I moved to the kitchen, checking the cupboard to make sure the simple pottery dishes had been removed to the Dower House. Only the Limoges and Royal Doulton would remain with Langford Hall, placed on the dining table where only phantoms would dine.
I returned to the foyer and to the Langfords captured in oils on the walls, and felt no censure. It was almost as if they understood what reinvention really was. After all, hadn’t the old admiral changed from seafaring profiteer to country gentleman to begin the legacy of Langfords and Langford Hall? I imagined I could hear soft, polite applause as I ran my finger along the spotless mantel.
It was perhaps the sense of peace I’d received upon my decision to move that had enabled me to finally forgive myself. Daisy—proud, beautiful, strong Daisy—had understood. And forgiven me. It was my duty to honor her by living my new life the way she would have lived her own if she’d been allowed. It was my promise to myself. And to Kit. After giving Robin the gold signet ring, I’d visited Kit in the graveyard and told him everything, needing my conscience to be clear. I imagined him and Daisy finally together, and my heart had felt as full and ripe as summer fruit. As I’d turned to leave, I thought I’d smelled Kit’s pipe tobacco. I’d smiled, then whispered a soft goodbye as I let myself through the gate.
The grandfather clock chimed the hour, reminding me that I still needed to check Kit’s study, to remove any personal items. I found if I kept very busy with all that needed to be done, I’d have no time to think of Drew, or even to dream about him. I was the new Babs—a formidable woman. And formidable women forged their own futures, with or without a man by their side.
I’d only made it two steps when someone banged the large brass knocker on the front door. I frowned, hoping it wasn’t yet another passerby who’d heard that the house was soon to be opened for tours.
I was still frowning when I threw open the door. “I’m so sorry, but we’re not yet—” I stopped speaking. And breathing. And holding my mouth closed.
“Hello, Babs.” Drew stood there with that grin on his face, all broad-shouldered and tanned and white-toothed. “I was just passing through, and thought I’d stop by.”
“Passing through?” I surprised myself with the calmness of my voice. “Through to where—Land’s End? Because nobody passes through Ashprington. Unless they’re lost.”
His smile faded. “Funny you should say that. I’ve been feeling a little lost these last couple of months.”
I held my ground, clutching the door so that it wouldn’t open any further. “I told you in Paris, Drew. This is my home. I can’t move to New York regardless of how I feel about you.”
“Yeah?” His grin was back. “That’s a relief. Because I just transferred to the London office.”
I might have blinked a few times, as if to make sure he wasn’t a mirage, and that I wasn’t dreaming. But Drew was no fairy tale. He was flesh and blood and he was standing on my doorstep with an open invitation in his eyes.
“Oh. Well.” I might have also said his name. It wasn’t Shakespeare, but the words were just as sweet. I stepped back and opened the door wider. He met me on the threshold and we stared stupidly at each other before he opened his arms and swallowed me in his embrace. Our lips met and somewhere, amid the turmoil of the blood rushing in my ears, I imagined I heard the house sigh, a quiet murmur of approval.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked against his lips.
In answer he swung me up in his arms and brought me inside the house, followed swiftly by the sound of the heavy door shutting behind us.
Acknowledgments
“Three authors walked into a bar . . .”
So begins the answer to the most frequently asked question “Team W” receives from readers: namely, how our collaboration got its start. The second question is how we continue to create new books together and still enjoy the process. Three novels; umpteen cups of coffee （and sometimes stronger beverages—did anyone say “Prosecco”？）; hundreds of hours spent plotting, writing, and rewriting; book tours; and volumes of emails and texts later, the answer is simple: the Unibrain. This is what happens when three writers share one brain as well as a passion for history and the written word. And it’s magical.
Yet the Unibrain can’t do it all—so a huge thanks goes to our editor, Rachel Kahan, and the rest of our amazing team at William Morrow for everything from the gorgeous cover art to the entire mechanism of getting our books into the hands of readers. We couldn’t do what we do without all of your hard work and support, as well as the unflagging efforts of our brilliant literary agents, Alexandra Machinist of ICM and Amy Berkower of Writers’ House, who have been our sisterhood’s biggest cheerleaders from the moment we first proposed writing together. （All right, it might have taken a little more persuasion.）