Page 62 of The Lovers
FORTY-FIVE
DECEMBER 2013
Surrey, England
Quinn tossed her purse and keys on the small table by the door and went to pour herself a drink. It had been a long day. Rhys had scheduled back-to-back auditions for twenty actresses, eager to choose his star for the reenactment, and he wanted Quinn to attend. She was the only person who knew what Elise had looked like, and he wanted to find someone who resembled her as closely as possible. Of course, no one would know that there even was a resemblance, but Rhys was a perfectionist, and it was important to him to get the details right. Once Elise was chosen, he would turn his attention to casting James, Lord Asher, and Gavin Talbot. Quinn pointed out to Rhys that there was no factual data to link Gavin Talbot to Lady Asher, but Rhys thought that introducing a forbidden love into the reenactment would add a bit of spice to the proceedings. After all, Gavin had existed and had been involved in a relationship with Elise, even if there was no physical proof of the romance.
Quinn dutifully sat through twenty auditions, but none of the actresses struck the right chord. There was one who had coppery long hair and blue eyes and bore the closest physical resemblance to Elise, but she hadn’t captured her essence. How could she when she had so little to go on? Quinn supposed that with the right script and some coaching from the director, she would eventually come close, but somehow casting her as Elise seemed like a betrayal. Quinn felt a responsibility to Elise and didn’t wish to see her portrayed inaccurately.
Quinn plopped down on the sofa with her glass of mineral water and let out a deep breath. It had been less than a week since she’d spent the day with Rhys, but their dynamic had changed already. Despite her lack of encouragement, Rhys exhibited a proprietary air toward her, as if they were in a relationship. He’d kissed her softly when she arrived at the studio and absentmindedly caressed her hand beneath the table as a string of actresses read their monologues. Quinn felt unsettled and confused. She liked Rhys and found him attractive; on paper, he was the perfect man. Maybe she was expecting too much. She was older now and not the girl she’d been when she first got together with Luke and was drunk on love, lust, and the heady feeling of being in a serious relationship for the first time. Perhaps feelings took time to develop, and desire followed, but deep down she knew she was deluding herself. Her thoughts strayed to Gabe every few minutes, her gut twisting with guilt at the thought of how they left things last time they spoke. She missed him, missed talking to him and just hearing the reassuring sound of his voice. Quinn longed to call him, but she wasn’t sure what to say. Gabe had made his position clear, and she was still marginally angry with him for backing her into a corner.
The December night was cold and damp, so Quinn laid a fire in the grate and rummaged through her cupboards in search of something to make for dinner. She didn’t enjoy cooking for herself, but she was hungry, having had nothing since the sandwich she had at noon. Pasta would have to do. She had some mushrooms, tomatoes, and zucchini, so she’d make pasta primavera. She just set some water to boil when there was a knock at the door. Quinn’s heart leaped, buoyed by the thought that it might be Gabe coming to make peace. Quinn wiped her hands on a tea towel and went to answer the door, a smile of welcome spreading across her face. She was surprised to see a woman standing on the threshold. She looked vaguely familiar, but Quinn couldn’t place her.
“May I help you?” she asked, seeing the woman’s hesitation. “Are you lost?”
“No,” the woman mumbled. Quinn waited for her to state her business, all the while studying her features. She was sure she’d seen her before. And then she remembered: She’d seen her in the graveyard when she visited the church with Rhys a few weeks ago. The woman had stared at her then, making her uncomfortable. What on earth was she doing on her doorstep now?
“Dr. Allenby, may I have a few moments of your time?” the woman finally asked. “I need to speak to you regarding a private matter.” The woman looked so nervous that Quinn felt momentarily sorry for her. She kept pleating the fabric of her coat, and her eyes were full of apprehension, as if she expected Quinn to slam the door in her face.
“And you are?” Quinn prompted.
“My name is Sylvia Wyatt.”
Quinn had reservations about letting a complete stranger into her home, but the woman looked harmless enough, and she was clearly under the strain of some great emotion. Quinn had to hear her out.
“Come in, Sylvia.”
The woman nodded her thanks and walked into the house, looking about in wonder when she realized that she’d walked into a converted chapel.
“What a lovely place,” she said as she shrugged off her coat and accepted Quinn’s offer of a seat by the fire. “I see you are drawn to places of worship,” Sylvia observed. Quinn didn’t respond. She had no desire to get sidetracked.
“How can I help you?” Quinn asked gently. She longed to be alone, and this woman seemed to have trouble coming to the point.
“May I call you Quinn?” Sylvia asked.
“It’s my name.”
Sylvia was scrutinizing Quinn again, gazing at her face as if she wanted to remember every feature, every expression. Her own expression was difficult to describe, and Quinn found herself wishing that she hadn’t let the woman in after all.
“What did you want to speak to me about?” Quinn prompted, growing more uncomfortable by the minute.
Sylvia took a deep breath and locked eyes with Quinn, her gaze unflinching. “I saw your photograph on the news after you’d been assaulted,” she began. Quinn noticed that her hands were shaking in her lap but didn’t comment.
“Yes, it was rather an unpleasant experience,” Quinn said, her hand subconsciously going to the bruise still somewhat visible at her temple. It had healed and faded but not completely.
Sylvia nodded. “I have never really been interested in history,” she said suddenly, making Quinn wonder what she was getting at.
“Not everyone is.”
“I mean that I might have heard of you sooner had I watched any of the documentaries you were in. I wish I had.”
Quinn nodded, unsure of what to say. She was starting to seriously regret allowing this strange woman into her house. Perhaps she believed that Quinn was some minor celebrity and wanted to talk to someone who’d been on television.
“Go on,” Quinn prompted Sylvia again.
“You look so much like my mother,” Sylvia whispered as she reached a tentative hand toward Quinn’s face and then yanked it away, realizing how inappropriate the gesture was.
Quinn suddenly felt cold despite the roaring fire. She had noticed the woman in the graveyard because she looked so forlorn, but there was something familiar about her. Her almond-shaped hazel eyes, the dark, curling hair. Sylvia was no older than fifty… old enough to be her mother.
