The Firebrand by Susan Wiggs

was such a hopeless twit when I was young, and I had such a wonderful time. There is something to be said for being a twit at times."
    As Lucy wrapped the parcel, she held her smile in place with an effort.
    "So how have you been, dear?" Mrs. Frey inquired as she paid for her purchase. A mischievous gleam twinkled in her eye. "Any suitors come to call?" Mrs. Frey was an incurable romantic who believed in the happy endings of the novels she read.
    "Not this week," Lucy said. They traded the exchange on a regular basis. It was well-known in the neighborhood that Lucy Hathaway, avowed crusader for free love, had no suitors. For years she'd been telling herself she didn't need a man. She didn't know what devilish impulse had possessed her to blithely lie to Mr. Higgins about her legions of French lovers. The truth was, men preferred women who were quiet and demure, not outspoken and ambitious. They liked women who were dainty and fair, not sharp-featured and dark.
    But Mrs. Frey had never been one to give up hope. "Look at me, dear," she said, spreading her arms. "Plain as biscuit dough, I am, and always have been, but Mr. Frey saw something in me no one else saw. There's someone out there for everyone. Look at Jane Eyre and poor Mr. Rochester, for heaven's sake. They were both so troubled, yet so perfect for each other. And so shall you find someone—"
    "Mrs. Frey, you're very kind, but I don't need anyone."
    "Nonsense. Every woman does. Every man does, too, so don't go spouting your ideas about independent womanhood. Men and women need each other equally. That's what equality is."
    In spite of the huge matter weighing on her mind, Lucy laughed. "I give up, Mrs. Frey. You are right. You always are. Enjoy the books."
    As her customer left, Lucy released the sigh she'd been holding in. Then she impulsively turned over the sign in the door, indicating that the shop was closed. It was only an hour to closing time anyway, and she hadn't been busy. Some days, she needed quiet time for herself.
    Like today.
    She rushed over to the counter, where a little corner formed a work area. Snatching up a framed photograph, she stared at it with all her might. Her heart lurched, for there was no denying what she'd discovered.
    Her Maggie was not an orphan after all. She was the daughter of Randolph Higgins.
    There could be no mistake, though Lucy had prayed for one. The picture on Higgins's desk constituted incontrovertible evidence. She was undeniably the baby Lucy had rescued from the fire.
    Soon after the disaster, Lucy had a picture made for circulating to the papers and posting at the local orphanages and churches. Each day, she'd waited for someone to claim the little girl, but as the days stretched to weeks and then months, she'd concluded that Maggie's family had perished in the fire.
    Lucy had greeted the notion with a certain guilty relief. She'd come to love the baby. As time went on, she stopped thinking about the missing parents, though every so often she would wonder at some unique aspect of Maggie. Where did she get her blue eyes, and why was she left-handed? Was her pert way of cocking her head an echo of her lost mother?
    A passerby peered in the shop window. Ordinarily Lucy would get up to greet a prospective customer with a smile and perhaps a tidbit about a new book, but today she couldn't think about business. She couldn't think about anything but the stunning discovery she'd made at the bank.
    She sank down into a chair behind the counter and buried her face in her hands. She could barely remember the bicycle ride home from the bank. While Maggie had chattered blithely away, Lucy's entire being had been awash with fearful amazement. Upon returning to the shop, she'd sent Maggie off to play in the narrow row garden behind the house until Lucy's mother returned from her mahjong game. Then Lucy had racked her brain, trying to decide what to do.
    Still undecided, sho sat for a long time, her mind sluggish with shock. She felt a