Epilogue
A heart to love, and in that heart
Courage to make ’s love known.
Clafton Hall was properly repaired, furnished, and finished by May.
Violet Arden was never very good at patience, however, and her wedding quite preceded Clafton’s hosting debut.
No, she could not wait to marry her Mr. Kerr, who agreed that a swift wedding was the best idea.
It was a happy event made better by the profusion of friends who arrived to fête the couple.
Violet was particularly moved to discover that Cristabel Bilbury had made the journey from London, bringing with her a surprise that fittingly blessed the union—she revealed to the couple a wrapped frame, and beneath the covering lay Violet’s self-portrait, vividly restored.
Ann, of course, had conspired to ship the thing to London and have Cristabel rectify the defacement.
A still greater revelation followed, as Ann and Emilia cleverly presented the portrait of Alasdair that Violet had started and abandoned.
Though she had bade them to shove it in the fire, leave it in the snow, they had safely hidden it in a dark corner of the house.
When finished, it would hang side by side with Violet’s, positioned just over a small, charming table with a floral design.
The wedding took place on a bracingly cold morning at the small church in Cray Arches.
Aunt Mildred held her nose long enough to attend, though Lady Edith swore she would not deign to appear.
To everyone’s sustained surprise, Lady Edith did march through the wedding breakfast at Sampson Park, tilt her chin low enough to glimpse Violet, and state, “That is a pleasing shade of blue,” in regard to the bride’s gown. For the moment, it was enough.
A thrill of hope went through Violet, and she squeezed Alasdair’s hand beneath the table.
Perhaps one day, Lady Edith would stay in the room long enough to see how glowingly happy the young lady made her son.
Freddie Kerr announced to anyone who would listen (and those who expressed total disinterest) that he was going to be a solicitor.
Mr. Finny, who had come from London, coolly schooled his expression into one of feigned acceptance.
He would be seeing much more of Freddie.
These professional declarations were not missed by Emilia Graddock, who peered at Freddie occasionally, though any who saw these looks would assume they indicated no more than passing curiosity.
Emilia had devoted herself to her sister’s charitable society, and while Ann graciously endured the trials of motherhood, Emilia took charge.
It was not clear whether she had sworn off love for good, though Maggie confided that Emilia had begged for her next novel to be a romance.
The Arden sisters took this as an encouraging sign.
Many at the wedding whispered doubts that Violet Kerr would continue painting beyond what suited a rich hobbyist. Yet they would all be proved wrong, for Violet had made a promise to Cristabel that she would never turn away from her art, and Alasdair had fallen so madly in love with the woman and the work that he encouraged her to continue.
She did, of course, and while she was not being accepted into the Royal Watercolour Society anytime soon, commissions soon poured in from the members of the Tenebris Circle.
Perhaps Robert and Lillian Daly refused to lower themselves to dine with Violet, but there were other men with other wives, wives who were hungry for clever conversation and good company.
Violet set aside all of her earnings to pay for their beef and would not hear Alasdair’s protestations about it.
When it was time for the family to relocate to Clafton, Alasdair took exactly one portrait of Sir Jonathan from their warehouse and kept it in his private study.
By and by, his fury toward the man settled into something more like disappointment.
He would live longer than his father and turn around toward the past to cast his gaze disapprovingly on the man’s mistakes.
Alasdair did not pretend to understand the man but loved him for the fine lessons he had handed down. Some he took, some he left behind.
John Danforth was lost to the prisons, and Lady Edith never spoke of him again.
Clafton was the sort of great house that required dogs, and so Violet chose several from a litter.
She painted them frequently, often joking that she had made good on her promise to paint only dogs and never men.
This rule was swiftly broken, as she could not resist painting Alasdair, the man, with his hounds.
And the goat, Puck—for how could we forget him—at last met his match in these very hounds.
Often set loose upon the grounds of Pressmore, the pups could be seen giving Puck a merry chase, and when, at last, they were all exhausted, they made a bed of his round, obliging belly.
Their little joke of men and hounds indeed found its way into one of Maggie’s books, and Violet provided a small painting that fit the story.
Bridger Darrow had it made into a woodcutting for the frontispiece of Maggie’s novel, copies of which landed in the Sapphire Library—a place of destiny for both sisters—and others were placed into the new library at Alasdair’s vision of Clafton, and it was, at last, enough.