“I suppose I’ll meet her tomorrow as well,” Ginny said, then rose from the chair with a faint smile. “It’s late and I really must go to bed. I’m afraid I’m not at all accustomed to traveling so much by horse. I miss a well-sprung carriage!”

Early the next morning, Ginny and Steve rode up to the main house to visit with Don Francisco. They were greeted by Don Francisco’s longtime bodyguard, Jaime Perez, still imposing despite his age, with gray at his temples and sprinkled through his hair.

“Don Esteban, your grandfather awaits you in his study. And Doña Genia, there are refreshments in the sala.”

Ginny’s brow rose, but she did not comment as she took the hint and went to the tiled sala that was filled with light and lush plants. It looked different than when last she had seen it, with clearly a woman’s touch at decorating with greenery and pretty vases, and a few paintings by European masters on the walls. She paused before a huge oil painting.

“Degas,” a voice said behind her, and she turned to see a dark, trim woman with vibrant eyes and skin approaching. “I find his work intriguing. L’Orchestre.”

“Yes, he loves to paint everyday scenes of life.” Ginny surveyed the older woman, and returned her radiant smile.

“I am Doña Teresa, though you may not recognize me, as you suffered from blindness when we first met.”

“I would recognize your voice, Doña Teresa, for it is soft and lovely,” Ginny replied graciously.

Doña Teresa smiled. “I am relieved to see you are so well. Francisco admires your courage and strength greatly, you know.”

“Does he?” Ginny accompanied Teresa to the small patio off the sala where freshly squeezed orange juice waited in tall, frosted glasses of ice. Fruit overflowed a bowl; cakes dusted with thick sugar were arranged on a large flat plate.

To her surprise, Ginny found Teresa to be very charming and not at all stiff, as Steve had once said she was. Their first meeting had been so brief, her mood then so dark, that they had spoken little. Now they spoke of the children, and of everything but where Ginny had been the past few years. It was difficult to reconcile the fact that this woman was Richard Avery’s mother, for she was so petite and fragile in appearance, with lustrous dark hair gleaming among the strands of silver, a reminder of her Persian ancestry. It was easy to understand why Lord Tynedale had rescued her so long before, and then married her, though she had been but a girl at the time.

Easier still to understand why Don Francisco had fallen in love with her, as well.