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Chapter Twelve
“Oliver.” Shelene took his free hand. He stood, wobbly and supported by his crutch. “You look awful, but I am so happy to see you.” She could see Roman in his gaze and in his jaw, but of course, he was a twin to Nicolas and the one time she had seen them together the resemblance had been more than astounding. There was nary a difference. But maybe now there would be: Oliver had aged with his recent survival experience.
He kissed both her cheeks. “You should have seen me four months ago, sister. You have finally bagged your prize.” He wagged his brows toward Roman. “But are you sure he is worth keeping?”
“He’s made his own bed.”
“Still the iron-willed Shelene.”
“Would you expect me to be any other way?”
“No, not and be married to Roman. Congratulations on your son. Another nephew for me. I will have to see him soon.”
“I will bring him up. There is no need to hobble down to Las Colinas.”
“My nurse says it is good for me. Let me introduce you. Mrs. Spencer, my sister-in-law, Mrs. Forrester. But she’ll want you to call her Shelene.”
Mrs. Spencer answered a few questions but withdrew from the conversation quickly and returned to her needlework. Shelene noticed the woman’s frequent covert glances toward Oliver. Was it out of concern or because of another more personal reason?
“So, how was it you met someone so qualified to care for you during the voyage?”
“The consulate in Buenos Aires told us that an impoverished English woman needed to return home,” Oliver said.
“My husband had been quite sick before he died, so I offered my services to assist Mr. Forrester in order to pay for my journey.” She was demure and shy but very lovely beneath her lowered lashes and prim dress. Oliver must have noticed even in his incapacitated state.
“Surely you must want to return home as soon as possible?”
“I promised Mr. Forrester I would see him to London. I’ve waited this long.”
“Well, there are worse places to spend a summer. Now Oliver, is there anything I can do for you? Do you need anything?”
Oliver laughed. “Just a new wardrobe, which Roman has promised soon.”
“I did bring you a basket. I hope you don’t mind that I was presumptuous about what you might need. Please take care of him, Mrs. Spencer. He saved my father and for that he deserves every kindness.”
“We saved each other. I think if just one of us had been put off theVictorious, both would have died. You needn’t have worried. The commodore is a tough old bird.”
Shelene had not heard the entire story yet. She presumed the men wanted to protect her from the worst of the story, as if she couldn’t imagine the frightful possibilities on her own.
“And you are better now? I must say you look most ill, I’m sorry to say.”
“Malaria. The symptoms come and go. Long-term, I should recover, but it is a blighter to have along with all my other temporary ailments. You asked what I need—perhaps some quinine.”
Shelene thought he was at least in good spirits. “The Jesuits brought cinchona bark here almost two hundred years ago. I will find some even if I have to send a courier to every corner of Spain.” She clutched his hand. “We’ll talk again soon.”
Oliver didn’t let go. “Be kind to him, Shelene. He loves you so.”
Such things disturbed Shelene. She wasn’t unkind—not to her family, not to the diligent workers at Las Colinas, not to the poor in Arco de la Frontera. She tried to smile, but there was no one who could understand the heartbreak Roman had caused her over the years.
She did not hate him; she could never hate him.
Shelene sat beside Father Etienne. “Are you enjoying yourself, Father?”
“Oh, quite. Your wine is some of the best.”
“What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked.
“The stained glass window. Do you know when it will be complete? I want to have a celebratory thanksgiving mass once it’s reinstalled. The miracle of having a father and husband returned should humble us all. There is much to be thankful for, Señora Forrester.”
