The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(42)

“Mr. and Mrs. DeMornay, are you acquainted with Rose Annelise DeMornay?”

They both visibly stiffened. William said, “Why do you ask?”

“Because if you’re not, the reason for my visit is irrelevant.”

William stayed silent a long moment, then, “Our daughter was named Rose Annelise.”

So the relationship was what Carina suspected. She was looking at Rose’s parents, the ones Rose couldn’t bear to shame. But before either she or Quillan could respond, William added tightly, “She is dead.” He knew? Had Rose contacted them? Had word reached them from tiny Placerville?

Quillan said, “I know. But Rose Annelise DeMornay was my mother.”

Very slowly Mrs. DeMornay’s hand rose to her throat.

William DeMornay made no sound, just stiffly rose from his chair. “I think you had better leave.”

Quillan reached into the packet, drew out the deed. “This is the mine my father staked in Placerville.”

William DeMornay’s features pulled tightly. “Whoever your father was, he had nothing to do with my daughter.”

Quillan brought out the diary, laid it atop the deed on his knee. Mrs. DeMornay gasped softly.

William’s hands clenched at his sides. He drew himself up. “Our daughter Rose died at the age of nineteen. She’s buried in the churchyard. There is no possible way she is your mother.” Before Quillan could answer, the old man’s mouth twisted. “What are you after? Money?”

Quillan looked as though he’d lost his breath. Then Carina saw cold rage come into his eyes. He stood up abruptly. “I didn’t come here for money.” He stared Mr. DeMornay in the face until the older man looked down. Then he put the diary and deed back into the packet and folded it into his hand. He looked at Carina, and she stood up.

That was all? He would leave without making them see? She wanted to stomp her foot, tell them all to consider Rose and stop acting so stubborn. How could they refuse to acknowledge the truth? Mrs. DeMornay recognized the diary. Carina had seen that clearly. Didn’t she want to know what the pages contained? What her daughter’s words could tell her?

Quillan put a hand to her elbow. Did he suspect she might blurt out all she thought? She turned to Mrs. DeMornay. “Thank you for meeting with us. I’m sorry for your loss.” She looked the woman sharply in the eye. Her loss was greater now that it included her grandson as well, and she wanted the woman to know it.

Mrs. DeMornay looked up from her to Quillan. Was it longing in her eyes, or age and sorrow? She said nothing.

William opened the door himself to end their audience. Carina pulled her coat closely about her, the cold emanating from Mr. DeMornay as she passed him. What hatred. The maid showed them out, handing Quillan his hat. He put it on his head silently. They walked down to the carriage.

The cabby hustled to open the door. “Where to now, sir?”

Quillan said, “The cemetery.”

Carina jerked her face up.

“Which one?” The man gave Carina a hand in.

“Where’s the DeMornay plot?”

“Oh, that’n. Not far.”

Quillan climbed in beside her. Carina felt him shaking. Was it rage or disappointment? And either way, what was he doing? Why would he visit an empty grave? No matter what the DeMornays said, she knew the truth and Quillan did, too. They rode in silence until they entered the churchyard, and the cabby drew up at the cemetery gate.

“Here you are, then. Shall I wait?”

Quillan nodded. He helped Carina down with none of his usual flourish, then headed through the gates. They walked along rows of impressive family plots, Quillan silent and purposeful.

Oh, Signore, how he must hurt. Would he always be rejected?

The DeMornay plot held one grave, a tall monument with a wreath of roses carved around the nameplate. Rose Annelise DeMornay, beloved daughter. And only nineteen years spanned the dates. Had she been so young when she slipped away and fled, carrying her secret, her shame? But what of the other years, those that brought her to Wolf, that gave her Quillan and took him away? What about the part of her life in her diary? Was it nothing?

She thought of the grave where Rose actually lay, interred with her husband, Wolf, who died with her in love. That grave was marked by a stone on the mountain above the Rose Legacy and covered with wild flowers in the summer. Carina had sat beside that grave and read Rose’s diary and wept for a woman she never knew, yet loved.

Quillan put his hands in his pockets. “They spared no expense.” His tone set her teeth on edge. His hip was slack, his eyes narrowed.

She wished she’d never convinced him to talk to them. “Why would they make her this grave?”

He walked around the wrought iron fencing to the back of the stone tower, staring up at its pristine point. “To create the illusion. The grief-stricken parents of the unsullied daughter. Better dead than disgraced.”

“But what if she’d come back?”

Quillan didn’t answer.

She tried to imagine it. Would they have turned her away, pretended they didn’t know her, either? Impossible. Had they known so well she wouldn’t try? Or had they believed her dead, truly grieved their daughter, and at last built a monument to her memory? “Maybe they knew in their hearts she was dead.”

Again he didn’t answer. She felt him withdrawing. Signore, don’t let him close me out. She wanted to touch him, but he stood too separately. He was fighting, but what?