LISTEN WITH YOUR HEART by Barbara Scott Preview at The Romance Club http://www.theromanceclub.com

MonaVie

Drink It ~ Feel It ~ Share It

What if the man of your wildest dreams stepped into your arms? Can real life ever be as sweet as the fantasy? Morgan Gable first falls for Daniel Connolly, a popular Irish tenor, when she hears him sing. Starstruck, she is consumed by thoughts of love with the handsome troubadour. Unfortunately, real life intrudes and Morgan must put aside her own dreams for awhile. When, five years later, she and her troubadour meet again, Morgan's dreams seem to be coming true when he entices her into a marriage of convenience. Can she save him from the treacherous political legacy of his late wife? Set in 1871, the story sweeps from the tragedy of the Chicago Fire to the streets of New York and finally to the wild, dangerous coast of Ireland. Is Daniel merely using Morgan for his own deceptions? Or is she right to listen with her heart?

"A rousing tale...impeccably researched." Shirl Henke, author of The Texas Viscount

"The talented Barbara Scott has crafted an engaging, heartwarming romance in Listen With Your Heart. If you love a story with a charming Irish hero, an intrepid heroine and a wee bit of mystery, don't miss this one!"
Carol Carson, author of Fortune's Treasure

"Once I started it, I couldn't wait to finish it. Great story, very well told." Rosina LaFata, author of Double Destiny

"He's out! Finished. He'll never work in my theater again." Clive Faraday grabbed Morgan by the collar and shook her free of the silken rainbow that surrounded her. "I swear I'll have him blackballed in every respectable house in the country. Opening night! He picks opening night of all nights."

One foot still tangled in the knotted, magician's scarves that had betrayed and humiliated her father, Morgan ducked the wild swing of Faraday's other arm and stumbled. Only his relentless grip kept her from falling. "It wasn't his fault, Mr. Faraday."

Her voice came out so strangled, it startled her and must have surprised Faraday as well. He stared at his clenched knuckles for a moment, then abruptly relinquished his hold, dropping Morgan to her knees. She remained there and let her inborn sense of melodrama take over. Clasping her hands together, she raised them to the man who towered over her. She coughed twice and gasped, "Please, Mr.Faraday, don't blame my father for this. Something went wrong with the scarves. It won't happen again, I promise."

Faraday cleared his throat and edged away from her. "He'll never have the opportunity. Not when I have him arrested for public indecency!"

"Arrested?" Panic brought unexpected, real tears to Morgan's eyes, but she had enough of the actor's soul to know she must milk them to enhance her act. Catching up her skirt, she groveled after Faraday on her knees. "Oh, please, no. It was an accident. I...I must have got the rigging of the scarves all mixed up, or else his trousers wouldn't have dropped the way they did. My father would never have-"

"Sure and it's a fine, fearsome ogre you make, Faraday," a gently reproving voice with a touch of a brogue in it interrupted. "Tell me, do you plan to grind the poor child 'neath your heel?"

"What?" Faraday roared and swung to face the man who mocked him. "Oh, it's you, Connolly. This is none of your affair. You're on in three minutes."

"Well, maybe I am, and maybe I'm not. The sight of a great bully such as you wielding his might over a poor, defenseless young lass is a mighty distraction."

Was that a wink Daniel Connolly cast in her direction or did she imagine it? Morgan knelt up straight and scrubbed her sleeve across her tear-streaked face.

"A distraction that can blow all thought of singing clear out of a man." Daniel continued. "I believe I can hear the chill it casts upon my throat right now, can you?"

Whether or not Faraday heard it, Morgan could see the definite chill cast upon the theater manager's face. Daniel Connolly's threat had more effect than all her begging. If the great Daniel Connolly did not appear upon his stage tonight, his audience would clamor for a refund. And the shame of the Victoria Theatre presenting a magician who could not pull a scarf out of his sleeve without dropping his trousers would be nothing compared to failing to present the long-awaited, first midwest appearance of the world-renowned tenor.

"Get up, get up, child." Faraday took Morgan's elbow and jacked her to her feet. "You're giving Mr.Connolly the wrong impression. It's a trivial matter, after all." He raked the scarves into a bundle and shoved them into her arms so that only the tip of her nose and her eyes peeped above the heap of colors.

"Then Papa's not dismissed?" she asked, forgetting her desolate act too quickly. She saw the start of a smile tickle at the corners of Daniel Connolly's sternly-set mouth.

"I'll take that up later with your father. Now, run along with you. We're delaying Mr.Connolly from his preparations."

"Yes, sir." Juggling the mass of slithery scarves like so many silken snakes, she darted up the stairs. Halfway up, she halted and smiled down at her savior who had already stepped toward the wing to make his entrance. "And thank you, Mr.Connolly," she whispered, but the words were lost in the silk and the music and the applause.

Rupert Gable, Legendary Lord of Legerdemain, snored in thunderous bursts, filling the air of the tiny room with the sour smell of whiskey. The trousers that had caused his disgrace were still bunched around his knees. Though the appalled audience had seen them drop to his ankles less than an hour ago, here in the privacy of his room, he could manage to get them no further before collapsing in a stupor. He had wrestled his waistcoat until it became tangled at his cuffs, then he surrendered to it as well. Defeated, he lay crumpled on his cot, a jumble of shabby black wool splashed with a velvet cape so frayed that the red satin lining peeked through all around the hem.

"Papa, I talked with Mr. Faraday. He said maybe we could work something out about the performance today." Morgan unbuttoned her father's cuffs and gently tugged at his waistcoat until it was free. "The lighting was so spotty, I don't think the audience really saw what happened. Not past the sixth row anyway." She removed his shoes and trousers and tucked the cape around him.

His snoring began again, louder until it all but drowned out the haunting voice that rose from the stage. Morgan brushed and folded her father's costume and lay it in the trunk open at the foot of the cot. She gathered the scarves and tossed them in, followed by the other tools of his trade, all the tricks and illusions, too intricate for him to decipher: a set of golden rings that came apart but never fit together again, a bouquet of flowers that refused to become a wand once more- not in his fumbling fingers, not with his faulty memory.

It seemed the only magic Rupert Gable would ever master was to make their small hoard of rent or grocery money vanish, no matter how clever Morgan's hiding place.

"If you would only act again, Papa," she'd often pleaded with him. "That's where your true magic lies."

"Ah, but the theater is not what it was, my dear, when your mother and I used to-. Alas, no one lives who can write the parts for an actor of my talents. The words that pass for drama these days clog my brain and stick in my throat. They do not dance trippingly over the tongue as they once did."

In truth, he had not the mind to memorize them as he had in the old days, not now, when he sometimes had difficulty remembering the street on which they lived or recalling his only daughter's name when he bid her good night.

With one broad sweep, Morgan cleared the dressing table of its bottles and jars of make-up and hair tonic, its brushes and combs and mirrors. More failed magic. Like the magic that once was the great acting couple, Rupert and Adelle Gable.

Born in their later years, Morgan was the child they never meant to have, the last mistake in a marriage her mother always meant to flee and never quite managed. Until Morgan was born. Then she could not leave fast enough, to Venice with Paulo, and after him, Gerard in Paris and later, Franz in Antwerp.

Always, the letters fluttered in Adelle's wake. "My darling daughter, Morgan," each one began. And they ended with "Your mother, Adelle," as if she would have another mother she might confuse her with, or that she might forget the name of the woman she had never really met beyond the convenient vacating of her womb fourteen years ago last week.

It was one of those letters that brought about her father's ruin tonight. Unopened and unread, addressed to Morgan, it had still been potent enough poison to make him seek the less painful toxins in whiskey. Stuck in the mirror frame where he'd left it, it dared Morgan to discard it, to burn it to cinders, or rip it to shreds.

Or to open it, devour it, cherish and keep it- as she had all the others. Her fingers trembled as she traced the edges of the envelope and followed the curling letters of her name across the front. "Miss Morgan Gable" in her mother's hand, on vellum touched and held by her mother- as she had never been- perhaps carried in her pocket close to her heart. "My darling daughter, Morgan," it called to her.

From below, Daniel Connolly's voice pierced her consciousness on its sweetest, saddest final note and the thunder of the audience resounded through her feet. "Bravo! Encore! Encore!" they shouted.

Morgan snatched the envelope from the mirror and crushed it in her hand. She stared at her fist for a moment as the applause quieted, and in the expectant hush that followed, she waited for Daniel's voice again.

She shoved the letter deep into her pocket and hurried from the room. High above the stage, amid the riggings and the cables, she found a perch on the catwalk that allowed her to see the burnished gold of Daniel Connolly's head, his broad, silk-clad shoulders, and his hands, reaching, imploring, expressing all the emotion carried in his voice. She did not know the meaning of the Italian words he sang, only that they must come from a heart as lonely and broken as hers.

From this high sanctuary, Morgan imagined that he sang only to her. Neither the hundreds filling the audience tonight nor Daniel's wife who waited in the wings could rob her of that joy tonight. Those hands were reaching out to Morgan, and that voice beseeched her alone to understand and heal him of his sorrow. The sadness in his voice shuddered through her, and she accepted it, nestled in her soul beside her own.

A tear slipped down her cheek and then another. So involved in the performance was she that she did not notice the two men who rumbled up the stairs to her father's room. It was Rupert's confused and strangely-muffled bellowing that jolted her to her feet.

And it was the sound of the scuffle, followed by an alarming silence that sent her racing toward the disturbance. Their trunk was already on the landing blocking the doorway. She squeezed past it and shoved through the door. Inside were the two bruisers who usually guarded the box office for Faraday. Her father slumped in a stupor in one man's arms while another struggled to get his rubbery legs into the trousers she had laid out for him.

"How dare you hurt my father!" Morgan punched her fist into the side of the man who supported Rupert and clawed at his stranglehold around her father's chest. "You're holding him too tight. Let him go. He can't breathe!" she yelled at him.

With a quick jerk of his elbow, he caught Morgan on the cheek and sent her tottering backward. She screamed in frustration as she fell.

"Shut her up, Douglas. Ain't we been told to keep this whole thing quiet?" the man hissed at his partner.

"Can't ye see I got my hands full here, Jack?" Douglas wrestled with Rupert's legs, trying to shove them into his trousers. Just as he jammed one leg in, the other crumpled at the knee. "Hold him up, would ye? Can't ye keep his damn knees straight?"

Morgan took advantage of their bumbling to scramble up behind Jack and clamp her arms around his leg. Before he could shake her off, she bit him behind the knee.

"Arrrgh! Why, you little bitch!" Jack hollered as he dropped Rupert and grabbed her by the hair. He dragged Morgan to her feet and, with one arm, pinned both of her arms to her sides. He raised a wide palm to clamp over her mouth. Douglas and Rupert toppled in a tangled heap on the floor. Douglas cursed and her father moaned.

"Let me go!" she squeaked against Jack's salty palm with what little air she managed to gulp. "I'll dress him and we'll leave. Just don't hurt him anymore."

"Let her go, Jack," came Clive Faraday's voice from the door. "I want them out of here before Connolly comes off stage."

Jack released her and she staggered to her father. Finding him to be relatively unharmed, she launched herself at Faraday.

"Is this how you settle things, Mr. Faraday? By throwing us into the street? What about the contract you signed, an act presented, and money owed?"

"My father is not a fool. And when his many friends in the theater hear of the way the Victoria refuses payment on duly performed acts, you won't get another performer to set foot on your stage. I believe I'll start by informing Mr.Connolly of your conniving." She pushed past him toward the door.

"Stop! Catch her," Faraday ordered his guards. But she was all the way to the middle of the catwalk before they followed.

"Well, should I do it, Mr.Faraday?" she whispered loud enough for him to hear over "Green Grow the Lilacs." She cupped her hands around her mouth and leaned over the railing. "Oh, Mr. Con-"

Daniel Connolly smiled behind the cover of his sheet music. His wife Helene was on the verge of a small tantrum, her third of the day. She rifled through her wardrobe, tossing out petticoats, fussing over a skirt that was wrinkled, or a spot on a favorite shirtwaist. Her fretting distracted him, as she probably intended, but no more so than the sight of her, fresh from her nap and less than half-dressed. When she sashayed past him for the fourth time, setting his senses astir with the trailing fragrance of wild jasmine, he decided to surrender.

"I don't want to disturb you from your music," she replied with an edge of petulance in her voice.

"It's all right. I'll not be usin' this song anyway. It doesn't seem to hold my attention. Come here."

"Well, if you think you can manage without pawing me. Otherwise, I'll call Gertie."

On the verge of caressing her, Daniel jerked his hand back from Helene's milky skin. He bent his rebellious fingers to the task of lacing her corset. "God help me, Helene, when will I ever be done with lovin' you?"

Her laughter was light and quick and burned in his ears like acid vapor. Puffing her lips out with a weary sigh, Helene spoke to him as she might a child who had taxed her patience. "Oh, Danny, when did you let this marriage of convenience get away from you?"

"Poor Daniel. It must be all those romantic notions you get from the songs you sing. You know I have no heart to give."

She shook her head at him and went in search of her stockings. "I've never been one of those foolish girls who swoon over a handsome face or beautiful voice. Surely you get enough adulation from your audience. Why would you want it from me?"

"And love is not what I want from you, Danny. If I'd known your intentions, I'd never have married you."

"And you'd have been hauled off t'jail with the rest of the Fenians except for the convenient alibi of our marriage. You'd have preferred prison, or worse, to bein' loved by me?"

She shrugged. "It would never have gone that far. Carew would have protected me. Or Michael Flynn. The Fenians take care of their own."

"The Fenian Brotherhood had all they could do to button their trousers and cover their arses after that fiasco in Canada. Tryin' to invade a whole blame country with a mere handful o'men. And you'll remember, Carew was the first to bolt with Flynn tailin' close behind."

One hand on her hip, she picked up a hairbrush and stabbed the air with it to drive home her point. "Someone betrayed them, or the invasion might have worked. If only I could have found out who-"

"And got yourself killed in the process?" He saw from the defiant look in her eye that the possibility had occurred to her. He shuddered to realize that it might not have been an unwelcome one. "Martyrdom for the freedom of Ireland, Lenna? Is that what I prevented by forcin' you to marry me?"

"There are all kinds of martyrs, Danny," she said sourly. "It's the living ones that make it hard for the rest of us petty mortals."

"A divorce? Don't be silly. A divorce would be even more inconvenient than this marriage."

"You'll come to the end of my patience one o'these days, Helene, and I'll be gone."

"Oh, I don't think so, Danny. Not until I'm done with you. I've seen to that. And we both know you wouldn't leave Ronan, or attempt to take a son from his mother." Clicking her tongue at him, she mocked his scowl with a pouting imitation. "Danny, Danny, Danny, what am I going to do with you? You're as hopeless a cause as any other I've seen." She ruffled her fingers through his hair and kissed him soundly.

Daniel decided he had nothing to lose by trying. "Tell Carew you're quittin' the Brotherhood."

"Why wait? You're too good for them. You've always been. Get out while there's still time. The Fenian Brotherhood is dead, Helene. But like true Irishmen, they're all too enthralled with the Wake to end it by givin' the corpse a decent burial. They're nothin' but a bunch of thick-headed Micks. And that includes Carew and your precious Michael Flynn, too"

Gertie knocked and entered with her freshly pressed petticoats and gown. Helene let her dress her in silence while Daniel watched. "He is not my precious Michael Flynn," she said when Gertie left the room at last. "He never has been."

She smiled and nodded her head as if the idea amused her. "Maybe I shall quit tonight. I've a meeting with Carew after the performance anyway." She stood and placed her hat atop her curls, adjusting it to the tilt she preferred and pinning it there. Then she let him knock it all off kilter again with a goodbye kiss. "Don't wait up for me."

At 9:30, Daniel decided he would meet Helene at the theater. He was surprised to see the marquis already dark and only a few stragglers left from the audience that always packed the house when Helene played in "Li'l Bo Peep."

The stage manager met him at her dressing room door when he arrived. "I'm sorry, Mr.Connolly, but you just missed her. We had to cut the shepherds' drinking song in the second act. The temperance ladies complained and threatened a boycott. That made us a bit short, but what can you do? Better hurry on home. She's probably there and waiting for you now."

But Helene was not in their room when Daniel returned to the hotel. He paced the floor until eleven, stopping for long moments to gaze out the window at the slumbering city and the eerie red glow that smeared across the western sky.

"Connolly, are you awake? Open up! It's about Helene. Oh, God, hurry!" Michael Flynn beat furiously on the door.

"What is it?" Daniel jerked the door open and the man stumbled in. He was covered with soot from his hat to his boots. "Where is she?"

"The fire, man. Haven’t you heard about the fire? I took her to the Westside to see Carew. Then, while I was waitin’, I thought, what harm would it do to go on down to the corner and have a bit of a drink? I swear I was only gone from the place a few minutes. It all happened so fast. Those houses are like tinder. And the fire- it just exploded over our heads and rained down on us in the street. Like it was the end of the world. Like it was hell.”

Daniel grabbed Flynn by the lapels and shook him. "Stop your blatherin’, man, and tell me where she is!"

"I couldn't find her! I tried to get back inside, but I couldn’t get close. We’ve lost her, Danny. Oh, God, we've lost her!"

"You left her? Alone? If she’s hurt, if one hair on her head- I swear to God, I’ll kill you for it! Take me there. We have to find her."

"Don’t tell me that. Unless you want to die right now. Don’t tell me it’s no use."

Morgan had the papers spread all over the parlor floor. The Great Chicago Fire recreated in words and illustrations and maps lay scattered across the faded Abusson rug.

"Wind whips flames as homeless flee devastation." "Riverside business district laid waste." "300 killed; 90,000 homeless." Morgan crawled among the papers with her sheers, searching. "Actress Helene Bennett Among Victims." She’d found the first tiny article on a back page corner of the Times. The only mention of Daniel was "wife of famed tenor, Daniel Connolly."

She went out and got all the papers that day. It was in the Tribune that she found the whole story.

Helene Bennett Connolly is listed among the victims of the Chicago fire. She was reported killed when a building in which she was visiting collapsed. Her husband, renowned tenor Daniel Connolly, was found wandering the burned-out streets in a daze the next morning. He was taken to a Chicago hospital where he is being treated for lung inflammation, burns on his face and hands, exhaustion, and traumatic shock. Doctors refuse to confirm rumors that Connolly's voice may be irreparably damaged by the quantities of smoke he inhaled while apparently attempting to rescue his wife.

The papers were filled with news of the fire over the next six days. Now the headlines declared the Great Fire officially extinguished, and the stories were of recovery and plans to rebuild. But there was nothing more about Daniel Connolly or his wife.

How could they do that- break your heart with a story then forget it, and never let you know the end of it? Morgan was sure she had missed it somehow, despite her careful searching. So the papers blanketed the room, and she crawled over them once more.

"Morgan Jane Gable, what have you done to this room?" Camilla Browne shrieked as she entered the parlor. "Where is your mind to make such a mess when you know we have a client coming this afternoon? And why aren’t you dressed? Didn't you see the clothing I laid out for you? And look at you, you’re like some street urchin with your hair all wild and your face all covered with ink smudges!" Camilla puckered her wide mouth in disgust. "And just what do you think this filthy newsprint is doing to my rug? Why this rug once graced the salon of a Fifth Avenue mansion!" Camilla began snatching the papers from the floor.

Ignoring her as she usually did, Camilla crumpled the papers she had gathered and stuffed them in the empty ash can on the hearth. Morgan plucked them out again as soon as Camilla's back was turned.

Camilla walked to the archway between the front and back parlors, fussing with the red velvet portieres that divided them. She pulled them closed, cutting the light in half. When she turned and saw Morgan standing in the middle of the room with her bundle of papers, she jumped. "Why are you still here?"

"What?" Camilla squawked. "Such impudence! Hurry along and get dressed. And you can expect your father will hear about this."

"Complete with the usual embellishments, no doubt. Would it be any worse if I told you I’ve decided not to participate in your little charade tonight?"

Camilla heaved a great sigh. "Oh, how tiresome. Must we have this argument every time? Have you ever won?"

"And has it ever been as bad as you imagined? Haven’t you said yourself that a truly honest person couldn’t possibly be fooled by trickery?"

"Then what harm can a little smoke and mirrors do? Run along and get ready. Or should I end the discussion as I always do?"

Now it was Morgan’s turn to sigh. "I know, Camilla. 'This house has two exits to the streets.'" She turned quickly to avoid seeing Camilla’s smile of triumph.

Enticed again by the promise of magic, Rupert Gable had given the last of their money to Camilla Browne to buy a share of her Magic Box, the latest of the countless contraptions he thought would bring them fame and riches beyond their wildest dreams.

But Morgan had quickly discovered what her father refused to see. Rather than selling him magic, Camilla was buying a shill to draw the gullible in so she could relieve them of their money. And with all his dithered charm and vague sense of reality, Rupert was born for the role.

The Box itself was a deceptively simple collection of cables, gears, mirrors, and curtains. In daylight, it looked like some mad inventor’s nightmare. But in the shadows of evening, with the right combination of smoke and suggestion, the Box had the power to rob the body of substance so that shape became spirit.

Morgan soon discovered that her father’s bargain with Camilla included her as well. Over the months that followed, she was called upon a number of times. Once to help a nouveau riche matron "discover" her colonial roots by portraying her Mayflower ancestor. Another to erase an old codger’s doubts about the wisdom of marrying a much younger wife by posing as the daughter who waited to be born of that union. At other times to fake any of a dozen visiting spirits to dupe another of Camilla’s unlucky clients.

There was no escaping the woman’s chicanery, not if they wanted a roof over their heads and food to eat. Each time Morgan balked or complained, she received a lecture on her ingratitude and a suggestion where someone with her minimal talents could earn her living. If she dared wonder aloud about the legality of their endeavors, she was reminded that her father was the nominal owner of the Box, and that many witnesses could testify that Morgan seemed a more than willing participant in their presentations.

In her room at the top of the narrow brownstone, Morgan lay her newspapers carefully atop her trunk. She would go through them later and find the information about Daniel she was seeking.

She undressed, scrubbed her face and hands, and clothed herself in the gray riding habit Camilla had laid out as her costume for tonight. Camilla had left a sheaf of notes for her to memorize on her bed. Brushing them aside, Morgan sat down to pull on the polished riding boots that went with the costume. A riding crop and hat completed the ensemble, and Morgan wondered if tonight’s client wanted tips from the spirit world to pick the winners at Belmont. She should read her notes and find out.

But instead, from the bottom drawer of her dresser, under her nightgowns and camisoles, Morgan pulled out the scrapbook she’d kept faithfully for ten years. In the front were the notices for her father's performances, dwindling by the year. In each city, his billing became smaller until you had to squint to find it.

Sprinkled among the playbills and the clippings were the letters from her mother, growing as sparse with the years as Rupert’s bookings. Still, Morgan turned to them now and again, rereading them, seeking the guidance for which Camilla’s clients consulted the spirits. Fake spirits or paper mother. Morgan suspected each source of advice was as reliable as the other.

But it was to the back of the scrapbook that she turned now, to the part she had begun only five years ago. There she kept her collected fragments of Daniel Connolly’s life: play bills and reviews, news items and ticket stubs. That part of the scrapbook was the one that grew steadily, bulging its way back past the middle. Morgan was convinced that when the sections met, when the scraps of Daniel’s life touched the scraps of hers, that they would meet again.

Now, in her heart she knew that somewhere, in Chicago or home again in New York, Daniel Connolly needed her. She turned to the last page and read again the article from the Tribune. She shut out thoughts of what the fire might have done to his beautiful face, his expressive hands, the rich voice that sang through her veins and echoed in her heart.

She closed her eyes and heard again the haunting words that had spun themselves into her memory all those years ago in Dayton. They were from Verdi’s opera, Il Trovatore, "the troubadour." Morgan had learned their meaning since, the words forever linked to the emotions Daniel’s voice had stirred within her.

"Deserto sulla terra.... Alone upon this earth, unlucky in war, nothing but his heart is the hope of the troubadour."

Now, like Morgan, Daniel Connolly truly was alone upon this earth. Il Trovatore. Her troubadour. If only there were something she could do to....

But there was! Why wait for newspaper accounts she may never find? With sudden inspiration, she jumped to her feet and scrabbled through her keepsake drawer until she found the pair of soft kid gloves she had bought for her father last Christmas. She had hidden them away when Rupert opened Camilla’s gift first, also gloves. Soft and fine, these gloves were feather light, a perfect, gentle covering for burned hands.

Forgetting Camilla and her client, the instructions she was supposed to read, everything but the thought that she could bring her troubador something that might ease his pain, Morgan buttoned her cloak over her costume. There was time. She would make time.

Or Camilla could wait. Yes, she relished the idea of making her wait. With the same quiet stealth she used whenever she needed to escape this house, Morgan stole down the back stairs and out.

Morgan knew the way to Daniel’s house as well as she knew the way to her own. How many times had she stood on this very spot gazing at the elegant town house where her troubador lived, imagining the life that went on inside? Always in her dreams,it was she and not Helene Bennett who reigned as queen there, bringing Daniel his tea in the morning, kissing him goodnight.

But that was so long ago now, when she’d had time for girlishness, when she still had the wistful belief that dreams might come true. Now, she was wise enough to know that nothing came of dreams unless you fought for them.

Today, she would not stand glued to this spot across the street, wishing she were inside. Today, she would march right up to that familiar door and ask to be admitted. Her fingers curled around the kid gloves in her pocket for courage, she willed herself to do just that.

The bell sounded loud and intrusive. What if Daniel were sleeping and she woke him? What if he had found the first moment of peace since the fire and she disrupted it? Before the echoes of the bell died away, she had turned and placed her foot on the first step heading back into the street.

The voice, deep and mellow as moonlight, halted her. It was not Daniel’s. Of course, he would have servants to answer the door. She would give her gift to this man and be gone. How foolish to think she might actually see the great Daniel Connolly himself. She turned again to face the butler, who stood in the open doorway.

"Mr. Connolly is not receiving visitors. If you’d care to leave the item with me, I will see that he gets it."

Morgan wondered if he would. Or was this servant a practiced hand at turning away adoring fans who sought to press some trifling token of their devotion on his master? Suddenly, she saw how foolish she had been to think that a wealthy man like Daniel Connolly would need anything from the likes of her. He probably had a whole drawerful of gloves, all finer and softer than these.

"Who is it, York?" came a gravelly voice from inside. She peered past the butler to see the figure standing in the far reaches of the foyer, just out of reach of the light. But it was Daniel, she knew it. She had to take this chance, perhaps the only one she’d ever have.

"Mr. Connolly? I brought you these. I read about your hands and I thought they might help." She held out the gloves, surprised to see her own hand trembling so.

The servant moved to block her, fearing, she supposed, that she might barge into the house just to get a glimpse of her idol. Though she longed to do just that, she did not move.

"Its all right, York. I doubt the lass will bite." She thought she detected a hint of amusement in the rasping lilt of his brogue, but it tore at her heart to hear it altered so from the voice she remembered, the voice that haunted her dreams.

The servant stepped aside just in time for her to see Daniel step into the circle of light cast down from the wall sconses that lit the foyer. A flame-gilded lock of his hair tumbled across his forehead, the slightest crinkle of a smile parted his lips.

But his eyes. His eyes were pools of such deep, infinite sorrow that she caught her breath to see them so. He must have heard her and thought the worst-- that she was repulsed by the burns that marked his face-- for the wisp of a smile faded from his lips, and he stepped back into the darkness.

"Take them from her, York. And get her name so we can thank her," Daniel said, then walked away.

Morgan released the gloves into York’s outstreched hand. "I’m sorry, I didn’t-- "

“Susan Smith,” Morgan mumbled. "It’s not important. He doesn’t know me." Before the tears that threatened could fall, she turned and fled.

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