Night Winds by Gwyneth Atlee Page A

head this evening. Was it any wonder, with all that had occurred?
    She realized now how foolish she had been to fly out of the house so quickly, without so much as a toothbrush or a single change of clothes . But at least not all was lost. Though Cynthia would chide her for rejecting Ethan and perhaps dig unpleasantly for details, she would at least help her friend through the next few days. Wouldn’t she?
    Shae refused to think beyond that question, refused to focus past tomorrow, when she would feel strong enough to confront Lucius . If he had written the note, if he had had her mother’s cameo this long, he hadn’t done his duty as her friend. She may have been a girl when Mother vanished, but she’d since grown to womanhood. Protecting her was no excuse for silence.
    An elderly woman answered the door at the Browning home . With her wispy cloud of white hair, she might have been here as long as the columned Greek revival house had stood. Certainly, the Irishwoman had served the Browning family far longer than Cynthia’s twenty-one years. Behind her, a hanging double gas light brightened the doorway against the early evening gloom.
    “Miss Rowan,” the woman nodded as she stepped back to allow the frequent visitor entrance into the foyer . “Would Miss Cynthia be expectin’ you?” No admonition soured her thin and lilting voice.
    Shae was grateful, thinking of how Aunt Alberta might react if Cynthia showed up unescorted after eight o’clock in the evenin g and untidy to boot. She shook her head in answer to the woman’s question. “No, she isn’t, Margaret, but I thought I might stop by.”
    Margaret smiled . A green-eyed dragonfly pin Shae had made her for her birthday lent a spot of brightness to the woman’s plain, dark blouse. If she noticed Shae’s wrinkled attire and her untamed locks, she was kind enough to hold her tongue.
    “I’ll fetch Cynthia . Why don’t you be sittin’ in the front parlor?” Margaret invited.
    Shae watched the old woman move toward the conservatory, where Cynthia undoubtedly fussed over her rare, tropical plants . In spite of her own worries, Shae smiled at the thought of the delicate tendrils and the tenderness her friend invested in their care.
    Shae hobbled across a burnished, walnut floor and into the front parlor, where she sat primly at the edge of an elegant, carved chair . As always, she allowed the beauty of the room to cheer her, the flowered, chintz upholstery, the sunny yellow walls. Everything in the room reminded her of light and summer. Everything but Mrs. Browning’s ebony piano, which gleamed coldly across the room, as proud and soulless as its owner.
    As if on cue, Mrs. Browning glided in, a pleased smile lighting her pinched face . Her tiny form never bobbed, as if she rolled on unseen wheels beneath her elegantly ruffled skirt.
    “Dear Shae,” the matron offered . The diminutive woman reached out as if to embrace her daughter’s friend, then seemed to lose interest as Shae moved to meet her.
    Embarrassed, Shae drew back and smiled a cautious greeting, though she doubted Mrs. Browning had ever found her “dear.” Even to Shae’s face, the woman had often expressed incredulity after Ethan ignored her daughter in favor of a “common tradeswoman” . Mrs. Browning must be delighted at the collapse of that relationship.
    “How sad you look this evening,” the older woman told her . Despite her words, her expression offered scant sympathy, laced liberally with triumph. “How simply miserable. You must be devastated, what with losing your one chance to marry well. Your father must be furious.”
    Shae nodded, ignoring the temptation to roll her eyes at her friend’s mother . “I so value your compassion,” she lied quietly. “I was hoping I might stay here for a night or two.”
    Cynthia bounced into the room, her blue eyes shining with excitement . “Oh, Shae. I’m so sorry. You must share the details with us. How horrible you must be