The year is 1879. When thirteen-year-old Ruth Merritt Holbrook emerges from her family's burning estate, bloody and charred, but entirely numb--She makes headlines. Reporters believe she is deranged. They accuse her of having set the fire. All the h...
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He introduced himself to me as Donovan Parnell—missionary to the wilds of India. Or at least he used to be. Now he resides in Manchester in a small boarding house less than three blocks from St. Agatha's. This, of course, was all some foolish façade, one that I was quick to see through.
He'd bowed his head and just begun to introduce himself as, "Mr. Donovan Parnell, at your service ma'am—" when I barreled into him.
I hugged him so tightly, so dearly to myself that I nearly forgot we were in the open space of the train station. "Oh, Michael. I had wondered when you might show yourself." I'd stepped back; held him at arms length, straighten the collar of his clean pressed shirt from where I'd mussed it and whispered, "I have missed you desperately."
His smile was wide and all too familiar to me. "I hear you are causing quite the fuss in London. What is it you've done?"
"I've yet to do anything."
He laughed. "Let's get settled in the carriage and we can speak further. Shall we?" His eyes found Hanny's and I watched as he placed his hand gently against the small of her back and guided her towards the exit of the train station. I followed along, my arm hooked securely in his. We had no bags, as this was quite the unanticipated trip, so it took us no time to begin our trip towards Michael's lodgings.
I quickly established the relationship between Hanny and Michael as being somewhat of a romantic one—or at least from his side of things. He most certainly felt for her, but I was unsure what her feelings of him were. He called her Uriel from the moment he greeted us in the train station and his use of her angelic name has continued thus far. She calls him Donovan, but that is probably due to our proximity to others who know him as such. I suppose I should do the same here.
Michael is very tall, nearly a foot above my meager height, and well built, with muscular arms and shoulders. He has dirty blond locks, which he has trimmed and oiled back. And, although I have not mentioned it, he has premature strands of silver threaded throughout. He is cleanly shaved and carries a faint, almost unnoticeable, scar that runs from his temple to his collarbone. If I did not know him to be the sweetest of gentlemen, he would intimidate me.
But I do know him, and though he has quite a commanding presence, he is quick to tease and smile. What is more, it is clear that he regards Hanny and listens to her counsel. He does not judge her either, not like Gabriel would. He did not scold her for allowing me to go to the Ballantyne, even though I was certain he knew what had occurred.
He had to sneak us into his lodgings, past his sweet little landlady whom I am sure would disapprove of him keeping company with the fairer sex without the presence of a chaperone. Hanny thought the whole ordeal was scandalous. I thought it was a jolly good time. I'd long ago given up the dream of having a spotless reputation.
We'd taken up residence in his small bedroom and here we had remained, living off of marmalade toast and cold tea, for the past four days. In that short of time, I had rekindled my friendship with Michael—or, well, Donovan.
