The receptionist nodded once cordially and returned to her paperwork. It was five minutes before Dr. Epstein appeared in the lobby—five long, torturous minutes. Francesca shot up from her chair like she was on springs when she recognized the doctor, now wearing a white lab coat over a sophisticated dark green dress. An elegant woman walked next to her, her clothing casual but obviously of the highest quality and taste. Francesca got a fleeting impression that although Dr. Epstein’s companion was older—in her seventies, perhaps—she was brimming with vibrant health.
“Francesca Arno?” Dr. Epstein queried as she approached. She extended her hand, and Francesca took it.
“Yes, I’m sorry to pounce on you unexpectedly like this, but—”
“Any friend of Ian’s is welcome.” The doctor’s tone was warm, but was that curiosity or puzzlement she saw shadow her features as she studied Francesca? “I understand you haven’t yet met Ian’s grandmother? Francesca Arno, the Countess of Stratham, Anne Noble.”
Francesca glanced in shock at the attractive elderly woman. For a horrified moment, she wondered if she was supposed to bow or something to a countess? Surely there was some etiquette that she didn’t know, and her gauche Americanness would be showcased right from the start?
Thank goodness the countess noticed her discomfort before she began to stutter like a fool.
“Please, call me Anne,” Ian’s grandmother said warmly, extending her hand. Francesca looked into eyes that immediately called Ian to mind—cobalt blue, sharp, and incisive.
“I guess I did come to the right place,” Francesca muttered as she shook Anne’s soft hand.
“You weren’t sure?” Anne asked.
“No, not entirely. I was . . . looking for Ian.”
“Of course you were,” Anne said matter-of-factly, ratcheting up Francesca’s anxiety and confusion. “He mentioned your name to me, although I didn’t realize you’d be coming to London. Ian is out for a walk on the grounds at present, so I came to greet you in his stead.”
“So Ian is here?” Francesca asked, her voice ringing with shock.
Anne and Dr. Epstein exchanged a glance.
“You didn’t know he was?” Anne asked.
Francesca experienced a sinking sensation as she shook her head to the negative.
“But you must have known about my daughter being here, at the very least?”
“Your . . . daughter?” Francesca asked, her head spinning. The glass-enclosed entrance suddenly seemed too bright, casting a surreal brilliance onto everything. Hadn’t Mrs. Hanson said that Ian’s grandparents had only one child?
“Yes, my daughter, Helen. Ian’s mother. Ian is taking a walk with her right now. Thanks to Julia’s and the Institute’s hard work,” Anne gave a warm sideways glance to the doctor, “Helen is having an amazingly lucid period. James, Ian, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.”
“We must take things one day at a time . . . one hour,” Dr. Epstein cautioned.
Both women glanced at Francesca. Anne reached out and touched her elbow. “You’re very pale, dear. I think it would be best if we let this young lady sit down somewhere comfortable, don’t you, Dr. Epstein?”
“Absolutely. We’ll take her to my office. I have some orange juice there; perhaps your blood sugar is a bit low? Should I send for food?”
“No . . . no, I’m all right. Ian’s mother is still alive?” Francesca croaked, her brain fixated on that single piece of news.
A shadow passed across Anne’s face. “Yes. Today she is.”
“But Mrs. Hanson . . . she told me Ian’s mother had died years ago.”
Anne sighed. “Yes, that is what Eleanor believes.” It took Francesca a few seconds due to her bewilderment to realize Eleanor was Mrs. Hanson’s given name. “James and I made the decision once Helen was returned home to England that it would be perhaps . . . best? Easiest?” Anne mused, her expression heartbreakingly sad as she tried to find the right words for a decision made decades ago, during a time of stress and anxiety. “For those who had known and loved Helen before she became ill to remember her like she was rather than to see how this cursed disease had ravaged her, taking away her identity . . . her very soul. Perhaps it was wrong of us to do. Perhaps it wasn’t. Ian certainly didn’t agree with our decision.”
“Well . . . he was only ten years old when Helen was returned to England, isn’t that right?” Francesca asked.
“Nearly,” Anne replied. “But we didn’t tell Ian his mother was alive and being cared for in an institution in East Sussex until he was twenty—old enough to comprehend why we’d made the decision in order to protect him. Ian, like almost everyone else, thought his mother had died.”
The silence rang in Francesca’s ears.
“Ian must have been furious when he found out,” she said before she could edit herself.
“Oh, he was,” Anne said dryly, not taken aback in the slightest by Francesca’s bluntness. “It was not a good time for Ian, James, and me. Ian barely spoke to us for almost a year while he was in school in the states. But we did eventually come to terms, and our relationship was mended.” She waved her hand in a vague sense around the elegant entryway. “And then Ian had this facility built, and the three of us worked together to develop it, finding some common ground. The Institute has been a place of healing for our relationship with our grandson as well as for Helen,” she said, giving Dr. Epstein a grateful smile, even though her eyes remained sad.