EPILOGUE I
Epilogue I
Two Years Later
July 17, 1851
Canna, Scotland
T ristan blew out the candle and slipped into bed, pulling the heavy bed curtains closed and tugging Isolde’s spine against his chest.
His wife sighed and relaxed into the curve of his body, the dark of the bed box enclosing them. The box bed was constructed into the eaves of the roof, with pine planks lining three sides, leaving just one curtained side exposed to the room.
“Mmm.” Isolde slid her chilly feet against his calves. “Thank ye for warming me, Husband.”
“My pleasure, Wife.” Tristan could feel her grin in the sinking of her ribs under his palm.
He nuzzled her braided hair, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. His lovely wife already knew this was his favorite place on the planet—snuggled into their bed in their tiny cottage on the Isle of Canna . . . or rather, their Isle of Canna.
He would never regret this purchase.
“I have dreamed of this moment for nearly a year,” she said.
“Have you, now?”
“Aye. Almost every day some memory of last August gleams in my mind.”
Last summer had been their first on the island as a family with four-month-old Beatrice, their tiny daughter. Given Beatrice’s age, they had only stayed a week before heading on to visit Dunhelm Castle and Sir Rafe just north of Inverness. But the weather that week had been heaven-kissed—endless hours of light with a gentle warmth in the ever-present wind, the striking blue water of the bay glittering in the sun.
Yesterday, they had arrived on their steamship, the SS Statesman. Tristan’s spirits had lifted to see the small house with its fresh coat of white harling nestled into the dunes of the protected bay. Over the winter, he had hired local workers to carry out needed repairs on the house to ensure it was comfortably appointed for his family. This year—given that their Honey Bea was toddling around, babbling words, and loved nothing more than being outside—they intended to stay for a month.
“Perhaps, we should celebrate our return,” Tristan whispered.
Isolde turned in his arms. “Mmm, I like the sound of that. What did you have in mind?”
“Well—”
The sound of Bea’s broken-hearted wail interrupted Tristan’s thoughts.
Isolde sighed. “ Och , she’s gerning again.”
“Growing teeth is hard business.” Tristan kissed Isolde. “I’ll see to her.”
Pushing out of the bed, he crossed the small landing, pausing to glance out the gabled window there. The SS Statesman rocked at anchor in the bay, bobbing in the moonlight.
Ledger remained aboard ship with his wife, the former Elizabeth Bertram. The pair had married in a simple ceremony at Hawthorn six months after that day in Thorton Heath, Tristan standing as best man for his secretary-turned-friend. Having a friend had been an illuminating experience. Of course, Isolde would always be his best friend, and Allie, as his twin, claimed a distinct portion of his heart. But Ledger had filled a place in Tristan’s affections he hadn’t realized was lacking. There was just something about a male friend—the ability to be gruff and jest and tease as men did. Maybe Tristan was becoming more like Hadley than he suspected.
Slipping into the cottage’s second bedroom, he fumbled to the window and pulled the curtains open. Moonlight flooded the room and illuminated Beatrice curled into her own tiny box bed.
“P-Papa!” Bea raised her hands to him, tears leaving shining trails down her cheeks. “Up!”
“Hush, darling girl.” Tristan lifted her into his arms. As usual, Beatrice melted against his chest, giving her entire weight to him with unwavering trust.
He rubbed a soothing hand up her spine. Red-haired and every whit as mischievous and daring as her mother, the tiny girl shone like a rare comet.
Tristan loved her with staggering force. Some days, it felt as if every particle that made up his soul had been created to care for her. Perhaps his most astonishing revelation over the two years since his marriage had been just that—the heart’s capacity to love, his heart specifically, appeared endless.
Pacing, he walked Beatrice back to sleep, crooning a soft lullaby he remembered his Italian mother singing. For just a brief moment, he pondered the man he had been three years before. A man without friends or love in his life. A man who thought power and revenge would bring him joy.
What a fool he had been.
He doubted a day would ever pass that he didn’t thank God for sending Isolde into his life. The blessing of her continued to multiply, day after day, year after year.
A few minutes later, Beatrice sank back into sleep, but Tristan continued to hold her, standing before the window.
This.
This moment right here . . . right now. Another gift from Isolde.
The simple joy of holding their sleeping daughter in the silver moonlight.
This was the truest purpose of life—to give love and receive it in return.