Epilogue
August 1819
Dear Lydia,
You’re asleep right now with the baby on your chest, and I cannot bear to wake you. I—hell, I ought to sleep as well. We’ve an hour at most until Maisie’s up again, only I—
I wanted to tell you that I love you. There is nothing in the world so fair as you, asleep, with our daughter in your arms.
I love you today and tomorrow and into the hereafter. My heart beats for you—and for Maisie now, too.
February 1821
Dear Arthur,
I’ve given Maisie over to Bertie for the afternoon—I love Bertie. Did you know I love Bertie? Have we considered naming the next baby Albert? I think it rather charming. Albertina is also acceptable.
Oh! I’ve just spotted you out the window. Davis is perched on the pitch of the Widow Campbell’s roof and you are directing from the ground.
There is some part of me that cannot regret the blizzard, you know. We will be repairing for months, I suspect, but—it brought Davis back to us. To you. I know how you’ve missed him.
I cannot see your face, my love, but I can tell that you are smiling. Have I told you how much I love your smile?
July 1821
Dear Lydia,
You’ll be glad to hear that I’ve delivered your next three pamphlets to your duchess at Belvoir’s directly. I expect the Seditious Meetings Act to be repealed promptly upon your orders (and will say as much in the Lords tomorrow). Your brothers are well and intend to descend en masse at Christmas, I fear.
Bleeding hell, I miss you. If you’ve had that baby before I return, please know that I’m never leaving your side again, no matter how urgent the Act of Parliament.
The very sun seems dimmer without you. I wake each morning from dreams of you—and yet I cannot regret the dawn, because I’m one day closer to holding you again. I miss you. I love you. I’ll be home soon.
July 1821
Dear Arthur,
I am pleased to inform you that I have been delivered of a son. Due to your absence and inability to protest, I have named him Arthur.
I love you. He has red hair.
July 1821
Dear Arthur,
I did not know the mail coach could travel so quickly!
You appear to have fallen asleep sitting up and are unconcerned about what Maisie has put in your beard. I believe it is lemon curd, but I am not confident in this assessment.
Thank you for coming home. I love you. It was difficult to walk around whilst missing half my heart, you know.
By the by, you fell asleep before I could share my suspicion that your brother is courting the Widow Campbell. She threw an egg at his head. I think this will be good for him.
September 1824
Dear Lydia,
For all you’ve told me you and Maisie are off picking elderberries, I can see her from our bedroom window, up on your roan. I imagine you let her ride on ahead of you. I suspect your heart is near to bursting with pride in our girl. I know mine is.
Art is stacking parrot feathers on Jamie’s wee bald head, so I assure you, things are well in hand, and I’ve plenty of time to write you a lengthy missive.
I love you, dear heart. I’d never dreamed to be this happy.
February 1825
Dear Arthur,
Did you know Huw has rescued something called a hartebeest? Do you know what that is?
I love you and all this raucous and extraordinary life.
December 1825
Dear Lydia,
I am sorry to inform you that I saw Davis emerging from the Widow Campbell’s house just before dawn, when I went down to check on the antelope calf. As it is still 1825, I win our wager. Prepare to stand and deliver this evening in our bedchamber. (Standing is not strictly required.)
February 1826
Dear Arthur,
How do you feel about a fourth small Baird as part of Davis and Elspeth’s wedding party?
This question is rhetorical. I suspect this newest one will be joining us by Michaelmas.
September 1826
Dear Lydia,
It’s been half a decade, and I am still very, very sorry that I missed Art’s birth. That was—
You are—
Good Christ. You are, as ever, the bravest woman in the entire world. You are the very breath in my lungs, Lydia Baird. You are my heart.
I wish I could find the words to tell you the shape and breadth of my esteem for you. You are my wife, my own, my dearest love. The most gifted writer, the cleverest planner, the center of our family.
None of this—not the village, not the castle, not Davis and Elspeth, not our own wild bunch—would be here and whole without you.
Everything I am I owe to you, and everything I have is yours. In all my life, the greatest thing I will ever do is this: wake each day and love you down to the depths of my soul.
The baby’s stirring. If I can settle him and let you rest a moment, your head upon my shoulder, I’ll count my life worthwhile.