Epilogue
IT HAD BEEN nearly a month since Miss Vale was carted off to the gaol at Cirencester. Mrs Pinnock—much recovered—had given her testimony, confirming that the girl’s late parents had left her a fortune which vanished the moment it passed into Sir Ambrose’s care.
She also admitted that she herself had come to Plumpton intent on bribing Sir Ambrose—only to discover, too late, that Miss Vale had come with murder in mind.
Mrs Pinnock, Flora reflected, had not learned any moral lessons from the affair.
Still, at least the tale had something of a happy ending.
Mr Treswell had since ensured that the monies stolen by Sir Ambrose were reclaimed from his estate.
Not only had her own accounts been restored, but so too had those of his many victims—including, to everyone’s surprise, Mr Jasper Goodwin.
He had not made his desired fortune but he had at least broken even—a rare feat for a man’s first venture into business.
And now, with justice served and peace restored, Plumpton turned its thoughts to merrier business: the harvest home fair.
The village green was a riot of colour and clamour, as Plumpton celebrated the end of the reaping season.
The Ladies’ Society had gone all out for the occasion, stringing bunting from the trees and hiring three fiddle-players to entertain the crowds as they enjoyed chestnut roasting, apple-cider bobbing, and the ever-popular vegetable competitions.
Flora moved through the fair alone, her basket tucked neatly over her arm.
As she walked, she caught sight of the servants from neighbouring villages, lined up in their neatest clothes, calling out their skills to prospective employers.
She paused, struck by a sudden, piercing memory—the day she had stood in line herself, plain and hopeful, until Mr Allen had tapped her shoulder and taken her on at Crabb Hall. How much had changed since then.
She was no longer alone in the world, no longer feeling as though pieces of herself were missing.
The loss of her parents would always ache, but it no longer hollowed her.
To love as she loved James, to be so entirely entwined with another soul—it was no wonder her parents had not been able to live without each other.
At last she felt peace, and a quiet comfort in knowing that, wherever they were, they were together.
She stopped at a stall where a small boy was selling glossy brown conkers strung on twine.
“For luck, miss,” he swore, all sincerity.
“For spiders,” Flora corrected gently, dropping a coin into his hand and choosing a few strings. Old habits died hard—she would leave them on the windowsills at Brackenfield to ward off any eight-legged visitors.
“Flora!”
Her grandmother’s voice rang out in the crisp autumn air. Flora turned to see Mrs Bridges marching towards her, trailed by her devoted servant.
Flora grinned at her husband, who was laden with three baskets, a bolt of fabric, and what looked suspiciously like a bag of turnips.
“Are you finished with your shopping?” she asked her grandmother, who only gave a shrug.
“Perhaps—though having a strong man about to carry things home makes everything much more tempting,” Mrs Bridges declared with a grin. For someone who had managed perfectly well on her own for so long, she was now quite taken with being waited on.
“Speaking of footmen,” Flora said, nodding towards the vegetable tent. “Is that Edward I see speaking to Helen?”
The three turned to watch Brackenfield’s maid, her cheeks as red as her hair, chatting with the footman from The King’s Head Inn.
“He looks smitten,” James observed, casting a wry glance at his wife that seemed to say—as I would know.
The crowd fell suddenly silent as one of the judges held aloft a very large, very suggestively shaped turnip, declaring it the winner of the Brassica category.
“A wonderful, large specimen,” the judge pronounced pompously.
“It’s not that large,” someone called out, to the general merriment of the crowd.
Edward, Flora noted with a grin, had paled at that and cast a nervous glance at Helen to see how impressed she was with its size.
“You two go on,” Mrs Bridges urged. “I want to see who wins the largest gourd—I heard Mr Babbington’s marrows are as big as his head. Quite the achievement, if true.”
Hand in hand they strolled on, and soon spied James’s brother, Lord Nathaniel Thorne, standing by the cider stand with Mr Marrowbone, looking every inch the picture of country contentment.
That contentment vanished the instant Mrs Mifford descended upon him, her niece Miss Charlotte in tow.
“I say, Lord Thorne, what a surprise to see you again! You quite disappeared at the wedding.”
“Mrs Mifford,” Lord Thorne said politely, straightening. “I was just—” He glanced about for support, only to find that Mr Marrowbone had slipped away, pint and all.
James chuckled as Flora raised a brow, gesturing that perhaps they ought to intervene. “He’s old enough to look after himself,” he murmured.
Across the way, Mrs Mifford was already leaning in, eyes bright. “And tell me, my lord—are you married?”
“Indeed, madam,” he replied.
Mrs Mifford heaved a sigh, her interest evaporating at once. With Miss Charlotte firmly in tow, she swept away, leaving Lord Thorne blinking after them.
“Was it something I said?” Flora heard him ask aloud, as he lifted his pint for another sip.
She laughed, and James gave her hand a gentle squeeze, steering her away from the bustle. They wandered toward the edge of the green to the village, where the low sun had turned everything it touched to gold.
James shifted the baskets he still carried onto one arm and drew her close with the other. Flora nestled against his warmth, still not quite believing that he walked beside her as her husband.
“In a few months’ time,” he whispered, as they passed the shop she had acquired the lease for on the main street. “You’ll have your apothecary open, and half the county will be queuing for your remedies.”
“Our remedies,” Flora corrected, smiling up at him. “I think you are more excited than I about it all.”
“What man wouldn’t be excited at the prospect of being kept by a beautiful, successful business woman?” he teased, easily dodging the playful thwack she offered in response.
“Though I am proud of you,” he continued sincerely, “And I am glad that you allowed me to play a part in your second act.”
“The romantic lead,” Flora confirmed, as she leaned into him.
Just weeks ago she had not even known him; now she could not imagine life without him—and all it had taken was a little magic, a murder, and a love potion.