporadic packing that had resulted in mountains of boxes taking up half the flat.

Gabe’s books alone filled several large crates, but thankfully, the end was near.

They were down to bare necessities, which would get packed away in the days before the move. Quinn couldn’t wait.

Today, however, she felt an overwhelming need to escape from her own reality.

There’d been no word from Rhys since his brief message, and she was getting the distinct feeling that Gabe wasn’t telling her something.

It wasn’t anything obvious, but she knew him well enough to sense that he was holding back.

Perhaps he was having issues at work, but there’d be no reason for him not to share his concerns with her.

He’d always done so in the past. Briefly, Quinn thought Luke or Monica might be making waves again but quickly dismissed the thought.

No, it had something to do with Rhys. Every time she raged about Rhys not returning her calls, there was a fleeting expression of pain in Gabe’s eyes. What did he know?

Last night, Quinn had finally lost her patience and cornered Gabe. “Have you heard from Rhys?” she had asked pointblank.

“Eh, no.”

“Sure, are you?”

“Quinn, I know you’re going out of your mind with worry, but Rhys will get in touch as soon as he knows anything. ”

“It’s been two weeks,” Quinn whined. “Surely he must have learned something by now.” There was that look again.

That furtive glance toward the door, as if he wished he could make a break for it.

Quinn walked over to Gabe and placed her hands against his chest, looking up into his face.

“Gabe, I can take it. Please, tell me what you know.”

“Darling, I don’t know anything for a fact. What I do know is that clearly Rhys has made very little headway in the time he’s been in Kabul. Rhys is a resourceful man, and if he hasn’t been able to track Jo down, there’s a good chance?—”

“Don’t say it,” Quinn cried. “Please, don’t say it. I can’t bear the thought.”

Gabe nodded and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “Quinn, whenever I was worried about something when I was a boy, my dad always said, ‘Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, son.’ I still think that’s good advice.”

“So, you think there’s still hope?”

“There’s always hope until there isn’t. But you should prepare yourself for a tragic outcome. She’s been gone a long time,” Gabe reminded her gently.

Quinn’s eyes filled with tears. “You think she’s dead, don’t you?”

“I think that’s very likely,” Gabe replied softly, stroking her back as if she were a colicky baby.

Bitter tears spilled down Quinn’s cheeks as she laid her head on Gabe’s shoulder.

He didn’t tell her not to cry; he simply held her while she sobbed, slowly allowing her hope of finding Jo to ebb away.

Deep down, she knew the truth. Rhys wasn’t calling because he had nothing good to tell her.

He was stalling, hoping against hope that he’d stumble across something that might make the news easier for her to bear.

Rhys cared for her and couldn’t bring himself to break her heart until he was absolutely certain that every avenue had been exhausted .

“Quinn, I know you’re hurting, but you must stay strong. Concentrate on the things you can control. Concentrate on us, on the children. On Mary. Rhys will be expecting a comprehensive report when he gets back.”

“There’s plenty of time. We haven’t even started shooting episode four. The actor who was meant to play Guy de Rosel pulled out. Got a better offer.”

“Isn’t he in breach of contract?” Gabe asked. He was clearly trying to distract Quinn from thoughts of Jo, and she appreciated the effort.

“No. He never actually signed the contract. He was waiting to hear from his agent. He was perfect though. Now the part needs to be recast, which will put us behind schedule.”

“You can sit in on the auditions. I’m sure Rhys would appreciate your input. After all, you’ve actually seen the man in your visions.”

“I spoke to Rhiannan Makely. She said the auditions are already in progress. Rhys will make the final decision when he returns, which she believes will be imminently. I think he’s been in touch with her.”

“That’s possible. You know how Rhys is when it comes to his projects. He’s the consummate professional. He leaves nothing to chance.”

“Which makes it all the more maddening that he hasn’t called me. I’d rather know the truth than spend every day in this limbo of not knowing.”

“Quinn, do you trust Rhys?” Gabe asked, wiping her cheek with his thumb.

“Yes.”

“Then trust that he’s doing what he thinks best,” Gabe replied. “Give him a few more days. ”

Quinn nodded into his chest. “I will. Thanks, Gabe.”

“You never need to thank me. I’m here for you, no matter what. We’ll get through this together, whatever the outcome.”

Quinn looked up at Gabe and gave him a watery smile. “You know what one of the best things about not nursing anymore is?”

“Tell me.”

“I can have a glass of wine, which I sorely need.”

“Coming right up. Red or white?”

“White. And bring the bottle.”

She had felt better after two glasses of wine and a cuddle on the sofa, but now that she was on her own again, she needed to distract herself from her morbid thoughts.

Quinn slid off the bed and tiptoed out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

A slim folder labeled Mary Wilby rested on the table.

It had taken hours of research, but she’d been able to finally track down the manifest for the Lady Grace that proved Mary Wilby had been on board the ship.

Quinn had also been able to find, more by sheer luck than persistence, a copy of the Virginia Company ledger that listed the names of the women who had gone out to Virginia, and their spouses.

The list began in 1619 and covered the period Quinn was interested in.

An entry from June of 1620 confirmed a marriage between John Forrester and Mary Wilby. The rest was still a mystery.

Quinn filled the kettle and set it to boil while she perused the file.

The two entries she’d come across were the sum total of Mary’s life.

Nothing was left of the young woman whose remains now rested on a slab in Colin’s lab.

What had happened to her? How had she come to be in Cornwall, her remains hidden in a cave?

Had she found a way to return to England when her marriage to John Forrester proved to be a sham?

Who would have paid for her passage, and why, given that she was pregnant? And what had become of her husband?

The kettle boiled and Quinn made herself a cup of tea, which she took through to the lounge.

She took a seat on the sofa and folded her legs beneath her as she considered what she knew so far.

At first, she’d assumed Simon would come between Mary and John, given his obvious interest in her, but by now she was fairly sure that wasn’t the case.

Mary detested Simon and feared his ambition and lack of honor.

And she didn’t appear to hold Travesty Brown in high esteem either.

The woman was an enigma. She was understandably angry with the hand life had dealt her, but her attitude toward Mary and her less-then-subtle defiance went beyond bitterness, making Quinn wonder if there was something in her circumstances that caused her fresh pain.

Could she have been in love with John? Was that the source of her resentment toward Mary?

Surely, after living with Simon and John for over a year, Travesty would have been aware of their relationship.

Or would she? Perhaps she didn’t care. Had John married her, her indenture would have come to an end, and she would have been mistress of the plantation and a woman of property should her husband die. Perhaps she viewed Mary as a usurper.

That left Walks Between Worlds. Mary was drawn to him, there was no question about that.

Walker was a very attractive man, but Mary had been taken in by his attention and kindness.

Would she really consider going off with him, a decision that might cost her her life if she were caught and brought back?

It seemed unlikely. Life in an Indian village would go completely against the grain for a young woman reared in England and indoctrinated in the ways of the Church.

Like Walker’s mother, Mary would never find peace among people she could never hope to understand, people who would always view her with suspicion.

Perhaps Walker longed for someone who’d be as much of an outsider as he felt himself to be.

After all, what man wouldn’t be tormented with guilt if he’d been blamed for the death of his children, especially given that the accusation came from the tribe’s spiritual leader?

He might have feared taking another Indian wife and risking the lives of their future offspring.

He felt a kinship with Mary, but could he have really loved her?

Could Mary have loved him? Sipping her tea, Quinn sighed when she recalled a quote from a book by Joseph Stein.

“A bird might love a fish, but where would they build a home together?” Where, indeed?

There’d be no happy ending for Mary and Walker, Quinn knew that.

But what had led to Mary’s gruesome death on the beach of St. Just?