Chapters (46)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Epilogue
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- Back Cover
Rowles descended the stairs and returned to the quiet solitude of his study, welcoming the sight of shelves of books all well-worn with use and appreciation. Life had been so much simpler when his brother carried the mantle of the family title. Rowles missed teaching; missed it with an intensity that was too similar to resentment to be healthy. He would be a better professor now, he was certain. Life had taught him some harsh lessons, and humility had been one of the most powerful lessons.
If he’d learned anything, it was that he truly didn’t have all the answers. And maybe that was the greatest lesson of all. Knowing how little one knew. But damn and blast, it was a difficult lesson to swallow. His eyes drifted to the hearth, the embers glowing in the evening light, and he felt a kinship with the charred wood. Could anything be made from ashes?
He struggled with the answer that rose from his long study of the Bible.
Beauty. Beauty came from ashes. Perhaps his and God’s interpretations of beauty were vastly different. It wouldn’t be the first time. And unfortunately, it likely wouldn’t be the last either.
Two
Every man gives his life for what he believes. Every woman gives her life for what she believes.
—Joan of Arc, from “Joan of Lorraine” by Maxwell Anderson
Joan Morgan studied the two pieces of linen paper on her brother’s desk as she considered his question. One missive was written in broad, feminine penmanship with little care for efficient space usage on the expensive linen paper. The writing on the other was more linear, with clean lines and perfect flicks across the t’s and evenly spaced dots above each i.
“Well?” Morgan, her elder brother and the Earl of Penderdale, asked impatiently. His Christian name was Collin, but she’d only ever called him Morgan. It suited him better, she thought, and he apparently agreed.
“Left. The one on the left,” Joan answered, then lifted her eyes to meet her brother’s gaze.
“You’re sure?” he demanded. He was so temperamental these days, like an irritated stallion constantly snorting and pawing the earth as if restless deep in his soul.
“Yes.” Joan nodded, then clasped her hands in front of her, willing a peaceful demeanor against her brother’s irksome one.
Morgan held her gaze for several moments before looking down at the papers and collecting each one carefully. “I’ll let them know.”
Joan nodded, not that her brother was looking at her, but out of habit as he slid the papers into the leather folder from which they had come. After closing the folder, he took a deep breath through his nose and met her scrutiny.
Joan sighed. She knew that look. Dear Lord, she’d dealt with that expression her whole life, and was certain she knew the lecture that was about to follow.