The O’Brien farm appeared larger than most, yet the main house was no manor but a pretty whitewashed stone cottage with a thatched roof—a far cry from the wealthy estate where Rachel Farnwell had once reigned as baroness. Skye found herself wondering if Lady Farnwell—presumably now Mrs. Meg Donnelly—ever regretted exchanging her wealthy, aristocratic lifestyle for the quiet, remote existence of an English widow in hiding.
As Hawk’s crested carriage drew to a halt before the cottage, Skye felt a surge of nervous anticipation, knowing how crucial this initial meeting with the fugitive could be for her uncle Cornelius.
Hawkhurst seemed to understand her apprehension. “Would you like me to speak to the Widow Donnelly first?”
“No, I think it best if I explain who I am and then see how she responds.”
Skye took a deep breath, then allowed Hawk to help her down, into the rain, and escort her up the flagstone path to the front door.
Before they could knock, however, the door swung open abruptly. A gray-haired woman stood there, blocking their way, brandishing a pitchfork.
At the threat, Skye’s eyes widened, but Hawkhurst stepped forward, his body shielding her in an instinctive, protective gesture. “Mrs. O’Brien, I presume?” he said calmly.
“Who is it asking?” the woman demanded.
“I am the Earl of Hawkhurst, and this is Lady Skye Wilde, here to see Mrs. Donnelly. We mean her no harm. Pray, would you ask her if she will receive us?”
His polite manner soothed Bridget O’Brien’s defensiveness a small measure. Although still wary and suspicious, she gave a curt nod. “Wait here, the both of you.” Stepping back, she slammed the door in their faces.
Hearing the latch being set to lock them out, Skye bit her lower lip.
“Don’t fret yet,” Hawk reassured her. “It is only to be expected that she would be cautious and defensive.”
His serenity calmed Skye somewhat as she peered up at him from beneath the brim of her dripping black bonnet. “You have conducted this sort of investigation many times before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, many times. And if you won’t pester me to reveal the particular circumstances, I might even tell you about one or two of my more interesting cases.”
His easy smile won a faint one from Skye. “I suppose we should be glad Mrs. O’Brien was waving a pitchfork and not a more lethal weapon.”
“Indeed,” Hawk agreed.
Skye was certain he could have handled any weapon with aplomb, though. She felt her tense muscles relax. It was curious how implicitly she trusted Hawk, how safe and protected he made her feel. The Guardians were aptly named, she decided.
Perhaps two more minutes passed before they heard the scrape of the latch again.
When the door slowly swung open, a slender, elegant, middle-aged lady stood in the entryway. Ample gray streaked her dark hair, and sadness lined her pale features, but her beauty was similar to her miniature portrait, leaving no doubt in Skye’s mind that this was Rachel Farnwell.
Lady Farnwell stared at them, drinking them in, her expression fearful yet hopeful all at once.
Taking a cue from Hawk, Skye flashed one of her gentlest smiles. “Mrs. Donnelly? I have so longed to meet you. My uncle is Lord Cornelius Wilde.”
The lady clearly recognized the name. Her gaze shifted furtively to search the carriage behind Skye. “Is Cornelius … here with you?”
“No, he has no notion you still exist. I did not want to raise his hopes until I was certain you were the woman he once loved.”
Her trembling hand rose to her throat. “Then you know what happened,” she breathed.
“We know some of it. Recently I found your letters to my uncle and couldn’t rest until Mrs. Nibbs shared what she could remember. Her memory is failing significantly, poor woman, but thanks to this gentleman, Lord Hawkhurst”—Skye glanced up at Hawk—“we were able to guess in general where you might have gone all those years ago. So we acted on our theory and traveled here to Ireland in hopes of finding you.”
Lady Farnwell’s gaze lingered on Hawk a moment, then returned to Skye. “Why … would you wish to find me?”
“Because I believe my uncle would want to know that you are safe and well.”
Her face crumpling, the baroness turned away and covered her eyes with her hands. Her body shuddered as she struggled to breathe. When long moments later, she turned back again to her unexpected guests, her eyes were wet with tears.
“Please … come in, Lady Skye, Lord Hawkhurst,” she bid in a shaken voice.
When they stepped into the cottage, Bridget O’Brien came forward, much less aggressively this time, and took Skye’s wet cloak and bonnet and Hawk’s greatcoat and tall beaver hat.