of these people Rowan knew nothing, and must continue to know nothing, were her promises to Ellie to be kept.
Ellie had remembered herself, even in those painful hours. 'Don't you ever go back there, Rowan. Rowan, remember what you've promised. I burned all the pictures, the letters. Don't go back there, Rowan, this is your home.'
'I know, Ellie. I'll remember.'
And there was no more talk of Stella. Of her brother. Of Aunt Carlotta. Of the picture on the living room wall. Only the shock of the document presented to Rowan after Ellie's death by her executor - a carefully worded pledge, with absolutely no legal validity whatever, that Rowan would never return to the city of New Orleans, never seek to know who her people were.
Yet in those last days, Ellie had spoken of them. Of Stella on the wall.
And because Ellie had talked too of headstones and flowers, of being remembered by her adopted daughter, Rowan had gone north that afternoon to keep that promise, and in the little hillside graveyard, she had met the Englishman with the white hair.
He'd been down on one knee before Ellie's grave as if genuflecting, copying the very names which had only just been cut into the stone.
He seemed a little flustered when she interrupted him, though she had not spoken a word. In fact, for one second he looked at her as if she were a ghost. It had almost made her laugh. After all she was a slightly built woman, in spite of her height, wearing her usual boat clothes - a navy blue peacoat and jeans. And he himself seemed such an anachronism in his elegant three-piece suit of gray tweed.
But that special sense of hers told her he was a man of only good intentions, and when he explained that he had known Ellie's people in New Orleans, she believed him. She felt a great confusion, however. Because she wanted to know these people too.
After all, there was no one left in the world for her but those people! And what an ungrateful and disloyal thought that was.
She said nothing to him as he chatted on in a lovely lyrical British fashion about the heat of the sun and the beauty of this little cemetery. Silence was her inveterate response to things, even when it confused others and made them uncomfortable. And so, out of habit, she gave back nothing, no matter what her inner thoughts. Knew my people? People of my blood?
'My name is Aaron Lightner,' the man said as he placed a small white card in her hand. 'If ever you want to know about the Mayfair family in New Orleans, then by all means, please do give me a call. You can reach me in London, if you like. Please do reverse the charges. I'll be happy to tell you what I know about the Mayfair family. Quite a history, you see.'
Numbing these words, so unintentionally hurtful in her loneliness, so unexpected on this strange deserted little hill. Had she looked helpless, standing there, unable to answer, unable to give the smallest nod in response? She hoped so. She didn't want to think that she seemed cold or rude.
But it was quite out of the question to explain to him that she'd been adopted, taken away from New Orleans the day she was born. Impossible to explain she'd made a promise never to return there, never to seek the slightest knowledge about the woman who'd given her up. Why, she did not even know her mother's first name. And she'd found herself wondering suddenly, did he know it? Know perhaps the identity of the Mayfair who had been pregnant out of wedlock and given away her child?
Best, certainly, not to say anything, lest he carry back with him some gossip. After all, perhaps her real mother had gone on to marry and have seven children. And talk now could only do the woman harm. Over the miles and the years, Rowan felt no malice for this faceless, nameless creature, only a dreary hopeless longing. No, she had not said a word.
He had studied her for a long moment, quite unruffled by her impassive face, her inevitable quiet. When she gave him back the card, he took it graciously, but he held it out tentatively as if he hoped she would take it again.
'I should so like to talk to you,' he continued. 'I should like to discover how life has been for the transplanted one, so