Читать книгу Summer Of Love - Marion Lennox, Amy Woods - Страница 10
ОглавлениеAS CASTLES WENT, it seemed a very grand castle. But then, Finn hadn’t seen the inside of many castles.
Mrs O’Reilly, a little, round woman with tired eyes and capable, worn hands, bustled into the dining room and placed his dinner before him. It was a grand dinner too, roast beef with vegetables and a rich gravy, redolent of red wine and fried onions. It was a dinner almost fit for...a lord?
‘There you are, My Lord,’ the housekeeper said and beamed as she stood back and surveyed her handiwork. ‘Eh, but it’s grand to have you here at last.’
But Finn wasn’t feeling grand. He was feeling weird.
My Lord. It was his title. He’d get rid of it, he decided. Once the castle was sold he didn’t need to use it. He wasn’t sure if he could ever officially abandon it but the knowledge of its existence could stay in the attic at the farm, along with other family relics. Maybe his great-great-great-grandson would like to use it. That was, if there ever was a great-great-great-grandson.
He thought suddenly of Maeve. Would she have liked to be My Lady? Who knew? He was starting to accept that he’d never known Maeve at all. Loyalty, habit, affection—he’d thought they were the basis for a marriage. But over the last twelve months, as he’d thrown himself into improving the farm, looking at new horizons himself, he’d realised it was no basis at all.
But Maeve’s father would have liked this, he thought, staring around the great, grand dining room with a carefully neutral expression. He didn’t want to hurt the housekeeper’s feelings, but dining alone at a table that could fit twenty, on fine china, with silver that spoke of centuries of use, the family crest emblazoned on every piece, with a vast silver epergne holding pride of place in the centre of the shining mahogany of the table... Well, it wasn’t exactly his style.
He had a good wooden table back at his farm. It was big enough for a man to have his computer and bookwork at one end and his dinner at the other. A man didn’t need a desk with that kind of table, and he liked it that way.
But this was his heritage. His. He gazed out at the sheep grazing in the distance, at the land stretching to the mountains beyond, and he felt a stir of something within that was almost primeval.
This was Irish land, a part of his family. His side of the family had been considered of no import for generations but still...some part of him felt a tug that was almost like the sensation of coming home. Finn was one of six brothers. His five siblings had left their impoverished farm as soon as they could manage. They were now scattered across the globe but, apart from trips to the States to check livestock lines, or attending conferences to investigate the latest in farming techniques, Finn had never wanted to leave. Over the years he’d built the small family plot into something he could be proud of.
But now, this place...why did it feel as if it was part of him?
There was a crazy thought.
‘Is everything as you wish?’ Mrs O’Reilly asked anxiously.
He looked at her worried face and he gazed around and thought how much work must have gone into keeping this room perfect. How could one woman do it?
‘It’s grand,’ he told her, and took a mouthful of the truly excellent beef. ‘Wonderful.’
‘I’m pleased. If there’s anything else...’
‘There isn’t.’
‘I don’t know where the woman is. The lawyer said mid-afternoon...’
He still wasn’t quite sure who the woman was. Details from the lawyers had been sparse, to say the least. ‘The lawyer said you’d be expecting me mid-afternoon too,’ he said mildly, attacking a bit more of his beef. Yeah, the epergne was off-putting—were they tigers?—but this was excellent food. ‘Things happen.’
‘Well,’ the woman said with sudden asperity, ‘she’s Fiona’s child. We could expect anything.’
‘You realise I don’t know anything about her. I don’t even know who Fiona is,’ he told her and the housekeeper narrowed her eyes, as if asking, How could he not know? Her look said the whole world should know, and be shocked as well.
‘Fiona was Lord Conaill’s only child,’ she said tersely. ‘His Lady died in childbirth. Fiona was a daughter when he wanted a son, but he gave her whatever she wanted. This would have been a cold place for a child and you can forgive a lot through upbringing, but Fiona had her chances and she never took them. She ran with a wild lot and there was nothing she wanted more than to shock her father. And us... The way she treated the servants... Dirt, we were. She ran through her father’s money like it was water, entertaining her no-good friends, having parties, making this place a mess, but His Lordship would disappear to his club in Dublin rather than stop her. She was a spoiled child and then a selfish woman. There were one too many parties, though. She died of a drug overdose ten years ago, with only His Lordship to mourn her passing.’
‘And her child?’
‘Lord Conaill would hardly talk of her,’ she said primly. ‘For his daughter to have a child out of wedlock... Eh, it must have hurt. Fiona threw it in his face over and over, but still he kept silent. But then he wouldn’t talk about you either and you were his heir. Is there anything else you’ll be needing?’
‘No, thank you,’ Finn said. ‘Are you not eating?’
‘In the kitchen, My Lord,’ she said primly. ‘It’s not my place to be eating here. I’ll be keeping another dinner hot for the woman, just in case, but if she’s like her mother we may never hear.’
And she left him to his roast beef.
For a while the meal took his attention—a man who normally cooked for himself was never one to be ignoring good food—but when it was finished he was left staring down the shining surface of the ostentatious table, at the pouncing tigers on the epergne, at his future.
What to do with this place?
Sell it? Why not?
The inheritance had come out of the blue. Selling it would mean he could buy the farms bordering his, and the country down south was richer than here. He was already successful but the input of this amount of money could make him one of the biggest primary producers in Ireland.
The prospect should make him feel on top of the world. Instead, he sat at the great, grand dining table and felt...empty. Weird.
He thought of Maeve and he wondered if this amount of money would have made a difference.
It wouldn’t. He knew it now. His life had been one of loyalty—eldest son of impoverished farmers, loyal to his parents, to his siblings, to his farm. And to Maeve.
He’d spent twelve months realising loyalty was no basis for marriage.
He thought suddenly of the woman he’d pulled out of the bog. He hoped she’d be safe and dry by now. He had a sudden vision of her, bathed and warmed, ensconced in a cosy pub by a fire, maybe with a decent pie and a pint of Guinness.
He’d like to be there, he thought. Inheritance or not, right now maybe he’d rather be with her than in a castle.
Or not. What he’d inherited was a massive responsibility. It required...more loyalty?
And loyalty was his principle skill, he thought ruefully. It was what he accepted, what he was good at, and this inheritance was enough to take a man’s breath away. Meanwhile the least he could do was tackle more of Mrs O’Reilly’s excellent roast beef, he decided, and he did.
* * *
If she had anywhere else to go, she wouldn’t be here. Here scared her half to death.
Jo was cleaned up—sort of—but she was still wet and she was still cold.
She was sitting on her bike outside the long driveway to Castle Glenconaill.
The castle was beautiful.
But this was no glistening white fairy tale, complete with turrets and spires, with pennants and heraldic banners fluttering in the wind. Instead, it seemed carved from the very land it was built on—grey-white stone, rising to maybe three storeys, but so gradually it gave the impression of a vast, long, low line of battlements emerging from the land. The castle was surrounded by farmland, but the now empty moat and the impressive battlements and the mountains looming behind said this castle was built to repel any invader.
As it was repelling her. It was vast and wonderful. It was...scary.
But she was cold. And wet. A group of stone cottages were clustered around the castle’s main gates but they all looked derelict, and it was miles back to the village. And she’d travelled half a world because she’d just inherited half of what lay before her.
‘This is my ancestral home,’ she muttered and shivered and thought, Who’d want a home like this?
Who’d want a home? She wanted to turn and run.
But she was cold and she was getting colder. The wind was biting. She’d be cold even if her leathers weren’t wet, she thought, but her leathers were wet and there was nowhere to stay in the village and, dammit, she had just inherited half this pile.
‘But if they don’t have a bath I’m leaving,’ she muttered.
Where would she go?
She didn’t know and she didn’t care. There was always somewhere. But the castle was here and all she had to do was march across the great ditch that had once been a moat, hammer on the doors and demand her rights. One hot bath.
‘Just do it,’ she told herself. ‘Do it before you lose your nerve entirely.’
* * *
The massive gong echoed off the great stone walls as if in warning that an entire Viking war fleet was heading for the castle. Finn was halfway through his second coffee and the sound was enough to scare a man into the middle of next week. Or at least spill his coffee. ‘What the...?’
‘It’s the doorbell, My Lord,’ Mrs O’Reilly said placidly, heading out to the grand hall. ‘It’ll be the woman. If she’s like her mother, heaven help us.’ She tugged off her apron, ran her fingers through her permed grey hair, took a quick peep into one of the over-mantel mirrors and then tugged at the doors.
The oak doors swung open. And there was...
Jo.
She was still in her bike gear but she must have washed. There wasn’t a trace of mud on her, including her boots and trousers. Her face was scrubbed clean and she’d reapplied her make-up. Her kohl-rimmed eyes looked huge in her elfin face. Her cropped copper curls were combed and neat. She was smiling a wide smile, as if her welcome was assured.
He checked her legs and saw a telltale drip of water fall to her boots.
She was still sodden.
That figured. How many bikers had spare leathers in their kitbags?
She must be trying really hard not to shiver. He looked back at the bright smile and saw the effort she was making to keep it in place.
‘Good evening,’ she was saying. She hadn’t seen him yet. Mrs O’Reilly was at the door and he was well behind her. ‘I hope I’m expected? I’m Jo Conaill. I’m very sorry I’m late. I had a small incident on the road.’
‘You look just like your mother.’ The warmth had disappeared from the housekeeper’s voice as if it had never been. There was no disguising her disgust. The housekeeper was staring at Jo as if she was something the cat had just dragged in.
The silence stretched on—an appalled silence. Jo’s smile faded to nothing. What the...?
Do something.
‘Good evening to you too,’ he said. He stepped forward, edging the housekeeper aside. He smiled at Jo, summoning his most welcoming smile.
And then there was even more silence.
Jo stared from Mrs O’Reilly to Finn and then back again. She looked appalled.
As well she might, Finn conceded. As welcomes went, this took some beating. She’d been greeted by a woman whose disdain was obvious, and by a man who’d seen her at her most vulnerable. Now she was looking appalled. He thought of her reaction when he’d lifted her, carried her. She’d seemed terrified and the look was still with her.
He thought suddenly of a deer he’d found on his land some years back, a fawn caught in the ruins of a disused fence. Its mother had run on his approach but the fawn was trapped, its legs tangled in wire. It had taken time and patience to disentangle it without it hurting itself in its struggles.
That was what this woman looked like, he thought. Caught and wanting to run, but trapped.
She was so close to running.
Say something. ‘We’ve met before.’ He reached out and took her hand. It was freezing. Wherever she’d gone to get cleaned up, it hadn’t been anywhere with a decent fire. ‘I’m so glad you’re...clean.’
He smiled but she seemed past noticing.
‘You live here?’ she said with incredulity.
‘This is Lord Finn Conaill, Lord of Castle Glenconaill,’ the housekeeper snapped.
Jo blinked and stared at Finn as if she was expecting two heads. ‘You don’t look like a lord.’
‘What do I look like?’
‘A farmer. I thought you were a farmer.’
‘I am a farmer. And you’re an heiress.’
‘I wait tables.’
‘There you go. We’ve both been leading double lives. And now... It seems we’re cousins?’
‘You’re not cousins,’ Mrs O’Reilly snapped, but he ignored her.
‘We’re not,’ he conceded, focusing only on Jo. ‘Just distant relations. You should be the true heir to this whole place. You’re the only grandchild.’
‘She’s illegitimate,’ Mrs O’Reilly snapped and Finn moved a little so his body was firmly between Jo and the housekeeper. What was it with the woman?
‘There’s still some hereabouts who judge a child for the actions of its parents,’ he said mildly, ignoring Mrs O’Reilly and continuing to smile down at Jo. ‘But I’m not one of them. According to the lawyer, it seems you’re Lord Conaill’s granddaughter, marriage vows or not.’
‘And...and you?’ What was going on? She had the appearance of street-smart. She looked tough. But inside...the image of the trapped fawn stayed.
‘My father was the son of the recently deceased Lord Conaill’s cousin,’ Finn told her. He furrowed his brows a little. ‘I think that’s right. I can’t quite get my head around it. So that means my link to you goes back four generations. We’re very distant relatives, but it seems we do share a great-great-grandfather. And the family name.’
‘Only because of illegitimacy,’ Mrs O’Reilly snapped.
Enough. He turned from Jo and faced Mrs O’Reilly square-on. She was little and dumpy and full of righteous indignation. She’d been Lord Conaill’s housekeeper for years. Heaven knew, he needed her if he was to find his way around this pile but right now...
Right now he was Lord Conaill of Castle Glenconaill, and maybe it was time to assume his rightful role.
‘Mrs O’Reilly, I’ll thank you to be civil,’ he said, and if he’d never had reason to be autocratic before he made a good fist of it now. He summoned all his father had told him of previous lords of this place and he mentally lined his ancestors up behind him. ‘Jo’s come all the way from Australia. She’s inherited half of her grandfather’s estate and for now this castle is her home. Her home. I therefore expect you to treat her with the welcome and the respect her position entitles her to. Do I make myself clear?’
There was a loaded silence. The housekeeper tried glaring but he stayed calmly looking at her, waiting, his face impassive. He was Lord of Glenconaill and she was his housekeeper. It was time she knew it.
Jo said nothing. Finn didn’t look back at her but he sensed her shiver. If he didn’t get her inside soon she’d freeze to death, he thought, but this moment was too important to rush. He simply stood and gazed down at Mrs O’Reilly and waited for the woman to come to a decision.
‘I only...’ she started but he shook his head.
‘Simple question. Simple answer. Welcome and respect. Yes or no.’
‘Her mother...’
‘Yes or no!’
And finally she cracked. She took a step back but his eyes didn’t leave hers. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’ It was an autocratic snap. His great-great-grandfather would be proud of him, he thought, and then he thought of his boots and thought: maybe not. But the snap had done what he intended.
She gave a frustrated little nod, she bobbed a curtsy and finally she answered him as he’d intended.
‘Yes, My Lord.’
* * *
What was she doing here? If she had to inherit a castle, why couldn’t she have done it from a distance? She could have told the lawyer to put up a For Sale sign, sell it to the highest bidder and send her a cheque for half. Easy.
Why this insistence that she had to come?
Actually, it hadn’t been insistence. It had been a strongly worded letter from the lawyer saying decisions about the entire estate had to be made between herself and this unknown sort-of cousin. It had also said the castle contained possessions that had been her mother’s. The lawyer suggested that decisions would be easier to make with her here, and the estate could well afford her airfare to Ireland to make those decisions.
And it had been like a siren song, calling her...home?
No, that was dumb. This castle had never been her home. She’d never had a home but it was the only link she had to anyone. She might as well come and have a look, she’d thought.
But this place was like the bog that surrounded it. The surface was enticing but, underneath, it was a quagmire. The housekeeper’s voice had been laced with malice.
Was that her mother’s doing? Fiona? Well, maybe invective was to be expected. Maybe malice was deserved.
What hadn’t been expected was this strong, hunky male standing in the doorway, taking her hand, welcoming her—and then, before her eyes, turning into the Lord of Glenconaill. Just like that. He’d been a solid Good Samaritan who’d pulled her out of the bog. He’d laughed at her—which she hadn’t appreciated, but okay, he might have had reason—and then, suddenly, the warmth was gone and he was every bit a lord. The housekeeper was bobbing a curtsy, for heaven’s sake. What sort of feudal system was this?
She was well out of her depth. She should get on her bike and leave.
But she was cold.
The lawyer had paid for her flight, for two nights’ accommodation in Dublin and for the bike hire—he’d suggested a car or even a driver to meet her, but some things were non-negotiable. Two nights’ accommodation and the bike was the extent of the largesse. The lawyer had assumed she’d spend the rest of her time in the castle, and she hadn’t inherited anything yet. Plus the village had no accommodation and the thought of riding further was unbearable.
So, even if she’d like to ride off into the sunset, she wasn’t in a position to do it.
Plus she was really, really cold.
Finn... Lord of Glenconaill?...was looking at her with eyes that said he saw more than he was letting on. But his gaze was kind again. The aristocratic coldness had disappeared.
His gaze dropped to the worn stone tiles. There was a puddle forming around her boots.
‘I met Miss Conaill down the bog road,’ he said, smiling at her but talking to the housekeeper. ‘There were sheep on the road. Miss Conaill had struck trouble, was off her bike, wet and shaken, and I imagine she’s still shaken.’ He didn’t say she’d been stuck in a bog, Jo thought, and a surge of gratitude made her almost light-headed. ‘I offered to give her a ride but, of course, she didn’t know who I was and I didn’t know who she was. I expect that’s why you’re late, Miss Conaill, and I’m thinking you’re still wet. Mrs O’Reilly, could you run Miss Conaill a hot bath, make sure her bedroom’s warm and leave her be for half an hour? Then there’s roast beef warm in the oven for you.’
His voice changed a little, and she could hear the return of the aristocrat. There was a firm threat to the housekeeper behind the words. ‘Mrs O’Reilly will look after you, Jo, and she’ll look after you well. When you’re warm and fed, we’ll talk again. Meanwhile, I intend to sit in your grandfather’s study and see if I can start making sense of this pile we seem to have inherited. Mrs O’Reilly, I depend on you to treat Jo with kindness. This is her home.’
And there was nothing more to be said. The housekeeper took a long breath, gave an uncertain glance up at...her Lord?...and bobbed another curtsy.
‘Yes, My Lord.’
‘Let’s get your gear inside,’ Finn said. ‘Welcome to Castle Glenconaill, Miss Conaill. Welcome to your inheritance.’
‘There’s no need for us to talk again tonight,’ Jo managed. ‘I’ll have a bath and go to bed.’
‘You’ll have a bath and then be fed,’ Finn said, and there was no arguing with the way he said it. ‘You’re welcome here, Miss Conaill, even if right now it doesn’t feel like it.’
‘Th...thank you,’ she managed and turned to her bike to get her gear.
* * *
If things had gone well from there they might have been fine. She’d find her bedroom, have a bath, have something to eat, say goodnight and go to bed. She’d talk to the lawyer in the morning. She’d sign whatever had to be signed. She’d go back to Australia. That was the plan.
So far, things hadn’t gone well for Jo, though, and they were about to get worse.
She had two bags—her kitbag with her clothes and a smaller one with her personal gear. She tugged them from the bike, she turned around and Finn was beside her.
He lifted the kitbag from her grasp and reached for the smaller bag. ‘Let me.’
‘I don’t need help.’
‘You’re cold and wet and shaken,’ he told her. ‘It’s a wise woman who knows when accepting help is sensible.’
This was no time to be arguing, she conceded, but she clung to her smaller bag and let Finn carry the bigger bag in.
He reached the foot of the grand staircase and then paused. ‘Lead the way, Mrs O’Reilly,’ he told the housekeeper, revealing for the first time that he didn’t know this place.
And the housekeeper harrumphed and stalked up to pass them.
She brushed Jo on the way. Accidentally or on purpose, whatever, but it seemed a deliberate bump. She knocked the carryall out of Jo’s hand.
And the bag wasn’t properly closed.
After the bog, Jo had headed back to the village. She’d have loved to have booked a room at the pub but there’d been a No Vacancies sign in the porch, the attached cobwebs and dust suggesting there’d been no vacancies for years. She’d made do with a trip to the Ladies, a scrub under cold water—no hot water in this place—and an attempt at repair to her make-up.
She’d been freezing. Her hands had been shaking and she mustn’t have closed her bag properly.
Her bag dropped now onto the ancient floorboards of Castle Glenconaill and the contents spilled onto the floor.
They were innocuous. Her toiletries. The things she’d needed on the plane on the way over. Her latest project...
And it was this that the housekeeper focused on. There was a gasp of indignation and the woman was bending down, lifting up a small, clear plastic vial and holding it up like the angel of doom.
‘I knew it,’ she spat, turning to Jo with fury that must have been building for years. ‘I knew how it’d be. Like mother, like daughter, and why your grandfather had to leave you half the castle... Your mother broke His Lordship’s heart, so why you’re here... What he didn’t give her... She was nothing but a drug-addicted slut, and here you are, just the same. He’s given you half his fortune and do you deserve it? How dare you bring your filthy stuff into this house?’
Finn had stopped, one boot on the first step. His brow snapped down in confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Needles.’ The woman held up the plastic vial. ‘You’ll find drugs too, I’ll warrant. Her mother couldn’t keep away from the stuff. Dead from an overdose in the end, and here’s her daughter just the same. And half the castle left to her... It breaks my heart.’
And Jo closed her eyes. Beam me up, she pleaded. Where was a time machine when she needed one? She’d come all this way to be tarred with the same brush as her mother. A woman she’d never met and didn’t want to meet.
Like mother, like daughter... What a joke.
‘I’ll go,’ she said in a voice she barely recognised. She’d sleep rough tonight, she decided. She’d done it before—it wouldn’t kill her. Tomorrow she’d find the lawyer, sign whatever had to be signed and head back to Australia.
‘You’re going nowhere.’ The anger in Finn’s voice made her eyes snap open. It was a snap that reverberated through the ancient beams, from stone wall to stone wall, worthy of an aristocratic lineage as old as time itself. He placed the kitbag he was holding down and took the three steps to where the housekeeper was standing. He took the vial, stared at it and then looked at the housekeeper with icy contempt.
‘You live here?’ he demanded and the woman’s fury took a slight dent.
‘Of course.’
‘Where?’
‘I have an apartment...’
‘Self-contained?’
‘I...yes.’
‘Good,’ he snapped. ‘Then go there now. Of all the cruel, cold welcomes...’ He stared down at the vial and his mouth set in grim lines. ‘Even if this was what you thought it was, your reaction would be unforgivable, but these are sewing needles. They have a hole at the end, not through the middle. Even if they were syringes, there’s a score of reasons why Miss Conaill would carry them other than drug addiction. But enough. You’re not to be trusted to treat Miss Conaill with common courtesy, much less kindness. Return to your apartment. I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning but not before. I don’t wish to see you again tonight. I’ll take care of Miss Conaill. Go, now.’
‘You can’t,’ the woman breathed. ‘You can’t tell me to go.’
‘I’m Lord of Glenconaill,’ Finn snapped. ‘I believe the right is mine.’
Silence. The whole world seemed to hold its breath.
Jo stared at the floor, at her pathetic pile of toiletries and, incongruously, at the cover of the romance novel she’d read on the plane. It was historical, the Lord of the Manor rescuing and marrying his Cinderella.
Who’d want to be Cinderella? she’d thought as she read it, and that was what it felt like now. Cinderella should have options. She should be able to make the grand gesture, sweep from the castle in a flurry of skirts, say, Take me to the nearest hostelry, my man, and run me a hot bath...
A hot bath. There was the catch. From the moment Finn had said it, they were the words that had stuck in her mind. Everything else was white noise.
Except maybe the presence of this man. She was trying not to look at him.
The hero of her romance novel had been...romantic. He’d worn tight-fitting breeches and glossy boots and intricate neckcloths made of fine linen.
Her hero had battered boots and brawny arms and traces of copper in his deep brown hair. He looked tanned and weathered. His green eyes were creased by smiles or weather and she had no way of knowing which. He looked far too large to look elegant in fine linen and neckcloths, but maybe she was verging on hysterics because her mind had definitely decided it wanted a hero with battered boots. And a weathered face and smiley eyes.
Especially if he was to provide her with a bath.
‘Go,’ he said to Mrs O’Reilly and the woman cast him a glance that was half scared, half defiant. But the look Finn gave her back took the defiance out of her.
She turned and almost scuttled away, and Jo was left with Finn.
He didn’t look at her. He simply bent and gathered her gear back into her bag.
She should be doing that. What was she doing, staring down at him like an idiot?
She stooped to help, but suddenly she was right at eye level, right...close.
His expression softened. He smiled and closed her bag with a snap.
‘You’ll be fine now,’ he said. ‘We seem to have routed the enemy. Let’s find you a bath.’
And he rose and held out his hand to help her rise with him.
She didn’t move. She didn’t seem to be able to.
She just stared at that hand. Big. Muscled. Strong.
How good would it be just to put her hand in his?
‘I forgot; you’re a wary woman,’ he said ruefully and stepped back. ‘Very wise. I gather our ancestors have a fearsome reputation, but then they’re your ancestors too, so that should make me wary as well. But if you can cope with me as a guide, I’ll try and find you a bedroom. Mind, I’ve only just found my own bedroom but there seem to be plenty. Do you trust me to show you the way?’
How dumb was she being? Really dumb, she told herself, as well as being almost as offensive as the woman who’d just left. But still she didn’t put her hand in his. Even though her legs were feeling like jelly—her feet were still icy—she managed to rise and tried a smile.
‘Sorry. I...thank you.’
‘There’s no need to thank me,’ he said ruefully. ‘I had the warm welcome. I have no idea what bee the woman has in her bonnet but let’s forget her and find you that bath.’
‘Yes, please,’ she said simply and thought, despite her wariness, if this man was promising her a bath she’d follow him to the ends of the earth.
