CHAPTER 23

Laura swiped an invisible piece of lint off Remington's sweater as he fidgeted before her.

"Relax," she urged him in a low voice lest someone hear. He gave her a look like she'd lost her mind.

"Easy for you to say," he retorted in a gruff whisper, "You're not about to meet the woman who could very well be your great aunt!" So, she noted to herself, he had put it together.

"Which she doesn't know," she whispered back, "So, icy calm, Mr. Steele." Nodding his head rapidly, he drew in a deep, cleansing breath, releasing it slowly as he squared his shoulders. "You look very handsome." Vanity stroked, he smiled. "Game time," she warned with a barely noticeable nod over his shoulder. With one of his most charming smiles plastered to his face, he turned around to greet the older woman.

With a gasp, Molly took a step back, looking like she'd seen a ghost. Remington reached out a hand, helping to steady her.

"Are you alright?" Laura asked, alarmed. Molly looked up at Remington.

"It's jest 'e's the spittin' image o' Master James. Mickeline could o' warned me. I be alright now," she assured Remington who dropped his hand. "Your Lordship, Your Ladyship," she greeted with a small curtsy to each of them. The plump elderly woman with blue eyes dulled from age and a short, curly, mop of white hair, barely topped five feet, reminding Laura of Mrs. Claus.

"The titles aren't necessary," Laura insisted, "Lord and Lady Naas are merely our covers, arranged by the Earl of Claridge, to offer us protection while Mr. Steele heals." Taking his cue from Laura, he offered Molly a hand.

"Remington Steele," he greets, "And my partner…" he gave Laura a wicked grin "…And fiancé, Laura Holt." She slanted him a look that said 'we'll talk about this later' while offering her hand to the other woman as well.

"Shall we have a seat?" Remington suggested. Ever the gentleman, he helped Molly to her seat, then Laura before taking a seat next to her.

"We appreciate your willingness to meet with us," Laura began, "We know it must be very difficult to talk about."

"Iffin it 'elps ta find me Eilis's boy, tis worth openin' old wounds," the older woman replied. "Mickeline asked I bring ye some o' Eilis's belongin' in case they may 'elp," she explained, sliding a box, yellowed by age, to Laura. Laura wanted to rip the lid off the box and feast her eyes upon the contents, but resisted the urge and passed the box to him, feeling it should be his, first, to see.

"Why did Eilis feel she needed to run with Sean James?" Laura asked, watching from the corner of her eye as Remington took the lid off the box.

"T'was 'er Ladyship, it were. The night afta Master Thomas learnt Eilis 'ad bore 'is child, 'er Ladyship sent a solicitor 'round ta our 'ome. 'e showed up wit' some papers 'n a bank draft fer 5,000 quid. 'er Ladyship, ye see, 'ad decided she wanted ta raise Sean James as 'er own. The solicitor told Eilis t'was the least she could do, given 'er role in Master James's death. T'was an accident, it were. Eilis 'ad punished 'erself fer not being wit' Master James, sure, she was, 'e'd still be among the livin' if she 'ad been. It 'ad taken a long time fer Eilis ta forgive 'erself 'n I wasn't 'aving it. I let 'im 'ave it, I did 'n tossed 'im out o' me 'ouse, 'im shoutin' 'e'd take 'er ta Family Court afore a magistrate 'n get Sean James anyways."

Laura turned to look at Remington, to see how much of the conversation he'd paid attention to and found him staring into the box, not having removed a single item. Sliding her hand across the table, she folded her hand around his and gave it a squeeze of support.

"Mickeline shared with us that no one knew where Eilis went when she disappeared with Sean James and it was many months before she contacted you," Laura noted. "Where had she gone?"

"She found 'erself a small 'ouse over in Kilkieran fer 'er 'n Sean James, she did. T'wasn't—"

"Kilkieran? Not Kilkenny?" Remington cut in.

"Kilkieran in County Galway," Molly replied. "Eilis 'ad grown up next ta the water until she lost 'er parents. I suppose she wanted Sean James ta grow up near it as well, in a good Gaelic community."

"Just over in Galway and the Earl's investigators couldn't find her and her son?" he asked. It was unimaginable, in his eyes, for Laura and he would have tracked them down in a day's time.

"It's actually rather brilliant," Laura commented, "Hiding in plain sight where no one would think to look for you." She turned to Molly. "Do you know the address of where Eilis lived in Kilkieran?"

"Ye'll find it on the telegram in the box," Molly informed. "She made 'er boy a nice 'ome she did, just 'cross the street from the Bay so 'e could watch the boats come in o' an afternoon."

"Did Sean James have any toys he favored, or stuffed animals, maybe an outfit he that would have gone with him when he was taken by the nuns?" Laura wondered.

"Nothin' went wit' 'im," Molly replied. "The lady next door ta them stored their belongin's in case anyone came askin'. The blanket Eilis made 'im, a couple toys 'n clothes was all there, they were, as was Eilis's clothes."

"And Eilis?" Remington inquired on a raspy voice. He cleared his throat then continued, "Where is she buried?"

"A pauper's grave at St. Mary's between Kilkieran 'n Claddagh. I go ta visit 'er a couple times o' a year. The first time I visited 'er grave twas barren, but when next I returned, it 'ad a marker. Tis properly cared fer 'n there are always fresh flowers when I visit. The doin' o' 'is Lordship I imagine. 'e loved me girl somethin' fierce, 'e did." Laura looked at her, surprised.

"You knew?"

"Oh, no, not the way ye mean. I didn't know 'til afta, when Eilis told me she was wit' child. I saw Master Thomas, 'owever, afta I sent 'im word Eilis 'ad passed 'n Sean James was missin'. 'e was so young 'n 'ad suffered so much loss. First, losin' Master James as 'e did, then Eilis 'n 'is son. It broke 'im, it did. Tis the reason 'e's never come back 'ere, ye know. All 'is 'appy memories 'ere 'ave been taken way 'n these 'alls are 'aunted by all the loss 'n the sorrow." Laura looked to Remington to see if he had anything further, but the look on his face and the hold on her hand told her anything else would need to happen in private.

"As I'm sure you've heard, Mr. Steele is still recovering and I think he's overdone it for the morning. Would you mind if we took this," she put the lid on the box and moved it in front of her, "Up to our room where he can rest while we look at it? I promise I'll have it back to you before you leave for the day." Molly lay her hand on the box and seemed hesitant to part from it.

"This is near all I 'ave left o' me girl 'n 'er boy." Her eyes shifted back and forth between the two detectives, sizing them up. With a sharp nod of her head, she made up her mind and removed her hand from the box. "Jest… please take care."

"I give you my word, we will," Laura assured. Remington was on his feet and pulling out Laura's seat before she could rise, then did the same for Molly, while offering her a hand.

"Me thanks, Yer Lordship. Getting' up 'n down isn't as easy as it once were."

"It's truly been a pleasure to meet you," he told Molly, her hand enveloped by his two. She assessed him with a critical eye as he released her hand.

"Yer quite the charmer, ain't ye?"

"You have no idea," Laura drawled, gaining the first smile from Remington since Molly had appeared with the box.

"I'll 'ave Mickeline bring ye the noon day meal," she announced in parting, then turned and walked down the hallway to the kitchen.

Remington and Laura turned down the hallway in the opposite direction.

"I don't recall the last time you were so quiet during an interview. What did you see in that box?" she asked in a low voice. He slanted his eyes towards Laura.

"Me."

Laura made an executive decision, first replacing the tea with a decanter of scotch and a pair of tumblers, then setting the box aside in favor of a crossword.

Remington sat on the bed with his back propped against a pair of pillows, while Laura stretched out widthwise on the bed, her head resting on his lap. Having decided he needed a little normalcy to steady him, she held the newspaper in one hand and a pen in the other, as they worked the crossword puzzle together. The remnants of their lunch sat on the tray it had been brought up on and would soon be whisked away by Mickeline or another member of the household staff. There were, Laura thought, benefits to having an entire staff at hand, beginning with not having to do the dishes. Back home in LA, they'd fallen into an easy rhythm: He did the cooking and she cleaned up afterwards – not that there was ever much left to do, as the man was fastidious about his kitchen, constantly cleaning as he went along.

"'DA taking hat off backwards? Bloomer,'" Laura read the clue aloud. "Eight letters, first letter 'd' and third letter 'f'."

"Daffodil," he offered. She filled in the word, then moved on to the next clue.

"'Weapon a touch in fashion,' eight letters, sixth letter 'u'."

"Catapult." She glanced up at him, then penned the word in.

"'Sly chap I suspect gets examination,' first letter 'p'." She huffed her frustration. While he was always swift with his responses to crosswords, she generally knew most of the solutions without his aid. But this? "This is all Greek to me," she complained.

"Odd. I find the questions quite easy," he teased. "Most are simple plays on words." He tapped the paper. "Physical." She penned in the word and moved on to the next.

"'Setter perhaps so exhausted.' 3-5? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Two words, first being three letters the second being five. Dog tired, no space, of course." She rolled her eyes.

"Of course." She filled in the spaces, then gave the clue and answer some thought. "That one I get. Setter as in Irish Setter. It's a turn of phrase. 'Die of cold?' 3-4, fourth letter c." When his lips parted to answer, she cut him off with a single hand held up. "Let me try," she requested, focusing on cold first. "Cold… Snow… Raw… Ice… Icy… Icy calm," she joked, with a lift of her brows. He tossed his head back and laughed.

"Somehow I don't believe The Irish Sun has caught wind of our favored saying, Miss Holt," he teased.

"It fits. Die, calm; icy, cold. It answers the 3-4 as well," she argued playfully.

"Still, give it another whirl, eh? Only this time think noun not verb when considering 'die,'" he hinted. She tapped her pen against her lips while pondering.

"Die… die… Tool and die… tool… ice tool… ice pick!" she announced triumphantly, then looked down at the puzzle. "It doesn't fit," she said with dismay.

"Excellent attempt, but I'm afraid you went far afield considering tools. Take a moment to contemplate your favored game in Vegas."

"My favored game?" she questioned. She'd enjoyed any number of games in Vegas. She crinkled her nose when she understood his reference.

"Laura! Laura, Laura, Laura! Stop, please. Please."

"What are you doing?!... Let go of me!"

"Laura, please! Just hold on a second, please! You don't know what you're doing! You can stop! You don't have to do it! Please. Laura, you don't know what you're doing! You need sleep!"

"Sleep is for cowards!"

"Craps. Well, now we're back to die again," she complained.

"Consider the attributes of a die," he suggested, toying with a lock of her hair. She briefly mulled the suggestion then palmed her forehead.

"Ice cube!" she announced. "The answers are so prosaic you wouldn't think I'd have to put so much effort into deciphering the clues." He smiled down at her.

"I know how you feel," he commiserated. "When I first began doing the LA Times crossword puzzle, I was positively flummoxed at times, what with the way they frequently rely on terrible shows on the telly and Sunday comics for clues. Cats that eat lasagna and cars that talk. And the names! Dagwood, Gilligan, Walt Wallet, Alf and Gomer. Gomer, Laura! An absolutely silly name, should you ask me!" She was laughing before he was halfway through his rant.

"Some might say the same about 'Remington'," she provoked. As she expected he straightened his shoulders and feigned umbrage.

"Remington is a distinguished name if ever I heard one! Clearly, you thought so as well, otherwise why would you have levied the name upon this imaginary detective of yours?" he challenged. She laid a hand over her heart and widened her eyes.

"How was I to anticipate a flashy conman swiping the name and making it his own?" He gave her an unrepentant smile, then sobered after a couple of seconds. "Thank you," he told her sincerely. She lifted her brows in question.

"For what?"

"For forgoing your curiosity and giving me the time I needed to prepare myself for what's in that box." She sat up and tapped a kiss to his lips.

"Think nothing of it," she dismissed. Sliding out of the bed, he offered her a hand while nodding in the direction of the coffee table in front of the sofa.

"Shall we then?"

Resisting the urge to lunge from the bed and bound across the room, she took his hand and got out of bed, grabbing the scotch and their tumblers from the side table before following him to the sofa. Once seated, he pulled the box on the coffee table towards himself, handling it as though it was a snake baring its fangs. She laid her hand on his thigh in a show of support, but was unable to resist asking…

"What did you mean when you said you saw yourself in the box?" His eyes darted towards her then back to the box. Finding his resolve, he lifted the lid and set it aside, then removed a single photograph and set it down in front of her. She stifled a gasp, her keen mind quickly identifying the similarities between her partner and the child in the photograph: The thick, dark hair; the jawline; the cheekbones; the outer arch of his brows; and, the slightly large ears.

"I may have been too young to remember my name after it was changed so often, but I do know what I looked like as a lad." He removed a second picture from the box and slid it towards her. "And I remember her."

Laura picked up the picture and had to blink her eyes several times when she looked upon the visage of the woman who'd given the man beside her life. Even in a photograph it was obvious Eilis was petite, likely not standing much taller than her aunt. Thick hair, not quite light and not quite dark, hung to her waist, the front tied back with a simple yarn ribbon. Her features were delicate, but even in the black and white picture you could see the determination and strength that burned bright in her crystal eyes. Still, if not for the protruding stomach that she cradled lovingly between her hands, she could easily have been mistaken for a schoolgirl.

"She's lovely," she complimented quietly, then turned her head to regard him briefly. "Are you sure?"

"Mmm," he nodded his head. "Throughout my life I've dreamt of her now-and-again. I suppose I eventually wrote it off to my fanciful imagination conjuring up what my childhood might have been had it gone differently." He gave her a smile, then removed another picture from the box. "When she'd clean, I either played on my horse or with my train upon the floor as she sang nursery rhymes to me – Anbh Faca Tú Mo Shéamuisín and Bah, Bah Caoire Dhubh always and then a mix of others – first in Gaelic then in English, determined I'd be fluent in both." He passed her another picture, this one of him sitting on the floor playing with a wood train.

"You couldn't have been much more than a year old," she observed, then grinned. "I never pictured you as chubby. Look at those rolls on your little legs," she laughed. He looked up from the picture he was looking at, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Hmmm, that does remind me, when I am free to return to the States, we need to have Frances, Donald and Abigail over for dinner." Her back stiffened and her eyes narrowed on him.

"And why, may I ask, do we need to do that?" Her tone held a warning. A dare, in his eyes. He smiled widely at her.

"Why I imagine Frances has innumerable amusing tales of your childhood to share, while I'm certain Abigail would love to share pictures with me."

"Mr. Steele," she began in a voice that was far too sweet, "Need I remind you, any tale from my past you might find amusing, will just be one more way I've disappointed Mother and one more thing to hold against me?"

"Perhaps those stories would be better left unsaid, eh?" he back peddled.

"You're a wise man," she drawled. "Now, as for those childhood pictures of me: Mother sent them to me, along with all my childhood mementos, after my house burned down. I imagine there'll come a day, after I forget about your ploy here today, of course, that you'll see them." He looked crestfallen.

"But Laura—" he protested. She cut him off before he could issue his complaint.

"Maybe next time you'll think twice before you try using my mother to manipulate me." She doubted it, but one could hope… right? "Now, what else does the box hold?" she inquired, craning her neck to try and catch a peek. He reached inside and drew out another picture. Turning it over, he read what was written on the back.

"'Eilis and Sean James, 5 April 1953.'" Laura resisted the urge to rip the picture out of his hand, instead settling for watching him as he stared at the photo. His tongue flicked out against his lips and he dragged his free hand through his hair. She didn't miss the moisture in his eyes or how he blinked trying to banish them. Reverently, he brushed his thumb across something in the picture. "She looks happy," he commented, with a catch in his throat, as he handed the photograph over to her. This time it was she left blinking her eyes as she took in the image of Eilis, clearly shortly after childbirth, smiling down at her swaddled son. She reached for her partner's hand.

"It's more than happiness. It's joy. It's pride. And it's unconditional love. She loved you, Remington." He nodded his head quickly several times, then lifted their joined hands to brush his lips over her knuckles. Releasing her hand, he moved on to the next picture.

"My first birthday," he relayed, studying the photo at length before passing it to Laura. Her eyes roamed the picture, cataloging every detail to memory: The plump toddler with light eyes, a mop of black hair and a smile she'd seen countless times in the last four years; and, a beautiful young woman, with lighter colored hair pulled back in a thick braid, and the same color eyes as the son she clearly adored, holding his waist as he stood on a chair and leaning over his shoulder, presumably to help him blow out the candle on his cake. She recognized a younger Mickeline and Molly amongst the throngs of people encircling the table and in the background…

"Mr. Steele." When he didn't answer, she turned her head to look at him and found him staring at another picture. "Remington!" she repeated more firmly, while elbowing him in his side. His quick, indrawn breath served as a reminder of his still healing injuries.

"Bloody hell, Laura!" he exclaimed. "Mind the ribs, if you don't mind." She held up a hand in apology.

"Sorry. Sorry. Could this be…?" she asked, pointing to a distant point in the photograph. Taking a look, he hummed his confirmation.

"As is this," he said, sliding the picture he'd been holding across the table.

"Is it the one you remember?" He doesn't need to examine the photos further to know the wooden rocking horse in both pictures is the one he'd ride in his dreams.

"It is… At least before I pulled clumps of its mane out." He gave her a crooked smile. Sobering, he rested his elbow against a knee a hand across his mouth. "I don't recall anything about living here at all, Laura," he told her with a wave of his hand around the room.

"What do you remember?" she questioned.

"A one room flat. On the wall near the door there was a small kitchen, if you could call it that, with an oven and stove that must have been a couple decades old, a small sink in which to do dishes and a pitiful excuse for a refrigerator. There was an old table with a pair of chairs that doubled as a dining table and a table for her sewing machine, not an electric one, mind you, but one of those you used a foot pedal to run. On the wall opposite the kitchen was a small bed that we shared and a nightstand with a lamp upon it." She stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Your memory never ceases to amaze me. I don't think I recall anything prior to turning five."

"I don't remember everything and what I do I'd dismissed as dreams most of my life," he reminded her. "They were always the same handful of dreams… or memories I guess you'd call them now: Riding on the horse as she cooked and sang to me; her pushing me on the swing; us running and playing on a beach; her holding me up to the window so I could see the boats in the harbor; pulling on her hair when I wished for her attention and wrapping it 'round my hand as she sung me to sleep; and, being unable to wake her one morning and not understanding why." He drew his hand over his mouth again. "My memory is by no means perfect. I'd thought I was from Kilkenny when it was actually Kilkieran and I've no recall, whatsoever, of being called Sean James. The only thing I can remember her calling me is mo bhuachaill álainn."

"I assume it's Gaelic. What does it mean?" she wondered. He appeared embarrassed, a rarity for him.

"My beautiful boy," he provided with a quick lift of his lips, before moving on to the next item in the box. "First Christmas, I imagine," he said before passing it to Laura. Eilis stood before a Christmas tree, her plump son on her hip. Mother and son were beaming, Eilis seemingly unperturbed by the child tugging on a fistful of her hair. Laura laughed softly, her eyes drifting downwards when he set another picture in front of her and tapped the picture a pair of times without saying a word. Another photo in front of the Christmas tree, this one of the baby sitting up and trying to put the caboose of a wooden train in his mouth.

"It looks handmade," she commented.

"My thoughts exactly."

They sorted through another half dozen pictures or so: Him wrapped in a blanket, sound asleep in his cradle; his first steps; him crawling; Eilis stooping down, nose-to-nose with her little boy, his small hands on each of her cheeks as they smiled at each other; his first taste of solid food, wearing more of the food than he'd eaten; and, Eilis cradling her son in her arms as she rocked him to sleep, her love for the child unmistakable.

Laura slanted her eyes towards her partner. His hunched shoulders and the way he gnawed at a nail spoke of his angst. Her hand nearly shook from the effort to stop it from diving back into the treasure chest before her, as she thought the box now. Drawing in a deep breath, she mentally regrouped as she exhaled slowly. Gathering the pictures, she held the stack in one hand and laid her other hand on his thigh, patting it several times.

"When you first became Remington Steele I spent many a long… lonely nights asking myself what on earth possessed me to hand over the role to you, a thief and con artist. It took a while for me to put my finger on just what it was: You promised not to steal the Royal Lavulite as long as it was under my protection and you kept your word. It spoke to your innate character, despite your chosen occupation." She began to lay out the photos in chronological order. "Having found the answer to that question, another replaced it, one that has kept me company on many, many nights: How, given your childhood then the people who surrounded you as an adult, have you managed to retain your compassion and your ability to trust and love anyone. I've finally found the answer to that question." Curiously, Remington leaned forward so he could clearly see Laura's face.

"Dare I ask, what that answer is?" With a turn of her hand towards the table, she indicated the pictures.

"It was Eilis," she nodded her head while answering. "I can't even imagine what it would have been like to be alone and pregnant in the fifties and on the heels of James dying and Thomas being whisked away? You were her saving grace. From what Mickeline and Molly have told us, I don't know if she would have made it through those losses, if not for news of your arrival. Once you arrived, she poured all her love for James and Thomas into you. Then, when faced with the possibility of losing you?" She shook her head. "To start a life in a strange town with next to nothing to her name took a great deal of courage, but she did it for you. To know such security and love at such a young age? It's something you've carried with you to help you survive and has made you the man you are today." As she spoke, he'd leaned forward, touching and studying the pictures again.

"I wish I could remember more," he shared pensively.

"You still might, with time, now that you know you weren't dreaming her but reliving memories." He nodded his head.

"Perhaps," he agreed. "What else have we got, eh?" She tamped down her eagerness and reached into the box, removing an envelope, slightly yellowed from age. Lifting the flap and peering inside she felt her heart do a little pitter patter. "What? What is it?" Swallowing back her emotions, she handed him the envelope.

"Your first haircut," she answered, her voice laced with emotion. He blinked a pair of times before removing a hank of hair tied together with a blue ribbon, a tag dangling from it.

First haircut, July 11, 1953.

He wet his lips before speaking.

"A ribbon," he feigned offense. "A lad's hair should never see a ribbon." He fingered the tag. "It's her handwriting, Laura."

She smiled quietly, understanding what he was saying without saying it: Another detail about his mother he never thought he'd know. With him preoccupied with the last she pulled out a bundle of letters, these tied together with a red yarn ribbon and set them aside. Another envelope followed and what she found within drew tears to her eyes, that flowed over to trickle down her cheeks. Seeing this out of the corner of his eye, Remington turned to look at her.

"Laura, what is it?" Not trusting her voice, she shook her head and handed him the three sheets of paper held in her hands.

He'd barely glanced at the first, when his hand flew up to swipe through his hair.

"They eloped," Laura finally managed to speak. A corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile.

"No… they didn't," he contradicted, then held up the certificate between a pair of fingers. "it's a forgery. A good one… but a forgery none the less." She leaned in to examine the certificate more closely.

"Well, I don't see it," she huffed, lifting and dropping her hands.

"To begin with, this is a Scottish license. We know Eilis and Thomas never made to Scotland," he explained with a lift of his brow. "Then there's this…" he indicated the seal. "An excellent attempt, but should you turn the paper over, it is obvious a pressing tool was used to create that raised 'official' seal." She took the certificate from him and looked at it from his perspective, finding his reasoning sound.

"She had a marriage certificate forged so you'd be legitimate," she posited, breathily. She laughed softly. "Like mother, like son." He flashed a smile at her. "Even before you were born, she was determined to give you the best life possible." Something caught her eye. "Date of Marriage: May 14, 1951. She certainly took no chances when it came to your legitimacy."

"Certainly, the inscription on the watch makes sense in light of this. It would have been scandalous had it come out the Earl had sired an illegitimate child. By using Kevin Landers, she was protecting him while technically giving her child its father's name."

"She gave you your father's name," Laura corrected. Unable to contain herself any longer, she urged, "Look at the next one." With a curious glance at her, he set the marriage certificate aside. He'd barely skimmed the title of the document when he drew in a sharp breath, disbelief painting his face.

"After all this time," he mumbled under his breath, "After all these years…" Reaching for his hand, she gave it a comforting squeeze.

"Your Baptismal certificate is there as well." She looked him in the eye to convey the importance of what she was about to say. "With those two documents, you can apply for a passport and a Visa then later a driver's license and Social Security card."

"I don't know why I'd do that." He held up the papers. "Sean James Landers is who I was born, Remington Steele is who I am." He leaned in to brush his lips against her cheeks. "And always will be." She nodded her head then emptied the remainder of the box's contents: A quilted book, a half dozen primers and an item wrapped in tissue paper. She considered which to begin with, ultimately settling on the quilted book.

Reverently, she opened the cover of the book, suspecting what was contained within had been precious to Eilis. She blinked a pair of times and her lips parted as two pairs of eyes stared up at her. The sepia toned photograph, showed a pretty, petite woman, no more than twenty-five, with light colored, riotous curls that hung midway down her back. Next to her stood a man, equally handsome with light hair who stood, easily, eight or more inches over the woman. Beneath the picture was scripted in a small child's hand "Maman and Da."

"Remington." He swung his head in her direction. "It's your maternal grandparents." Setting aside the papers, her leaned in to see.

"Don't look a thing like them," he quipped, although his eyes never left the photo.

"It's hard to be a doppelganger for your father's side of the family, and resemble your mother's at the same time," she smiled. With a nudge, he relaxed back into the cushion, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, when she joined him. She turned the page.

Auntie.

The book turned out to be far more scrapbook than photo album, scattered amongst the pages Eilis' first report card, birthday and Christmas cards, sketches of flora and fauna, as well as her graduation certificate. While her sketches hinted at from whom Remington had inherited his artistic hand, it was the photos that kept the couple spellbound. Eilis at five based on the crutches she leaned against; Eilis and Thomas's heads bent over a textbook in the library; the pair playing chess; Eilis with James who couldn't have been more than two-years-old; James toddling after his older brother; and, pictures of the three of them together across the years. In all the photos, Eilis fairly glowed with happiness and Thomas's stance was more relaxed than Laura had ever seen him. As for James? He looked upon both with unadulterated adulation. By the time they'd turned the final page both had fallen into a prolonged silence.

If Laura was overwhelmed by the scrapbook's contents, she could only posit how Remington was feeling at the moment. In the fifty pages or so, they'd literally watched his mother, father and uncle grow up before their eyes. Had she any doubt of his relationship to Thomas before, she would have had none now. Much as Molly and Mickeline had claimed, Remington could have passed for James as a child, pictures taken when they were toddlers virtually interchangeable.

Beside her, Remington reached out, touching a pair of fingertips against what might well have been the last picture of that last summer. Whoever had taken it had a keen eye and what would have been a truly magnificent camera in the fifties. Captured by the lens, Eilis and Thomas lay in the meadow on their stomachs, propped up on their elbows looking at each other. Their wide smiles, her dimples, and the light dancing in their eyes made it clear they were laughing. But it was what he spied through the wispy stems and bending blades of grass in the foreground of the picture that had caught him unawares.

"The way he looks at her, Laura… it's… it's like seeing how I feel for you on the face of another," he told her, a bit dazed by the realization. She smiled softly.

"He was in love with her."

"No…no," he countered, "It's more than that. She was his best friend, his confidant, his partner, the woman he loved… and he was so bloody proud she chose him to be hers." Laura tipped her head and considered the picture at length.

"I can see that," she agreed. She pressed her lips against his cheek and let them linger long enough to let him know she was touched by his recitation of his feelings for her. "She looks at him the same way. If not for James' death I think they'd still be married today and you'd have a good half dozen siblings surrounding you."

"I can't say I disagree." Her eyes widened and lips parted. Well, this was quite the turnaround from this morning.

"You can't?" He drained his scotch and poured another finger, pursing his lips and shaking his head slowly.

"I've had this nagging voice in my head all day which demanded I provide a logical answer to the question: Why would my father erase my past, deny I was his then draw me in as a friend when next I come to London?" He lifted and dropped his hands. "I couldn't come up with one. I've spent a lifetime depending on my ability to read people to survive and I believed Thomas enjoyed spending time with me… respected me even."

"Yes, he does," she assured.

"There's only two possible answers that fit: Either someone is after him and he's keeping me out of the line of fire, or my mere existence and its effect of the line of succession makes me a target and the easiest way to keep me safe is to deny any relationship whatsoever."

"Yes," Laura agreed. "Although given an attempt has now been made on both of your lives, I'm inclined to believe someone would like to eliminate your entire line. But who has the most to gain by your deaths and how do they know you are you?"

"I imagine anyone below his Lordship and me in the line of succession would have something to gain. A trip to the library in Galway tomorrow might be in order, eh?"

"It's a good idea. If we give a list of potential suspects to Murph, he can fax it to Mildred when he gets to London."

"Laur-a," he elongated her name in complaint. She held up a hand, stopping him from speaking before he could remind her his lineage was to stay between just them.

"He doesn't need to know anything more than its for our investigation into who tried to kill you," she pointed out. "Mildred either," she pondered aloud. Setting the book aside, Remington stood and stretched.

"I don't care what Thompson says, those muscle relaxers could sedate an angry bull. I'm going to take a bit of a kip." She looked on him with concern. He'd seemed to have come to terms with his parentage or had it all been an act? While she'd never admit it to him, she knew he'd put few past her, previously, and she hadn't caught on until everything was blowing up all around her.

"I imagine the scotch is playing its part as well," she commented, casually.

"Hmmmm," he hummed his acknowledgment.

"Remington," Laura called out as he turned towards the bed. Coming to a halt he swiveled around. "Would you mind if…" she indicated the primers and the bundle of letters with a hand. Well, he was a man who saw an opportunity when it arose.

"Would my agreement mean you'll keep me company?" he inquired with a waggle of his brow. She rolled her eyes heavenward. Well, he obviously felt well enough about his conclusions to try to manipulate a little comfort and affection from her.

"I suppose that could be arranged," she feigned reluctance as she picked up primaries and letters then stood.

"Well, then, by all means, have at it. You can catch me up after I wake…"