InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Falling Leaves ( Chapter 68 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

"Ashur?"

Glancing up from the file he was looking over, Ashur set it aside and smiled just a little as Jessa hovered in the doorway with an almost nervous kind of air.  Dressed in a very pretty black skirt that flared around her hips, just brushing against her ankles, she fiddled with the sleeves of the soft pink sweater.  "H-How do I look?" she asked, her voice a little breathless.

"Good enough to drag upstairs and—"

"Ashur!" she scolded, her cheeks lighting up with a very becoming blush since he'd kept her up, late into the night, doing just that sort of thing already.  "Be serious!"

He stood up and shrugged, coming around to lean against the front of the desk.  "I am," he informed her.

She made a face, but giggled.  "You're impossible."  As quickly as her amusement had come, however, it dissipated, and she sighed.  "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Is this about yesterday?" he asked, leveling a pointed look at her.

She bit her lip and shrugged.  She hid her anxiety well enough on the outside.  Too bad he could feel it radiating off of her youki in wave after jagged wave.  "N-No-o-o . . ." she drawled.

He grimaced inwardly since it was pretty obvious that it was about that.  "I'm sorry that happened," he told her with a frown. "I really . . . It shouldn't have.  I apologize."

"That wasn't your fault," she said.   "It's fine.  I mean, at least I don't look like a nanny today . . ."

He wanted to say more, but she didn't seem to agree.  In the end, he let go of it since that's what she seemed to want to do, even if he still wasn't pleased with everything that had happened.  "Well, Clementine invited you, not me.  She likes you," he told her, crossing his arms over his chest.  "And just why would I want to go have lunch with a bunch of strange women is entirely beyond me, anyway.  I don't know the first thing about the arts or the theatre . . . Besides, as my mate, you can represent me just as well—and look a far sight better in the doing."

She didn't look like she believed him.  "Do you think I should wear something a little less casual?"

"It doesn't really matter what Amaterasu wears, she's still the goddess of the sun," he told her.

She let out a deep breath, didn't look like she bought into his line completely, but she did smile just a little as he beckoned her over to hug her.  She did, and he kissed her forehead, giving her another little squeeze before reluctantly letting go.  "Do you want me to decline their invitation?  I don't know the first thing about serving on any kind of board of directors . . ."

He shrugged.  "Only if you want to.  If you like their foundation, then you should accept.  If you don't?  Then tell them that we hate the arts and don't think they should ever be encouraged."

She rolled her eyes and gave him a little shove as he chuckled.  "You're terrible."

"Oh, yeah, before you go . . ."  Stepping around the desk again, Ashur opened the drawer and handed her an envelope.  "Here."

"What's this?" she asked rather dubiously.

"Nothing bad," he informed her, "and they're not payment for anything, so don't even think it.  For the record, I had them yesterday, but you took off to play with Kells, and then . . . it was the plague of locusts . . ."

She stared at him for another long moment before folding back the flap and pulling out a couple of credit cards—cards with her name on them.  "What should I use these for?"

He shrugged.  "Anything you want.  It'd take some doing to max them out, anyway . . ."

She frowned.  "What if I do?"

"Max them?  I'd pay them off, of course.  I mean, if you think you can break me financially, though, it's going to take a hell of a lot more than those to do it."  He grinned.  "Go ahead and try, though . . ."

"Okay," she said briskly, slipping the cards into her small purse before smoothing her skirt again.  "Wish me luck."

"With the lunch or with maxing out those cards?"

"Very funny, Ashur Philips," she muttered.

He chuckled.  "You don't need it," he called after her, "but good luck."


"Ma said that it's a lady's place to keep her own council with a smile . . ."

Scowling as she slipped the lamb stew into the oven, Nora couldn't help the words that kept echoing through her head.  Then again, it wasn't the words that bothered her so much as the finality, the near cynicism, in Jessa's tone that did.  It was exactly the kind of thing that Jessa had heard, time and again, from her mother—her darling, doting mother . . .

Maybe it was the crux of the problem, too . . .

Jessa believed all of those things, didn't she?  With all of her heart, she did . . . Those things that Orlaith had told her time and again . . .

"Standin' in the doorway isna gonna tell me what's on yer mind, Nora."

Stepping into the warm and cozy study, Nora closed the door behind herself and crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to sit down for the moment as she frowned thoughtfully at her much-younger brother.

He knew that look, and knew it well.  It was the one that Nora always dealt him whenever she had something she needed to say, and he sighed.  "What did Orlaith do now?"

Ignoring his poor attempt at a joke, Nora slowly shook her head.  "She forgets that Jessa's still just a babe," she said, wandering away from the desk and toward the tall window.  "How many times does she need to remind her that a lady should be grateful for what she's given?  That she should keep quiet and be thankful for those scraps?"

Niall sighed and sat back heavily in his chair that groaned in complaint.  "Orli's jus' being pragmatic.  She loves Jessa—adores her—"

"And she's trying to smother her!  Not even two, and she's already stifling her with all that talk!  Niall—"

"I'll talk to her, I swear," Niall said.  "She just . . . She kens what it's like from the other side . . . She's jus' afeared that Jessa's a little too much like her . . ."

The memory faded, and Nora sighed.  The girl . . . She'd heard the same things too often, too much, too early, and all of it had solidified in her mind, to the point that she never, ever questioned it, and because of that, she also refused to question the one person whose answers she so desperately needed . . .

The thing was, Nora might well have believed Jessa's initial misgivings.  So set on believing that she couldn't possibly be Ashur's true mate that she'd discarded the notion before she'd ever bothered to entertain the possibilities, hadn't she?  And the problem with that was simple enough: if she couldn't bring herself to question it, then how in the world would she ever get her answers?

The two seemed content enough, and yet there were still isolated moments: moments when Nora could see past the careful sagacity of cautious acceptance that Jessa held in place.  It was the sense that Jessa actually felt as though her mate was settling for her—putting a good face on something that simply couldn't be helped—that bothered Nora the most.  She'd seen Jessa back down too many times in the past, watched as she took what she was given because that was all she could expect . . . And that was no way to live.  It bothered Nora because she . . . She'd done that, too, for centuries . . . until she simply couldn't take it any longer . . .

The thing was, as much as Nora wanted to help, that inborn sense of propriety stood in the way.  That feeling that she really shouldn't interfere held her back.  Even though she was all but convinced, especially after seeing the lengths that Ashur went to, all to make sure that Jessa understood that her place was important to him, especially after overhearing some of the horrid things that those so-called ladies had been saying . . . It was all that Nora could do, to keep from marching out there and telling those rotten little slags just what she thought of them.  And then Ashur had effectively made his point quite clear and had managed to do so in a way that reassured Jessa, while letting those girls know just what he thought of them, too.

Well, it was as clear as the nose on her face, anyway: if that man didn't love Jessa, then she'd keel over, dead.

Convincing Jessa of it, however . . . That was another matter, entirely . . .


Ashur strode into the living room with a slim-file in his hand, making notes on the pages about the family that he'd discussed with Devlin.  They were looking into any leads that might at least confirm Devlin's suspicions, and so far, it was slow-going.  At the moment, Devlin was in Nova Scotia, checking around the area to see if there were any other local whispers about any of it, which was a poor prospect, given how long ago the actual slayings had occurred . . .

"Ah, Mr. Philips . . . will Lady Jessa be home for dinner?"

Blinking as he looked up from the file, he snapped it closed and set it on the table beside the sofa, striding over to help Nora, who was moving the furniture out to clean under it.  "Just Ashur's fine," he told her.  "As for Jessa, she should be back by then, but I'm not sure if she'll be hungry.  She's having a late lunch with some ladies from the Quebec Thespian Association.  Clementine Margreave offered her a spot on their board of directors . . ."

Nora wrinkled her nose and tried to wave him away as he took the chair and moved it for her.  "Sounds damn boring, if you ask me," she said.

Ashur chuckled.  "Me, too, but if it's something she wants to do . . ."

"Go sit down," Nora commanded, reaching for the broom.  "This is my job, and if you don't mind, I don't particularly like when anyone tries to help me.  I'm a little OCD that way."

He nodded and stepped away to grab a bottle of water out of the wetbar.  It occurred to him that he could ask her some questions since Jessa wasn't home to overhear him and get the wrong idea.  If he weren't feeling a little . . . desperate, he might well ignore the temptation.  As it was, though, there were just too many things that he only understood on a superficial level, and, try as he might, he had yet to really get Jessa to talk about most of it . . . "Can I ask you something?"

Nora glanced up for a moment before resuming her task.  "You can ask anything you like.  Whether I answer or not . . . We'll see."

Smiling at her sensibilities, Ashur sat back on the couch.  "You've known Jessa a long time, right?  All her life?"

"I have," she replied, setting aside the broom and reaching for the dry mop.

He sighed.  "I don't want you to think that I'm trying to go behind her back," he said.  "It's just . . . There are things about her I don't understand—I want to, but . . . But when I ask her things, I get these half-answers, if I get any at all, and I . . . I even have to wonder if she even has the answers herself . . ."

"You had your question," she stated.  "Now, it's my turn."

Settling back as he broke the seal on the water bottle, Ashur almost smiled.  "All right."

Leaning on the dry mop, Nora eyed him for several seconds, and he had the feeling that she was trying to read his mind.  "She really is your mate, isn't she?"

That wasn't actually the question he expected, and he shrugged.  "Of course, she is."

"And you knew this when you—when it happened?"

He considered pointing out that it was technically two questions.  He didn't, though, since he rather thought that Nora would stop talking completely if he did.  "There wasn't a condom to break, so yes, I knew it when it happened."  Grimacing, he rubbed his forehead.  "I just didn't realize that she'd think . . ."  He sighed.

"Why didn't you talk about it with her first?"

It was the logical question, sure.  He was a little sick of having to answer it, honestly.  "Lots of reasons, I suppose . . . It didn't occur to me, though.  I mean, if I know she's my mate, then I just assumed she knew it, too . . . I . . . I really don't understand why she doesn't."

A strange sort of expression flickered over Nora's features—a sense of understanding, a bit of a sad sort of inevitability . . . But these things disappeared so fast that Ashur wasn't sure what he'd seen, at all.  "Accept what you're given, and be glad for it," she said.

Ashur frowned.  "What?"

She said nothing as she moved the chair back into place, and she gestured at it, as though asking him if she could sit.  He nodded.  The way she sank into the chair was surprising: back perfectly straight, a very slow settle.  He'd seen Jessa sit that way, too, but it was usually in a more formal setting: a restaurant . . . or the gala . . .

"I'll tell you about my girl," she said quietly, almost reverently. "Any fool could see that you adore her, that you love her—any fool, but the girl herself, it seems . . ."

Ashur didn't confirm or deny that as he waited for her to continue.

"I'll tell you about her, but first, I think I should tell you a bit about Orlaith—her mother."

"Her mother," he repeated, narrowing his eyes slightly.

Nora smiled.  "It is important."

He nodded.  "All right."

"Orlaith Daugherty was a commoner—the daughter of a blacksmith.  In those days, the gentry did not marry outside of their peers, and of those, most of those marriages were arranged.  So, it came as a great surprise when Niall O'Shea came home one day and announced very casually that he'd found his mate and that he was going to marry her eventually.  His parents were thrilled, of course, until he happened to mention that she was the daughter of the local smithy in the low-town.  They tried to talk him out of it—at least, for a little while—but they gradually started to realize that he was not wrong, that this . . . urchin, this wee bit of baggage, really was destined to become the new Marchioness of Aumberlese.  They had no choice but to welcome her with open arms."

"That sounds a little dubious."

Her smile was rather enigmatic, no more than the slightest lifting of the corners of her lips.  "It was entirely dubious," she explained.  "This uneducated, flighty bit of nothing . . . Ma thought that Orlaith was going to be the end of them all . . . She wasn't, but . . . Well, I'll get to that."

"You worked for them then?"

She sighed.  "No, I didn't.  I lived with them, off and on."  She must have intercepted Ashur's somewhat confused expression, and she laughed softly.  "Did I fail to mention that Niall's my wee brother?"

"You're Jessa's aunt?"

She nodded slowly, straightening her long black skirt with her nimble fingers.  "Aye."

"Then why are you a housekeeper?"

"A long story, to be sure, and it has nothing at all to do with this one—not yet, anyway."

Ashur chuckled, enjoying the conversation with this no-nonsense woman.  "I apologize.  Go on."

Pausing for a moment, as though to gather her thoughts, Nora drew a deep breath and smiled, just a little.  "Ma decided that the best course would be to move Orlaith into the country estate, Dunborough.  She would be taught by the finest tutors in everything from scholastics to comportment.  She needed to learn everything, and during this time, Ma and Da came up with a whole new identity for her—the long-lost niece of some obscure line of the peerage."

"To avoid scandal?"

"Scandal was a very big deal in those days."

A sardonic little smile surfaced on his features, and Ashur nodded.  "It still is in some circles."

"True enough," she allowed.  "That girl . . . She was the absolute bane of my mother's existence: always running off here or there with the attention span of a humming bird.  When Niall found her, she was fifteen years old—"

"Fifteen?  Isn't that a bit young to find one's mate?"

Nora laughed softly. "Niall was nearly a hundred at the time.  He said that he knew her soul.  At first, when our parents tried to separate him from her, they realized that he was speaking truth, that he started to wither.  Kern Daugherty wasn't a fool, though.  He demanded a king's ransom for his daughter, and my parents had no choice but to accept it and to pay it."

"They bought her?"

"Quite so, and ma, being the . . . harridan . . . that she was, reminded Orlaith of it every chance she got.  Bought and paid for, she told her, especially when Orlaith managed to creep out of her lessons to chase birds and badgers and stoat.  Tearing her dresses while climbing trees, ruining her stockings and shoes, wading in the streams and river, coming home with leaves and twigs, tangled in her golden hair, and never, ever looking quite as happy as she did on days like those . . . I wonder now, how much of that was Orlaith's way of trying to rebel . . ."

"She doesn't sound like the mother that Jessa's talked about."

"She wasn't," Nora said simply.  "That's the point.  When she turned eighteen, Ma and Da told her that she could not—could not—become Niall's mate.  They were set to send her home, mate or not, to demand that her family return the exorbitant bride price they'd paid.  To this day, I really don't know if it was a bluff or not . . . They said she was unacceptable, that she balked at her lessons and bit the hands that fed her, clothed her, and I think it was at that point that Orlaith started to understand—started to realize that if she ever wanted to be with her mate that she had no choice but to yield.  It was almost like a light bulb being turned on in the dark.  The change in her was . . . shocking, actually.  She stopped trying to escape, stopped avoiding her lessons.  She learned so fast that it was unsettling, and not simply scholastics.  Sewing, harpsichord, dancing, manners, comportment . . . It was so drastic, in fact, that she was finally allowed to marry Niall on the eve of her twentieth birthday.  But the thing was, she . . . She wasn't Orli any longer.  She was Lady Orlaith O'Shea, with never a hair out of place, always turned out in the most gorgeous of dresses, always the embodiment of perfection and poise, grace and beauty, but as beautiful as she was, something in her was lost, too . . ."

"That . . . seems sad . . ." he murmured, scowling as he turned the bottle of water in his hands.  Some of it was starting to come into focus, and yet, the questions that he had were still there, too.

Nora sat back, her expression taking on just a hint of sadness, but it was a sadness that had been tempered with time.  As though she were simply looking back, remembering something she wished she could change, even if the possibility didn't exist, yet that hope remained . . . "Jessa was born a couple of hundreds of years after our parents died.  They were sailing to Spain for a holiday, and the boat sank during a skirmish with pirates.  By the time she was born, I had moved in as the housekeeper.  Orlaith couldn't stand it—hated the idea that her sister-in-law was working at all, like it was a personal slight against her, and she refused to tell Jessa, just who I really was. Actually, I'm quite sure that Jessa has no idea that her mother started out as nothing more than the smithy's daughter . . . As for me, I didn't care that much.  I still got to be near her, got to watch her grow, and that was enough.  Jessa, you understand, was such a good baby.  She rarely cried, smiled so much.  Her first word was, 'Da', of course—Niall doted upon her.  It wasn't really until she was just over a year old that . . . everything started to change."

Rising from the sofa, Ashur wandered over, poured a glass of wine that he handed to Nora.  The expression on her face, the sadness that was coming on faster . . . He thought that she might need it, and she accepted the glass with a wan smile.  Then he grabbed the bottle, set it on the table next to her, and returned to the sofa without a word.

Swirling the wine in the glass, she stared into the ebbing liquid.  She sipped it a few times before wrapping her hands around it, the flame of her hair, catching the light of the sunshine that filtered through the windows.  "Jessa's hair has always been glorious . . . that stunning, rich shade, those impossible curls . . . with her pale skin and those eyes—those long, thick eyelashes—beautiful didn't even begin to describe her.  She was, to her mother, a living, breathing doll, and, true to form, she was always dressed immaculately—lace and ribbons and frills and yards and yards of silks and satins and velvets . . . but as she got older, as her true self started to emerge, Orlaith . . . Perhaps it's better to say that, from the day that Jessa learned how to walk, how to run, she was constantly in motion.  She didn't want to sit quietly and read books or work at embroidery.  She never wanted to sit through lessons, never was content to stay in one place.  Eluding her nanny, skipping off to the barn to climb into the stalls with the horses, to nap on their straw beds . . . She loved to climb trees, wandered the fields, picking flowers for her mother—flowers that Orlaith always threw out.  Why pick wildflowers when you could lift a phone and call a florist?  But still, Jessa would come home with grass-stained dresses, with rips and tears or stinking of the stable . . . with grass in her tangled hair, and always, Orlaith would scold her, fuss at her, saying the same things to Jessa that Ma used to say to her . . ."

"God . . ."

Nora nodded slowly, sipping the wine again, and this time, her hands were shaking just the tiniest bit.  "So many times, that child would seek me out, would hide where ever I happened to be.  The nannies never saw anything in Jessa other than a paycheck.  They didn't have time to fuss with hair that was so fine, it tangled entirely too easily.  They didn't have the patience to figure out ways to interest Jessa in the things they wanted her to do and instead would chastise her for wanting to explore on her own, as any inquisitive child would, and all the while, I'd hear Orlaith say to her, 'Stop fussing, Jessa!  The world never feels sympathy for a lady.  We are the elite, you understand?  We are above those commoners, and one day, you'll be Marchioness of Dunborough.  Smile, Jessa, and keep your complaints to yourself'."

He grimaced, the chilling memory of the viciousness with which she'd bitten back her tears just yesterday flickered through his head, and he'd wondered then, just how she'd learned to do that . . .

"When she was five, Orlaith decided that Jessa was old enough, that she was ready to start taking lessons: dance lessons of every kind you could think of, piano lessons, art lessons, comportment . . . and Jessa begged so desperately to take equestrian lessons, too.  She'd promised that she would be better behaved if she could just take those equestrian lessons, and Niall, of course, allowed it.  Jessa was so excited at first.  She thought that she might make some friends, but most of the other girls in the classes weren't of the peerage, and they did what little girls do.  Boys, as you know . . . They're different.  If they have an issue, they argue and fuss, and sometimes they'll fight it out.  Ten minutes later, they're right as rain.  Sometimes, they even become friends.  Little girls . . . aren't like that.  If they perceive that someone or something is a threat, they turn on them, but not like boys do.  They start picking and needling, finding things that hurt, and Jessa . . . She was a stunning little girl, and those other little girls . . . They were cruel.  So often, she'd come in from her lessons, eyes red-rimmed, nose pinked . . . Orlaith would ask her what was wrong, and when Jessa told her that they'd made fun of her, called her names like Raggedy Ann—you know, that doll?"

Ashur nodded, jaw tightening as that echoed in his head, words spoken by other people and in the same hurtful way . . .

"Bozo was a big one—Little Orphan Annie . . . Merida . . . Orlaith would look so sad for a moment, and then she'd remind Jessa that she was a lady, and ladies do not cry over that sort of thing.  They hold their head high and they smile because, what do a bunch of commoners really know?  And Jessa . . . She tried.  She tried so hard, but then, she'd have a particularly rough day, and she'd sneak out to play or to just be alone, and she'd come home, windblown and rosy cheeked with sparkling eyes and a ready smile, only to be scolded because her hair was a mess or her dress was torn . . . When she would tell her da that the nanny hurt her, pulling on her hair, yanking so hard that her neck hurt, he would get rid of the nanny, of course, but it didn't ever matter.  They were always the same, and how many times did I answer calls to sweep that child's hair off the floor when they finally got tired of trying to comb it?  Orlaith would take the scissors and lop it off and say, 'Don't cry, Jessa!  It's only hair!  It'll be back by morn, and maybe you'll think twice the next time you want to sneak away without permission . . .'"

"Her . . . mother . . . cut her hair off?"

"It was easier than brushing it—and it was easier on Jessa, too, maybe . . ."

Tightening his fist so hard that he felt his claws puncture his own flesh, he gritted his teeth, tried to control the surging anger, the frothing rage. That her own mother would . . .? He . . . He couldn't quite wrap his brain around it . . . "The hell . . ."

"On Jessa's sixth birthday, she asked Orlaith if she could have a party.  She was so excited, and Orlaith was happy to finally be able to plan something for Jessa that the girl wanted.  In a way, I think that she was weary of always telling Jessa no, of always having to correct her for her behavior that was perfectly normal in anyone else's opinions.  So, Orlaith planned and poured over this perfect party, and when the day came, Jessa was dressed and ready well before noon when the party wasn't to start until two.  All the little girls from her dance classes came—thirty little girls, all dressed in their very best dresses, a riot of hair ribbons and curls, of the click of shiny Mary Janes on the marble floors.  A huge cake in pink frosting with six silver candles on it and stacks of presents, all waiting to be unwrapped. . . The girls exchanged stickers from their sticker albums, played with Jessa's collection of beautiful porcelain dolls from all over the world, played Duck, Duck, Goose in the middle of the ballroom . . . But when it came time to open those presents, you could see that happiness in her die just a little at a time with every gift she unwrapped.  Every last one of those nasty little brats gave her a Raggedy Ann doll—all of them."

"Damn it . . ." he muttered, grinding his teeth together so hard that his jaw ached from the pressure, a sickened feeling erupting in the pit of his stomach.  In his mind's eye, he could see it: the tiny girl, Jessa, all decked out in a frilly white dress with ribbons in her hair and such a brilliant smile on her face . . .

"Orlaith reminded her not to cry, made her stand at the door to kiss each of those hateful little girls goodbye, to thank them for the gifts.  She cried herself to sleep that night, and she never, ever wanted a birthday party again, but it was that fiasco that gave Orlaith her next idea.  She ordered the nanny to use a black hair rinse on Jessa every morning to cover over her red hair, and then Orlaith herself would sit down, straightening her hair with a flat iron.  If Niall saw it, he'd lay a hand on Jessa's head to burn off the color, and the warmth of his flames undid all the work of the straightening iron.  Orlaith told him that it was for Jessa's own good—better to have sleek and beautifully glossy black locks . . . Who could make fun of that?"

He winced.  "That's why . . ." he murmured as so many isolated moments shifted through his head: things that hadn't made sense entirely, and now, they did.  Her own misgivings, how much she hated her hair . . . Her willingness to simply chop off those locks that he loved so much, her inability to understand, just why it would bother him . . . and yet, there was something else, too—another realization . . . Just how much damage could a lifetime of that really do to her?  From the constant berating of her own mother, the harassment from other children . . . and something else—something that Nora hadn't said . . . "She . . . She never had any friends, did she?"

"Friends?  Goodness, no!  Who would dare to try to befriend the Lady O'Shea's daughter?  With as much as Orlaith fussed over Jessa's appearance, well . . . She fussed over other little girls just as much, too.  No little girls from the village were ever good enough—too rough, to uncultured—not the kinds of girls you want around someone like Jessa . . ." The sarcasm in her tone was an understated.  It was still there, all the same.  "Even the girls that she had at her birthday party—the local girls who also attended her dance classes . . . None of them were her friends, either, quite obviously . . . and I don't think she made any when she was sent away to boarding school.  That's not surprising.  The girls at those schools were more her peers.  Most of them had also been raised in much the same way as Jessa—snarky little rich bitches, the lot of them . . . Jealous of Jessa's looks or her intelligence . . . Maybe they hated that they couldn't rattle her, couldn't shake her.  After all, Jessa had been taught by the greatest pretender alive, hadn't she?"

"I . . . I don't . . . understand . . . how she could do that—how she would do that to her own daughter . . ."

Nora sighed.  It was a quiet, understated thing—and there was something all the more horrifying about it, too. "If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times . . . 'Stop fussing, Jessa!  Be glad of what you're given, and don't ask for more' . . . 'Suck it up, girl!  There's no need for tears over something so trivial' . . . 'Don't ask questions, Jessa!  A lady need only to accept what she's told.  Curiosity is an ugly thing, so best you learn to bury it now' . . . 'Oh, Jessa!  That ungodly hair of yours . . . What young man is going to want a wife whose hair can't ever be tamed?' . . .'Look at you!  You look like a ghost!  Pinch your cheeks at least . . . You're white as a sheet' . . . On and on and on . . . and not once, mind, but over and over again—time and time again—until she understood it.  Until it . . . it all became who she is . . ."

He rubbed his forehead, willing back the anger—anger directed at someone who was long gone—a futile anger that wasn't nearly as easy to accept.  "And that's why . . . why she can't see . . ."

Nora smiled, just a little, her gaze clearing a she met Ashur's eyes, as that smile widened by degrees.  "I never wanted to see her marry into the peerage," she admitted.  "Never wanted her to find a mate whose family would quell what was left of that little girl."  Sitting back, she sipped the wine before setting the glass aside.  "You . . . You're not the kind to do that, are you?  You're the kind who wants her to step outside that little box she's existed in for far too long . . . You . . . You want to see her shine because you . . . you want to know who she really is, don't you?"  She laughed suddenly—a very pleasant sound, punctuated by the ticking of the clock on the mantle, by the thunder of his own blood, surging through his veins, as he struggled to rein in his emotions.  "You don't have to answer that, Ashur.  I see it in your eyes.  I've seen the way you look at my girl, the way you shelter and protect her.  Now, you just have to figure out how to make her see it, too, because . . . Because there are things you still don't know—things Jessa doesn't know—things Orlaith—that Niall—never knew . . ."

"Like . . . what?"

Nora smiled.  "Things . . . Things that might be important someday . . . but for now . . ."

"Hmm?"

She chuckled.  "You've got twenty minutes to pick up Master Kells from preschool."

"Damn it," he growled shooting out of the sofa and striding for the door.  Pausing with his hand on the door handle, he looked back at the housekeeper.  "Nora . . ."

"Aye?"

Despite the weight of the information he'd just had piled on him, he smiled.  "Thank you."

She smiled back, and she slowly nodded as he slipped outside and hurried over to the car.