In the nick of time, it came back to Jamie—the secret of settling Peony’s ire. “Then you’ve forgotten Queensland,” he said with quiet valiance, “and the day Increase Pipher ’ad his vengeance.”

Any mention of the whipping Jamie had endured that long-ago day could be counted on to reduce Peony to the most sentimental kind of sympathy. Like a doting elder sister, she wept a little at the memory.

“You’re a no-gooder and a wastrel,” she sniffled when she’d composed herself a little. “But I can’t harden my heart against you and you know it, damn your eyes.”

Jamie laughed and crossed the room to draw his friend into his arms. “Now, did I make a fuss like this when you married Ben Ryan all those years ago?”

Peony dried her eyes with a delicate handkerchief drawn out of one sleeve and sniffled again. Despite herself, she chuckled. “Yes, as a matter of fact, you did,” she answered. “Oh Jamie, he was a good man, God rest his soul.”

Jamie touched her forehead with his lips. “Aye,” he said softly, “and you should be findin’ a new one, love. It’s time you ’ad someone to take care of you.”

She reared back in his arms, looking up at him with tears shimmering in her eyes and a tremulous smile on her mouth. “Take care of me, is it? And who was it took care of you, lad, and brought you all the way to New Zealand in the bargain?”

The memory filled Jamie with gratitude. He’d have died, after that last encounter with Increase, if it hadn’t been for Peony. Now, with Bliss making a sweet agony of his every waking moment, he was very glad he’d lived.

And, of course, Peony was right in declaring that she could look after herself. She’d been doing that for a long time, both as a wife and as a widow. The thriving shipping concern Ben had left her was proof of her competence, for it had not diminished, but grown.

“This girl you married,” she mused when Jamie made no verbal response to her earlier questions. “What was her name again?”

The enormous irony of it made Jamie grin again, albeit wearily. “Bliss,” he answered, and before the sound of his voice faded away, he knew he’d die if he didn’t find her.

Miss Pennyhope—if indeed it was the mistress of the house answering the door—was short and plump, with iron-gray hair and spectacles that perched on the end of her nose. “Yes?” she asked, and while there was no note of suspicion in her voice, there was no encouragement either.

Bliss battled an urge to bend one knee just slightly, in the bobbing curtsy she’d learned as a child. “I’m here to see Miss Calandra Pennyhope, please,” she said, painfully aware of her tattered coat.

“I am Miss Pennyhope,” came the cautious reply.

Bliss introduced herself, leaving out the surname she’d recently acquired, and then Miss Pennyhope was all smiles.

“Heaven have mercy, you’re Lilian’s child!” she cried, stepping back and all but dragging Bliss after her, into a small, tidy entry hall that smelled pleasantly of beeswax and strong soap. “Come in, come in!”