Chapter 37: The File

Returning to the townhouse, Remington and Laura decided they should gather in the sunroom. The large, round table in the room, with comfortable, cushioned chairs, would allow papers to be moved with ease between them all. As it was nearing tea time, Remington delayed joining the group until he brewed up a batch of tea, and arranging it, along with all the accompaniments including biscuits, on a tray. After everyone was seated and served he took his seat, at the right of Laura and to the left of the Earl.

"I imagine you've asked yourselves how it is Daniel was unaware Hadley was at Ashford?" the Earl began, opening the file.

"The question had crossed our minds, yes," Remington confirmed. The Earl slid a photograph in his direction.

"This is the man I knew as Sean Hadley. I'd only a description to provide Daniel. Nathan located this one amongst Roselli's file photos with the MI-5," the Earl explained.

Picking up the photograph, Remington's brows rose as he turned towards Laura's so she could view the picture as well. The man in the picture bore little resemblance to the Roselli they knew. Thirty pounds lighter, his body carried none of the beefy bulk on his frame, so prevalent when he'd been following them. Gone was the curly, light brown hair which ran to the long side. Instead, his hair was considerably darker, shading towards the sable of the Earl's hair, and it was shorn much shorter, while worn in a manner more befitting a businessman. With the difference in weight, his cheekbones were more prominent, his face, overall, more angular, emphasizing a straight, narrow, aristocratic nose. Only the cleft in his chin and the overly full bottom lip continued to stand out. Certainly, if only provided with a verbal description of the man, it wouldn't match the Roselli who'd tagged along with them to Ashford.

"Well, I can certainly understand why Daniel didn't recognize him," Laura voiced the thought aloud. Their eyes followed the Earl's as he removed a sheet of paper from the file, and handed this to Remington. Laura leaned in to look at it as well.

"Mr. Sinclair –

The decision to write this missive has been a difficult one and I have prayed heartily over the matter. Despite your misdeeds…

Remington rubbed at his mouth with a hand, while Laura's mouth rounded in an 'O'. The letter from Mary Francis O'Connell but written in Daniel's own hand. He'd recognize the elegant script anywhere.

"As I've said before, the copy sent to you was written by Catherine's hand. Daniel drafted the original. Details, he said. The art of the con is in the details." Seeing the stricken look on Remington's face, he had the decency to look chagrined. "I'm sorry, s-…. Mr. Steele." Remington waggled a hand in the air, acknowledging the apology.

"Go on," he managed, looking to the file again.

Catherine reached out and placed her hand on the Earl's arm, drawing his gaze to her.

"Tommy, it's getting along in the day and we still need to look in on Aphrodite as she may foal this evening. Why don't we leave the file with Mr. and Mrs. Steele. I'm quite sure it will be in safe hands," Catherine suggested, acknowledging Laura's look of gratitude with a minute nod of her head.

"Aphrodite. Yes, of course." He glanced at his watch for good measure, then stood to pull out his wife's chair. "I'm afraid I hadn't realized the afternoon has passed so quickly. We really must take our leave. We'll never hear the end of it from Hollingsworth, should Aphrodite bring her foal into this world with us absent."

Remington and Laura stood to escort the Earl and Countess to the door, confirming, once more, they'd be at King's biomedical lab at eight the following morning. After a round of handshakes, the couple departed, leaving Laura and Remington alone.

Remington flopped down on the couch in the parlor, laying his head against the back of it and closing his eyes. Looking from him to the stairs, Laura went with her instincts and ascended a flight upwards to retrieve the file from the sunroom table. Resisting the urge to peek inside to see what more was contained within, she returned to the parlor. Stepping out of her heels, she sat down next to Remington, curling her legs to the side.

"Are you up to finishing this?" she asked. Cracking open an eye he surveyed the file in her hand, then with a stroke of a hand through his hair, lifted his head and nodded.

"Let's see what else we've got," he agreed. Opening the cover of the file, her hand stilled before reaching for what lay on top after the letter and Roselli's picture had been removed. Removing the picture from the file, she turned it over.

"February 17, 1952. Loch Lomond."

"Unless I'm mistaken, it's a picture of the Earl and Aislin on their wedding day," she forewarned, before handing him the photograph and laying her head on his shoulder so she could view it as well. Remington's hand covered his mouth as he stared at the picture before him.

As the Earl had previously described, Aislin was nothing if not petite, the top of her head falling a several inches short of the man's shoulder, the simple white dress she wore emphasizing her petite frame. Her thick, straight, black hair, cascaded down her back to her waist and even in the black and white picture, it was clear her eyes were of the lightest of color. The fairness of her skin only served to emphasize the high cheekbones infused with color in her happiness – cheekbones he saw each day when he stood before the mirror to shave. Pulling the picture closer to him, Remington spied the light smattering of freckles at her hairline. She was, indeed, ethereal in her beauty and youth. But even more so, in the young woman peering back at him, he saw his eyes and nose… and yes, even the smattering of freckles which would appear at his hairline after a day in the sun.

"She's beautiful," Laura breathed, checking the impulse to point out the many parts of Aislin that Laura saw in him.

"She certainly is that," he agreed quietly. "They look… happy, don't they?" Laura tipped her head back to look at him.

"They look like they loved each other very much." His lips lifted in a wistful smile.

"Aislin? In Gaelic? The name means vision or dream," he shared, before shaking his head to clear it. "What else awaits, eh?" She selected the next paper in the file and handed it to him. "Their wedding license then. Aislinn Brigit Donohoe, born January 30, 1934. She was almost a child herself."

"Yet had an unmistakable strength of mind," Laura observed quietly. "First, moving to a new country to take the burden off her family, then standing up against anyone who would make her son feel less than worthy, cherished. A strength maybe passed on to a son, who also set out on his own at a young age?" she mused. Remington let out a laugh-like puff of air at the audacity of her statement. In her head, she'd already concluded the young woman in question was his mother.

"Mmmm, we'll see," he evaded, then held out his hand for the next. At her hesitation, he turned his head, only for her to shrug her shoulders.

"Third time's the charm?" she asked lightly, as she slipped the last sheet of paper contained with the file into his hand. He sighed deeply after only a glance.

"Amazing, isn't it? Not a year ago, I'd not a single bit of proof of my existence… outside, of course, what you'd created for me. Now, it's veritably raining birth certificates," he laughed sharply. "Sean James Fitzgerald, born August 27, 1952, London, England. Mother: Aislin Brigit Donohoe, Father: Thomas James Fitzgerald III." Handing her back the birth certificate, he sat up and leaned against elbows planted on knees. Cupping his chin, he turned his head to look at her wearily. "So which is it, eh? Am I Baby Duffy or Sean James Fitzgerald III, hmmm?"

"Maybe you're a little bit of both?" she asked, philosophically. "I see some of the Earl's mannerisms in you, and you've already found a common ground in your enjoyment of cooking. I see Daniel's optimism, his joie de vivre, his sense of style and impeccable manners in you. Maybe you're a combination of the man who sired you and the man that took you in?" Leaning slightly forward, she stroked her fingers through his hair. "It's a pretty potent combination, if you ask me." His lips lifted in a lopsided smile at the compliment, making her heart skip a beat.

"It is, is it?" She could only roll her eyes at him.

"Don't let it go to your head," she warned.

"Never," he hummed with a lift of his brows, the leaned in to kiss her, only to watch as she slipped away. Placing the birth certificate back in the file, she pressed into his hands the last two items contained within: a sealed envelope with "Harry" scrawled across the front by an elegant hand and a second envelope, yellowing with age, inscribed with "Thomas". Sensing he'd need to be alone when he read them, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his jaw.

"I'm going to go soak in the tub. You know where to find me when you're ready," she told him, then bussed him on the forehead and left the room.

Remington had stewed, then paced, then prowled and then paced some more. He'd sorted through everything in the file again, retrieved another cup of tea, unloaded the dishwasher, then strolled through the first floor of the house, letters in hand, still unopened. Finally, after forty-five minutes of accomplishing not a thing, he placed letters in file, and took it all upstairs to the master suite.

Walking into the bedroom, a smile lifted his lips and his tension evaporated as he took in Laura, curled up around his pillow, sound asleep. Given she was still fully dressed, he surmised she'd never made it to the bath. She'd changed the sheets on the bed, as evidenced by the laundry tossed into the corner of the room and the comforter pulled up and smoothed out.

Sunday. The word passed through his mind. When left to their own devices, Sunday was their lazy day. Breakfast in bed for Laura. A drive up the coast, a walk along the beach, a picnic in the park. A movie for them… or him and a book for her. Time whiled away in the hammock cat napping. A soak in the hot tub. Playtime in the bedroom – that thought made him waggle his brows to himself. Him, time puttering around in the kitchen, her time at the keys of the piano. Sundays were their time to recharge their batteries, so to speak, to relax, to fully reconnect.

Three Sundays, he recognized as he sat down on the side of the bed next to her, and placed the file on the bedside table. For three Sunday's straight they'd missed their routine. It was no wonder Laura decided to steal a nap rather than bathe. Of course, he mused, he might be somewhat responsible for the need for an extra wink or two. He'd been restless the night before, and she a more than willing participant. A couple of hours after they dozed off, he made long, lazy strokes down her back intending only to wake her enough to shift her next to him. But when she'd lifted her head, a devilish glint had sparkled in her eyes and with a lift of the brow and a sultry little laugh, her lips had locked firmly over his collarbone. In no time, he'd been awake, fully aroused and clutching at whatever his hands could reach as she exploited one erotic zone after another. The second time, he'd been the culprit, and as the sun had risen, they'd made love slowly, lazily, while still caught up in the vestiges of sleep, every caress feeling a bit like a dream.

Well, no man can call me a fool, he thought to himself, as he saw the possibility of capturing a bit of their Sunday's before him. Standing, he circled the bed then stretched out across it, before pulling his pillow from her arms. Scooting closer, he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers until she opened bleary eyes to look at him. Holding out his arm in an offering, she moved to him, tucking herself into his side and laying her head on his chest beneath his shoulder.

"The letters?" she managed, even in her sleep stupor.

"Later. Together," he answered on a hum, as he wrapped an arm around her, the other hand coming to a rest on an arm slung across his chest.

"Alright," she murmured then drifted back to sleep. Closing his eyes, he shortly followed.

Although Laura might not be able to cook worth a salt, she could order in like a pro. Having left Remington sleeping soundly upstairs, she fingered her way through the yellow pages until she found a Chinese restaurant that would deliver to Hanover Terrace. While on hold, she glanced through the newspaper, her finger landing on an item as she nodded her head. Once the order was placed, she dove into the shower while waiting on the delivery man, then donned a pink sweater and pair of jeans before pulling back her hair in a simple pony tail. Resisting the urge to take the file with her downstairs, she instead fished the most recent novel she was reading out of her overnight bag then retired to the couch in the parlor.

There Remington found her when he descended the stairs, hair slightly mussed, and face stubbled with five o'clock shadow. She allowed her eyes to roam his lean frame from head-to-toe, then back again. For all intents and purposes he appeared relaxed… and oh so scrumptious. He chuckled, lips lifting in a lopsided grin when he noticed her appraisal. Leaning down when he reached her, he brushed his lips against her cheek.

"Had you stayed in bed, we could have addressed that particular… hunger, love," he teased with a waggle of his brows, "But since you didn't, we'll have to settle on dinner instead. I was thinking I'd try my hand at the veal you so enjoyed in North Carolina," he suggested as he walked towards the kitchen.

"Actually, I had something else in mind," she announced, setting her book on the armrest of the couch.

"Oh?" He turned around to look at her, curiosity alight on his face.

"I ordered in Chinese. It should be here anytime. And the Maltese Falcon is playing at the Regent Street Cinema at seven-thirty." Returning to the couch, he sat down and picked up one of her feet, his fingers beginning to massage. He was inordinately pleased by her plans.

"In the mood for a little Bogart are you?" Shifting to a more comfortable position against the armrest, she raised her brows at him.

"In the mood for a little bit of home," she corrected.

"I was thinking much the same, earlier," he confessed. "Do you realize we haven't seen Frances, Donald and the children since Christmas?" She frowned, as she thought backwards, then grimaced.

"I'll never hear the end of it from Frances," she moaned.

"Hmmmm," he hummed his agreement. "A little bribery may be in order, to smooth the way. We might want to consider picking up a few trinkets before we depart London."

"I can already hear it. 'Now, Laura, it's not me I'm concerned about but the children. You promised Danny you'd teach him to pitch a slider, and baseball tryouts are already over and Remington promised to give Mindy some pointers on the watercolor she was going into the art contest, and that's over too. And poor little Laurie Beth, she doesn't understand when people just seem to disappear'," Laura parodied Frances to near perfection, making him laugh aloud. "It's not funny! She won't say a word to you." Her complaint only drew another chuckle from him.

"There are some benefits to being the favored in-law," he bragged, earning him a glare as the doorbell pealed. "I'll just get the door," he volunteered, making a smooth exit before she could give it to him, leaving her with her mouth open and no words coming forth.

Dinner was filled with some much needed playful banter and while the movie theater was by no means home, the familiarity of the movie, of her head laying against his shoulder, their hands linked together, provided at least a piece of the Sunday ritual they'd been missing for far too long. By the time they'd arrived back at the townhouse and prepared for bed, they both felt some semblance of balance had been restored. But, rather than stretching out in bed to read those last two letters, Laura led Remington to the couch in their room, reminiscent of the evening ten-months past at Ashford Castle when she'd read Daniel's letter to her. Only once she sat tucked between his legs, her back to his chest, did she hold up the two letters.

"Where should we start?" she asked. Either letter had the ability to leave him stinging, but in the end, Remington knew Daniel's would be the most volatile of all.

"Hers," he told Laura gruffly. Laying Daniel's on her lap, she held up the letter from Aislin.

"Do you want—" Before she could even complete the question, he was shaking his head in the negative, decisively. "Alright," she acknowledged, then withdrew the single sheet of paper from the envelope and began to read aloud.

"Thomas…" Laura paused, skimming the page, then shook her head. "Remington, I can't. A great deal of this is written in Gaelic." With no little reluctance, he took the letter from her and after clearing his throat, began anew.

"Thomas, Mo fhear céile agus grá i mo shaol,

When I was a child I often heard my Grandmam speak these words to my Mam when money was short, winters were cold, and we children hadn't the proper attire to keep us warm: Ní bheidh a fhios agat pian i do soul go dtí go bhfuil tú leanbh. You will never know the anguish of your soul until you have a child. My soul weeps as I long for you, even knowing for our son I must say goodbye.

Cad a fhinnéithe leanaí, a dhéanann an páiste. Cad a dhéanann an páiste, is é an leanbh. What a child sees, a child does. What a child does, is what the child is. Ár mhac álainn, our beautiful son, his heart will wilt and die living amongst such anger, such intolerance then he will act in kind. This cannot be our child's destiny. I see the gentleness, the intelligence in his eyes. He is meant to live kindly, to love deeply.

Má theipeann amháin chun revel i an áilleacht an tuar ceatha gan choinne, ní bheidh a fhios amháin áthas fíor. If one cannot revel in the beauty of the unexpected rainbow, one will never know true joy. I promise you, mo fear céile, mo ghrá amháin fíor, our son will revel, he will know the joy, in the home of my childhood. Here, I fear, he will only see the rain. My life, once yours, now belongs to him. He is our unexpected rainbow.

Aislin"

Silence lingered for a long minute after he finished reading the letter. Laura, eyes moist, was held spellbound by both the contents of the letter and entrancing voice of the man behind her, as the Gaelic rolled off his tongue like poetry.

"I don't even know what to say," she almost whispered, as she nestled herself more deeply into his embrace. Dropping his chin down to rest atop her head, and laying the letter in her lap, he wrapped his arms around her.

"Nor do I," Remington managed around the lump in his throat.

"I couldn't do it…" Her words trailed off. He nuzzled his chin against the top of her head.

"Do what, love?" Her hand caressed the back of one of his.

"Choose between you and our child. I don't know that says about me," she pondered.

"Ah, Laura. Aislin and the Earl? They were but children themselves, in the throes of first love and faced with situations they were ill prepared to handle. They'd not been tested before, and when they were, they failed, because of youth, resources and fear." He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, before resting his chin there again. "You and I? We've faced every test imaginable, both those we've created and those which have been tossed at us and have come out on the other side, together, all the stronger. There'd be no choice between our child and you or our child and me. The only end either of us would accept is the coming out the other side safe, well and together."

"I'll never let go," she murmured, recalling the words she spoken to him some months before.

"Nor will I," he vowed. Tangling the fingers of his left hand with hers, he held their joined hands up in front of her. "This is the very essence of life. We've fought for it, we've clung to it, and we've earned all the happiness that comes from it." She laughed softly.

"That's awfully optimistic coming from you, Mr. Steele," she told him, wryly.

"Perhaps," he acknowledged, thoughtfully. "Maybe it's as simple as realizing fate may have placed me on your doorstep, but it had no bearing on whether or not I stayed. That it neither gave me this life nor did I steal it. I chose to stay. I chose to change. I chose nearly four years of maddening, sometimes torturous celibacy." Laura tipped back her head and looked up at him, flashing a dimpled smile at him, before laughing at his pained expression. Lifting his brows, he shook his head, chuckling at her before tapping his lips to her. "You are truly a cruel woman, Mrs. Steele, finding such pleasure in my misery."

"You weren't the only one suffering, big guy," she asserted, turning in his arms and running a single finger down his chest while speaking next. "You have no idea what it was like having you waiting and willing at my fingertips and having to walk away night… after night… after night… after—"

"You've made your point," he interrupted with another laugh. "Painfully so, I might add." With a self-satisfied grin, she turned back around.

"I usually do," she gloated, then looked down when Remington's arms released her in order to gather up the letters and set them aside. "What are you doing?" Laura protested. "We still have Daniel's—"

"Tomorrow, after we know, one way or the other," he insisted, as he nudged her around to face him. "We've more… pressing… matters to attend to, now." Eyes shimmering with amusement as she attempted to suppress a smile, she raised her brows in feigned innocence even as a hand slid over his shoulder so fingers could toy with the hair at the nape of his neck.

"We do?" she asked, drawing out each word. "And what might that be?" He grinned at her, even as the fingers of a hand slipped behind her neck to draw her lips near to his.

"'If you were actually as innocent as your pretend to be, we'd never get anywhere,'" he mumbled, before his lips settled over hers to tease. Her mouth slipped away from his, to trail across a jaw and down a neck, even as her fingers slipped one button of his shirt after another free.

"But, Mr. Spade," she paused to nibble on the lobe of his ear, "I don't think my husband would approve," she breathed next to his ear, before her hands slipped the collar of his shirt off a shoulder and her lips settled in the curve of neck and collarbone.

"I assure you, Brigid, he would," he rumbled, burying a hand in her hair and closing his eyes as jolts of pure pleasure shot through his system when she drew his skin into her mouth, "He absolutely would."

And he most certainly did.