He sounded so sad. Ginny searched his face, the fine features that were so like Steve’s yet so different; his skin was paler, slightly pockmarked with old scars from a bout of the pox as a child, and his eyes, so dark a blue like Steve’s, but that held none of the ruthlessness, only compassion.

“It’s true, Richard. I do love Steve. I’ve always loved him even when I didn’t want to. I’m not sure why, except that he and I have been through so much together now.”

“There are ancient beliefs that say a man and a woman must find the one true love, that when they do, that love will last for all time, through strife and even death. I think that is the sum of your relationship with Esteban. No matter how many others you might think you love, he is your only true love. You were fortunate that you found one another while you were so young. Now you have the rest of your lives to be together.”

“Oh, Richard, I knew you would understand. How I wish you would find your true love.”

“Perhaps I will. One day. Perhaps I will even find her in Russia, a woman with green eyes and copper hair.”

His smile was teasing, his hand on her comforting, and Ginny felt at ease in his arms as the waltz took them around the floor. Another barrier had been hurdled, another avenue chosen, another chance offered on the path to happiness. It was as if pieces of a puzzle were falling into place.

Steve, standing beside a pilastered column and talking with a man she recognized as Lord Beaconsfield, the prime minister of England, was her fate. She had always known it, even in the darkest of times.

I just pray that whatever happens in the future, we can face it together….

NEW ORLEANS

7

It was all so familiar; a lingering sense of déjà vu hovered over her as Ginny leaned against the frame of the French doors that opened onto Royal Street below. New Orleans. A teeming city of diverse culture, gracious and bawdy, like an elegant lady clad in tattered silks.

Sunlight graced the day with soft, moist heat. It was still early; servants washed off narrow banquettes before the traffic of the day, chattering in soft tones that sounded like lilting music while soapy water washed over the previous day’s accumulation of dirt and horse droppings.

Ginny only half listened, thinking of her children and how she missed them so much already. Leaving them with Tante Celine until the unrest in Mexico was ended had been wrenching, but best for them. Still, she had wept halfway across the Atlantic until Steve had sworn softly and muttered that the ship had as much saltwater belowdecks as surrounding them.