Epilogue
The first of Violet’s contractions came an hour after the conclusion of the long-awaited game of calcio storico… which happened to coincide with a rare March snowfall that had blanketed the ground in unusually significant quantities. The end result was a gentler version of the traditional rules intermingled with an impromptu snowball fight.
Zachariah planned strategies with Philip, the stableboy he’d befriended, Sofia took an accidental elbow to the nose and lost quite a bit of blood, and several snowballs were lobbed at Gabriel’s head for abandoning his team in order to cluck like a mother hen over his wife. Violet sat restlessly on the sidelines, buried in blankets, no doubt wishing she could be in the thick of the fun.
All activity came to a comically abrupt halt when the dowager’s carriage pulled up the drive beside them. Oliver, who was closest, threw the ball to Hamish and strode over to assist her down the step.
Her eyes swept across the snow-speckled, bedraggled group, then landed accusingly upon Oliver. “Why am I not surprised that I return home early only to find you all behaving like a pack of feral arctic animals?”
As ever, Oliver appeared amused by her insults. “Just having a little fun, Dowager. Had we known you were to return today, I would have insisted upon delaying the match so you could take part. I wouldn”t dream of denying you the opportunity to throw snowballs at my head under the guise of fun and games.” He gave her a courtly bow, snow dusting down from his hair. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”
“So much sass is unbecoming of a duke, young man.”
He winked. “I tried my hardest to get all the sass out of my system before probate was finalised, but there’s just so very much of it.”
Gabriel stepped between the squabbling pair. “You’ve had a long journey, Mother, and it’s cold. Allow me to escort you inside and ring for tea.”
“In a moment. I’ve been sitting for too long in that poorly sprung hunk of metal, and I wish to share a bit of news that may prove interesting.” Her lips twitched, which for the dowager was a show of enthusiasm equivalent to leaping into the air with a click of her heels.
All eyes had settled on her, and she looked from one expectant face to the next, ensuring she held the undivided attention of every adult present before continuing to hold court. “I’m not one to sling mud, you know?—”
“Not unless you know you can win,” Oliver interrupted in a mumble.
The dowager continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “But given the vicious nature of the attacks by the Duke of Vainblack and his puffed up poodle of a wife, I found my tolerance quite exhausted. They seemed to be the last of the dwindling rabblerousers opposed to Oliver’s ascension to the title. So, with a few well-placed comments to the Duchess Vainblack over a scone, I hinted—tactfully, of course—that I possess information pertaining to the illegitimacy of her husband’s only son and heir. Ironic that they’ve been so determinedly after our blood.” She raised one delicately sloped eyebrow. “Naturally, she has had a change of heart about Oliver and our situation.”
“You terrifying wonder of a woman. Come here.” Oliver crushed her in a hug, her feet dangling off the ground as she squeaked her disapproval.
“Dukes do not squash people, Your Grace. Put me down this instant.”
“Oh, you know you like it. Quit your squawking.”
Christopher choked out a laugh then quickly smothered it.
Oliver set her down and she briskly straightened the creases of her gown. “Yes, well, people should not be judged by the circumstances of their birth.”
Thatraised some eyebrows.
Their victories in London had been hard won. Oliver, Violet, Gabriel, and the children had arrived to their town home a fortnight after Christopher and Sofia’s wedding to consequences far more dire than any had anticipated.
The night they’d arrived, someone snuck into the mews and covered the Anson’s snowy white carriage horses in black tar. After that, the cut direct was doled out at every opportunity, and the personal and political attacks continued to escalate at a dizzying rate. Whites revoked Gabriel’s membership. Good-for-nothing milksop lords threatened to pull their support from every charitable organisation Gabriel remained a part of. Even the Royal Society of Literature kicked up a fuss and moved to have him ejected from the board when a donor with deep pockets threatened to pull his funding. The message had been clearly articulated at every turn—Gabriel must stop embarrassing the upper crust and hold his tongue. If he did not, they would cut off his ability to breathe, tightening one finger at a time until he twitched and gasped for mercy.
The Anson’s unlikely saviour had arrived in the form of Francis St Clare, a brilliant, shrewd caricaturist who worked for The Times and had little love for powerful, aristocratic brutes who would stab an honest man to death with their fancy stick pins.
St Clare had set off printing a run of political satire that embarrassed the lot of them into silence. After the first edition depicted the Earl of Ratcliff paying a well-known street gang to lob rocks at Gabriel’s children, then another that alluded to the Baron St John trading sexual favours to usurp Gabriel’s coveted position on the board of the Royal Society of Literacy… well, no one wanted to be St Clare’s next target. He kept coming at them anyway with clever, honest, vicious drawings until Whites re-extended its invitation for membership and society matrons begrudgingly added the Ansons back to their guest lists.
And now, the dowager had snuffed out the last of the instigators beneath her opulently embroidered slipper. Gossip would doubtless linger for generations and the loftiest sticklers of the ton would never accept their family, but it seemed that the worst had passed.
After the dowager’s announcement, the game continued a while longer, though the dowager and Violet left to escape the cold.
With muscles stiff from the chill, the remainder of their party retreated to the fireside to thaw their numb fingers and toes as afternoon waned. Christopher trudged through the snow to the stables, eager to return the pair of sleds he pulled behind him and rejoin the others. Off in the distance, he noticed a lone figure leaning against a tree near the flagstone path leading to the dowager house. Davies.
A moment later, Davies came alive before Christopher’s eyes. He stepped away from the tree, pulled his shoulders erect, and beamed. Following the path of Davies’s gaze, Christopher watched the dowager’s brisk, no-nonsense steps swerve unmistakably in his direction. He slipped off the path and circled the long way around the stables, attempting to avoid detection by the unlikely pair.
When Christopher opened the heavy stable door, he found Violet sitting in a pile of hay and squeezing a goat kid against her heavily pregnant belly. He suspected she meant to be cuddling it. Violet’s face had gone pale and Christopher imagined his was a similar shade. Dropping to his knees before her, he pried her fingers loose of the baby, who gave an indignant bleat and kicked off in the direction of his mother.
Violet redirected her strangling grip to Christopher’s biceps. He didn’t need to ask what was occurring. He wanted to get her inside and far away from his field of view before the bodily fluids and high-pitched profanity began.
“Put your arms about my neck, Vi, and I’ll carry you inside.”
“No,” she said, pushing him away. Then she wrapped her arms around herself, groaning at the onset of another contraction. Christopher sat gingerly beside her and laid an arm around her shoulders. She immediately shifted to lean into him and he stroked her back until her taut muscles relaxed again.
“You’re covered in hay and Gabriel will suffer apoplexy when he hears of you labouring out here. You are not livestock.”
She glared, then her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to go inside. Not yet. Gabriel has been impossible since Dr Higgins’s new partner suggested the possibility of twins. He didn’t seem to be soothed in the slightest at my observation that goats frequently have two, even three babies at a time.”
“I believe my livestock comment still applies here. And of course he’s become a beast. He’s terrified. And the quicker you deliver this baby—or these babies, as the case may be—safely into the world, the faster his usual charm will return.” He smiled and held out his hand again. “Come on, sweetheart. Up you go.”
Unwilling to wait for further argument, he scooped his friend into his arms and made for the door. Just outside the stables, Violet’s hand sank into the hair at the back of his head and yanked hard as another labour pain swept over her.
Christopher shrieked.
Violet moaned.
Servants came out of nowhere like ants at a picnic to see what the fuss was about.
Sofia appeared from the winter garden, and he didn’t think he could remember ever being happier to lay eyes on his very capable wife.
“Thank God.”
“I’ll get Gabriel,” Sofia said as if Violet was not pulling all the hairs from the back of his head.
“No. Don’t leave me here!” Christopher realised his behaviour was startlingly similar to that of a terrified ten-year-old, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about that just now.
Sofia ran a hand across Violet’s brow and picked a bit of straw from her curls. “Hush, husband. You will be fine. Take her to her suite while I run ahead to alert Gabriel and send someone to fetch the doctor.”
Christopher’s eyes darted up to the sky and the crowd of steely, low-hanging clouds. Snow that had felt magical that morning was now falling fast and heavy, without consideration for a labouring woman and her terrified husband. He cursed.
Another labour pain slowed the journey to the house when Christopher stopped to allow Violet to cling to him. As such, Gabriel’s booming voice met them long before they set eyes on his agitated form.
“I don’t care that Higgins thinks Dr Hawthorne is competent! Hawthorne thinks there are two babies inside my wife and I don’t want him here.” Christopher didn’t think it sporting to mention that neither doctor would have much bearing on the number of tiny humans destined to emerge.
Jeremy raced out the door, nearly flattening Christopher and Violet in the process.
“Damn it Jeremy, be careful!” Gabriel bellowed as he eagerly accepted Violet into his arms.
Despite her insistence that she did not wish to see Gabriel yet, Violet melted into his arms the moment he touched her. Gabriel crooned softly against her temple and her lower lip began to quiver in response. Then he looked up at Christopher with abject terror in his eyes.
“Take care of Violet, Gabe. She’s going to be just fine.” Christopher watched Gabriel battle back his demons before he turned and raced up the stairs two at a time, leaving a trail of hay scattered in his wake.
The following hour passed slowly. Gabriel refused to leave Violet’s side and Sofia was needed there as well, which left Christopher to wander the halls alone and at loose ends. Everyone at the manor, from the stable hands to dour old Bennet, worried for Violet. The walls themselves seemed to hold their breath as the steady rhythm of clanging pots and scurrying maids fell into thick anticipatory silence.
Christopher slipped into a thoughtful mood as he wandered the vast corridors, drawn into memories of the seasons that had passed within Northam Hall. So much was the same as it had been when he’d lived here as a child—the stately artwork, the intricate moulding, even the smells. But beneath the unchanged facade, Christopher had watched the life within bloom, then wilt, then thrive again.
In the old duke’s reign, there had been no space for uncultivated beauty. Spontaneity was plucked from the ground at its roots, and the servants swept silently through the rooms without faces or names.
With Gabriel and Emma came a softer touch. Mismatched flowers found harmony in the warmth of the soil, and each employee’s personality emerged within their respectful replies to Their Graces. The first flickers of joy after generations of repression marked the years that followed. But then Emma had died, and all that fragile life recoiled.
From that frozen tundra, Violet had sprouted wildflowers. Undeterred by the harsh terrain and inhospitable elements, her vibrance carried its own warmth. Goats munched on carefully manicured roses, and scullery maids sang in the kitchens.
With Oliver, life at Northam Hall had again shifted to mirror the duke within. But not so drastically as everyone had expected. Two desks sat side by side in the study, reflecting the two men who used them, who balanced and challenged one another… and bickered like house cats. Watching the brothers work in tandem these last six months, Christopher had felt the rightness in their partnership, the strength in their differences. Now, standing in these old, empty halls, once large and lonely, he was overcome by hope. A new Anson—or two—would be born this night.
Tiring of his solitude, Christopher walked to the drawing room where Oliver had assumed the daunting task of distracting Hamish, who was very nearly as overwrought as Gabriel.
The Scot leapt from his seat as Christopher entered the room, then fell immediately back onto the settee, the legs scraping against the wood floor beneath the force of his collapse.
“Such an enthusiastic welcome.” Christopher strived for lightness and received a narrow-eyed glare for his halfhearted attempt.
Hamish’s head dropped into his hands as the distant sound of moaning carried down the stairs. “I cannae take this anymore.” He surged to his feet again and began stomping about the room in no particular pattern. “Where’s the bloody doctor?”
As if beckoned by the sheer ire of an irritable Scotsman, the door opened and a lean, auburn-haired gentleman strode into the room carrying the usual bag of his trade. Hardly sparing anyone in the room a glance, he made his way towards the grand staircase without breaking his stride.
“What in the name of holy fuck are ye doing here, Hawthorne?” Hamish’s rage took up the entire room. Like a baited bull, his nostrils flared and his fists were clenched to strike.
“Hello Hamish.” The physician’s face was expressionless behind his spectacles, his tone almost bored. “I’m here to see to Lady Violet. I understand Lord Gabriel prefers his wife to be attended by Doctor Higgins, but he is, unfortunately, delayed.” Another longer, louder keen of distress echoed off the walls. “And it sounds as if I’m not a minute too soon. If you will excuse me.” He turned in the direction of the stairs and found his way blocked by twenty-two stone of belligerent coiled muscle.
“Ye aren’t seeing to anyone here. I’ll not have ye lay a hand on Violet or anyone in this house, ye traitorous son of a bitch. Get out before I throw ye out.”
Hawthorne met Hamish’s gaze with unperturbed detachment and shrugged. “Very well. If one of you would be so kind as to tell Lord Gabriel that I arrived and left. Should he like for me to attend his wife, I am very happy to do so and will make my way back towards my cabin at a slow pace.”
“No. Stop.” Oliver blocked the door, glancing first at Hamish, then to Hawthorne. “I have no idea what’s going on here, but my sister-in-law is upstairs in pain, without a doctor. I don’t care if the local blacksmith walked through the door right now. If he knew how to safely deliver babies into this world, I would send him up. Go, Dr Hawthorne. Take care of Violet.”
Hawthorne shrugged as if it made no difference to him and stepped around Hamish, who was shaking with impotent rage. Christopher had to admire the doctor’s gumption. He didn’t hesitate or adjust his path based on Hamish’s long, menacing reach.
Oliver followed. “I’m going to check on them.”
Hamish didn’t budge. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even seem to breathe. Just glowered at the empty stairs as if the force of his distaste could pull Hawthorne back by his ears for a proper thrashing.
Christopher made to follow but stopped. “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”
“It’s private.”
“It seemed rather public to me.”
Hamish’s eyes cut away from the stairs to pin Christopher in place. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed incrementally. “He’s a selfish prick. Cost Nathan his family. His inheritance. Could’ve cost him a lot more. I dinnae know what he’s doing in town, but he’s not staying.”
As one hour slipped into the next, the shrill sounds of distress grew more frequent. Both Christopher and Hamish had long since grown frustrated with the distance from Violet and moved to situate themselves directly outside her rooms. Oliver was already there.
Downstairs, the door slammed hard and footsteps loud enough to vibrate the parquet floor charged up the stairs. Flushed from exertion and trembling with distress, Nora skidded to a halt, her eyes wide. “I didn’t know. Why didn’t anyone tell me? I wouldn’t have gone to the dowager’s. I wouldn”t have?—”
Behind her, Zachariah placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed, looking every bit as distressed that Nora was upset as Nora was distressed she’d been kept in the dark.
She shrugged his hand away. “You knew and didn’t tell me.”
Zach’s lips parted, starting and stopping several times before any distinguishable words broke through. “I thought it would be kinder if you didn’t know until after. I’m sorry, Nor. Don’t be angry. You know I can’t take it.”
Christopher opened his arms and Nora rushed into his embrace, then he lowered to the floor and tucked her in beside him. “Zachariah needn”t take the blame. If you wish to be angry, be angry at me. I told him to keep quiet, sweetheart. But Sofia stepped out half an hour ago to tell us that Violet is perfectly well and everything is progressing as it should. Your papa and the doctor are taking brilliant care of her. Don’t cry, poppet.” Hushing her, he kissed the top of her head, as he had done countless times before.
Nora settled and sniffled, then looked up at Zachariah, whose face was in his hands. Hamish whispered quietly into Zach’s ear and he turned his face into the Scot’s bicep. Climbing from her place beside Christopher, Nora returned to Zachariah and wrapped both arms around his waist. His arms surrounded her immediately, and his cheek rested on the top of her head.
Another of Violet’s moans interrupted the siblings before the thin cry of an infant rent the air. The group stilled, an electrified tension buzzing between them as they waited for the doors to be thrown open and for someone to tell them that all was well. That mother and baby were healthy and the unbearable worry could finally be put to rest. Five minutes they waited. Then ten.
Deep, guttural sobs bled through the heavy oak door. Christopher had heard that exact sound enough times after Emma’s death that his eagerness was swiftly replaced by dread. Every hair on his body stood on end. Christopher reached for the handle just as a second cry joined the first, sturdier. And mad. As if he or she was annoyed with the world despite only being part of it for a few seconds. Finally, they heard Violet’s voice, exhausted but calm, speaking soothing words to a husband who had crumbled, unable to endure a moment more.
Hawthorne opened the door, a wry smile on his lips. He raised an arm—a pointless gesture considering all three men and both children were already barrelling into the room.
Gabriel didn’t even look up from where he half sprawled beside his wife. One hand wrapped around her arm as if to reassure himself she was well, his face blotchy and wet with tears. One messy bundle of baby lay in Violet’s arms, quiet now. And between its parents, a second baby, the dissatisfied squaller, squirmed.
“I’m well,” Violet said. “Two sons.” Her eyes caught and held on Nora, who was lingering at the door, and she held open her free arm. “Come here, darlings. Both of you.”
Zach held Nora’s hand as they approached. When they saw that Violet was truly okay, both children turned curious eyes on their siblings.
Christoper’s gaze shifted to his wife where she was working busily beside the doctor to tidy. She paused a moment to smile first at Christopher and then at the new parents. “You did wonderfully,” she assured Violet. “You both did.”
Gabriel’s lips quirked in a rueful smile, but his gaze never left his wife.
Sofia poured a glass of water, offering it to Violet. “Oliver. Take your brother downstairs for a drink and some food. Take Hamish and the children as well. We still have to finish up here.”
Christopher had no idea what “finish up here” implied, but it sounded messy.
“Come, Gabriel,” Oliver spoke soothingly.
“There is absolutely no chance of me leaving my wife.” His voice thick and raspy, Gabriel sounded as if he had been taken apart and reassembled with half his crucial parts missing.
Oliver’s eyebrows rose. “All right then. We will leave you to your wife and newest family members and bring up food for you both in an hour.”
Christopher didn’t return homeuntil he was certain everyone was well and he could be confident that Sofia would make her way home shortly. He heated water for a bath for his wife, spooned the stew he’d brought from the kitchens into a pair of bowls, and slid off his boots.
He heard the door open and close a moment later.
“Bath or sustenance first?” he inquired.
Sofia plodded in, rolling her shoulders and stretching her neck from one side to the other. “Both at the same time. You may feed me while I wash.” She wrapped her arms around Christopher from behind, giving him her weight. She let out a soft, contented sigh.
“Sofia, don’t fall asleep there,” he chuckled. “How did you leave mother and sons?”
Sofia turned so that Christopher could unfasten her buttons. “Benedict and Julian are both feeding well. Violet refused a wet-nurse despite having double the average number of hungry babies at her breast. She is exhausted, but very well.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “Goats can feed multiple kids?”
She laughed, nodding her response. The gown fell to the floor first, followed by her shift, and she stepped into the steaming water.
“And Gabriel? Will he recover?”
Sofia’s smile slipped into something more contemplative. “Of that, I am uncertain. He has not stepped away from his wife even for a moment.” She relaxed into the tub and sighed. “They are beautiful babies.”
“They are indeed,” Christopher agreed.
“The timing is bittersweet, perhaps. Yesterday, Oliver was confirmed into his title. And today, two little boys, who will never be a duke nor a second son, came into the world.”
Christopher spooned a bite into Sofia’s mouth.She swallowed, then continued. “They will never know the greatness they were destined to have, nor the titles they would have been born to hold. Life will look entirely different for them now that they’re just two ordinary boys.”
Christopher spooned another bite. “Don’t let Gabriel hear you refer to his boys as ordinary.”
She swallowed. “You know what I mean. More, please.”
He blew on the spoonful to cool the stew, then promptly obeyed. “You talk of what they will never have without mentioning all they have gained in the trade, and all that primogeniture could never eliminate.” He filled another spoonful. “They have an uncle who will explain the difference between wood anemone and lesser celandine and show them how to use both plants. He’ll slip them sweets before dinner and teach them how to curse in Italian.” Christopher slid the spoon from between her lips, then held a glass of water up for her to drink. “They have a strong, beautiful aunt to challenge them and ensure that they grow into fine men, capable in every way… not the least of which will be their ability to bake a proper biscotti.”
He set down the bowl, rolled his sleeves, and began lathering a cake of soap between his hands. “When Gabriel looked down at his newly born sons today, he didn’t see nobility who wouldn’t be. He saw laughing toddlers to perch on his shoulders and adolescents who will bicker through meals. He saw nervous, lanky young men on the nights before their weddings and devoted husbands who will one day hold their own sons. He saw a lifetime of love stretched out as far as he could imagine.”
Christopher ran soapy hands across her shoulders and arms, then down beneath the water where she sighed and opened for him.
“Yes, I’m certain you are right.”
He washed up and down each leg and into her downy curls, lingering for a moment before dragging the soap up her stomach to her breasts. “Of course I’m right. I’m right about all kinds of things. I was right about you, for instance. Knew the moment you bested me at fencing that no other woman would do.”
She watched him through heavy lids, a soft smile on her face.
“My God how I love you. And now I am going to take you to bed and keep you there until I’ve exhausted us both.” He reached into the water and drew Sofia up and into his arms.
“I’m already exhausted,” Sofia chuckled.
“Your current drowsiness is no challenge for the Stickpin Scoundrel.”
His mouth found hers in a series of slow, searching kisses. Then, reluctantly, he set her on her feet to wrap her in a towel and shuck his saturated clothing.
“I shall lavish all my enthusiasm upon you,” he said.
Drawing back the bedclothes, he held them open in invitation and waggled his eyebrows.“Sprinkle you with affection like rain in a summer storm.”
He followed her into bed, drawing her bath-warmed body close to his.
“Dedicate myself to new heights of debauchery.” He nipped her neck then pulled away, grinning down at her. She yawned and stretched like a cat, her lids drowsing, half closed. Christopher watched her gradually succumb to her battle with sleep, then brushed a kiss to her lips.
Snuggling back down beside her, he pulled her tightly into the cocoon of his arms, then rolled her atop his body, her cheek nestled against his heart. “I shall stroke your back until you fall asleep,” he continued.
She made a contented sound in her throat, eyelids fluttering closed.
“Hold you all night long.”
Her breaths grew slow and even.
“And love you more with every day.”
The End