Epilogue
THREE MONTHS LATER
It was the sort of afternoon that existed only in memory: the air lush with the breath of new grass, sunlight dappling through the orchard boughs and pooling in the soft valleys between the rose beds.
Rose Greycliff sat cross-legged on a tartan blanket in the garden, the thick spring air saturated with the perfume of hyacinth and the faint, iron tang of earth.
The old wounds in her chest had healed, or at least callused over, and the only reminders were the sharp, joyful pangs that sometimes took her unawares.
Felix was farther down the path, Lizzie in his arms, the two of them absorbed in a private lesson in avian diplomacy. Felix pointed to a starling perched on the yew hedge, mimicked its bobbing, officious stride, and Lizzie’s face broke into a sunbeam grin so wide Rose felt herself almost laugh.
The child was talking now, if one called it talking; a staccato barrage of “ba-ba” and “dib!” and the occasional Greycliff-inflected “no!”
She watched as Felix, never a man given to clowning, dropped to a squat and wagged his head, making a fool of himself for the sole purpose of delighting his daughter. Lizzie clapped with delight, fat fists pounding the air.
In the three months since the fever, the child had gone from a fragile, withered shoot to a creature of impossible resilience. She toddled now, in short, determined bursts, always aiming for the next bright distraction or, failing that, the nearest ankle.
Rose sipped her lemonade, letting the sourness settle on her tongue. The tartness matched the sweet ache of what she saw: her husband, a powerful duke, ceding all dignity to entertain a child not even of his own blood. It undid her in ways she had not predicted.
Felix straightened, dusted off his knees, and looked toward Rose, as if to see if she’d been caught out in her surveillance. He cocked a brow. “Are you proud of yourself, Duchess?” he asked and then set Lizzie on the grass beside him.
“Shall we introduce her to the botanical hierarchy, or do you prefer she remain an anarchist?” Felix called towards her again, his voice carrying with the bright ring of laughter, unthinkable a year ago.
“I prefer she learn the edible from the poisonous,” Rose replied, voice level but with the edges soft. “And I’d rather she not repeat your observations on the peerage.”
Felix gave a little bow, then crouched at Lizzie’s side, pointing out a cluster of primroses that had just begun to bloom.
He lifted one, careful as if it might burst into flame, and pressed it gently to Lizzie’s nose.
The child squealed and smacked the blossom, then snatched it from his hand and attempted to eat it.
“She’s a Greycliff,” Felix said, and there was more pride than exasperation in it. He wiped a smear of petal from Lizzie’s mouth and looked to Rose for a verdict.
“She’s a survivor,” Rose replied, and realized with a jolt that she was as well.
The next half hour passed in the kind of lazy, fractured bliss that always seemed on the verge of ending.
Felix and Lizzie traipsed along the flagstones, collecting dandelions, bits of lichen, and a feather or two.
Rose lay back on the blanket and watched the sky, the clouds slowly rolling from the southwest in massive, gentle herds.
She let her mind drift, as she rarely permitted herself, and thought of the years to come: Lizzie running, falling, getting up; herself, watching, worrying, holding, and letting go in infinite sequence.
It was not the life she had planned, but it was a life she could want.
A flash of white on the lawn caught her eye—Lizzie had wriggled from Felix’s grasp and was crawling with predatory intent toward a patch of violets. Felix caught up in a few long strides, knelt to her level, and attempted negotiation.
“Lizzie, if you prefer the violets, we can reach an accommodation,” he said.
The child ignored him, her eyes locked on the fluttering of a cabbage butterfly that hovered, careless, over the flowers. Felix followed her gaze, then sat back on his heels to watch the chase. Rose propped herself up on her elbows, unwilling to miss a moment.
Lizzie lunged for the butterfly. It flittered away and landed on Felix’s sleeve. The baby gurgled in delight, then crawled up to him and grabbed for his arm.
And then, Lizzie pushed herself upright, clutching at Felix’s trouser leg for balance.
She wobbled; two fists knotted in the fabric.
Felix froze, as if any sudden movement might collapse the magic.
His mouth hung open in a caricature of surprise.
Then, slowly, he reached down and steadied Lizzie by the ribs.
“Rose,” he called, voice strangled with disbelief. “Come see.”
But Rose was already on her feet, rushing over the damp grass, dress snaring at her ankles.
She knelt beside them, hands to her mouth, and watched as Lizzie, still holding fast to Felix’s leg, bounced a little, then a little more, then let go with one hand and grinned at her mother, all gums and wild eyes.
“She’s standing,” Rose said, not daring to believe.
“She’s standing,” Felix echoed, then looked at Rose with something like awe. “Is this—? Have you ever—?”
“No,” Rose whispered, and realized she was crying, fat, hot tears running down her face and dripping onto the grass.
Lizzie made a noise of triumph, a full-throated bellow, then toppled backward onto her bottom. She seemed more astonished than upset, and after a heartbeat of silence, she began to clap for herself, palms slapping together in noisy celebration.
Felix laughed and scooped Lizzie up, spun her high over his head, and the child shrieked with joy. Sunlight caught her hair, and for a moment it looked as if she wore a crown of gold.
Rose sat back, breathing in uneven bursts, and watched as Felix cradled the baby against his chest, one hand splayed protectively across her back.
“I told you,” Rose said, wiping her tears. “She’s a survivor.”
Felix looked at her, and the fierceness in his expression was almost frightening. “So are you, Rose.”
The three of them sat there, tangled in grass and wildflowers and the aftermath of astonishment, until the shadows grew long and the clouds shifted pink.
Lizzie dozed on Felix’s shoulder; her mouth pressed against his collar. He stroked her back, slow and gentle, as if he feared she might dissolve in his hands.
Rose leaned against Felix’s side, her own head drooping with fatigue. She breathed in the scent of his shirt, the musk of garden air, and the sweet, sour, impossible hope of it all.
In the fading light, she looked at the two of them and thought: This is what it means to be saved, and to save in return.
And for the first time in her life, she let herself believe it could last.
The world had gone quiet, the garden saturated with the mellow haze of late afternoon.
Lizzie slept in a nest of blankets, curled among fallen camellias and the detritus of her own earlier triumphs: a crushed primrose, the feather now limp with drool, a sticky half-mashed dandelion.
For once, she looked innocent, the wildness sanded down to a cherub’s repose.
A nursemaid, summoned by Rose, sat with the baby so that she could speak to her husband alone.
Felix lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, gazing at the sky as if he expected it to offer an answer.
Rose watched him, the coil of anticipation wound tight in her belly. She had thought to wait until the doctor confirmed, until the second trimester, until she was sure Felix could bear the news without cracking. But the sight of him just now, loose-limbed and content, had undone her resolve.
She stood and shook the crumbs from her skirts, then crossed to where Felix lounged in the grass.
“Come,” she said, extending a hand.
He blinked, then smiled at her. “Are we taking to the woods, then?”
She nodded; throat tight.
He rose easily, brushed the grass from his trousers, and laced his fingers through hers.
She led him away from the blanket, down a sloping path, past the budding lilacs and the early flush of ferns, until they reached the old oak at the back of the garden.
The tree’s arms reached wide and low, inviting secrets.
Rose stopped, turned to face him. Her fingers trembled in his.
Felix studied her with the careful attention he used for rare books or precarious investments. “Is something wrong?” he asked, voice extremely low.
She shook her head, then, gathering every shred of nerve, blurted: “I’m with child.”
He did not answer, not at first. His eyes widened; pupils gone wide as if the news had hit like a blow. For a moment, she feared he would misunderstand, or worse, say nothing at all.
Then he exhaled, a shaky, incredulous sound, and cupped her face in his hands.
“Truly?” he said, and there was wonder in it, the kind she had only ever heard from him once before, the night Lizzie was saved.
She nodded, unable to speak.
Felix gave a hoarse laugh, then lifted her clean off her feet, spun her in a circle, and pressed his mouth to hers with a hunger that made her knees buckle.
He broke the kiss, forehead pressed to hers, and said, “Are you—does it—?”
She kissed him again, softly, carefully. “I’m fine. It is early yet. But yes, I’m sure.”
He held her silent. She could feel his heart beating wildly and erratically under his waistcoat.
When he spoke, the words were so soft she almost missed them: “I never thought I would have this. Not with anyone. Not with you.”
She felt the old sadness in it, the history of bruises that had taught him to expect only loss, never gain.
She took his hand, splayed it across her belly, and said, “We’re not your parents, Felix.”
“No,” he agreed, smiling with the strange, sharp beauty that always caught her off-guard. “We’re not.”
They sat together beneath the oak, Rose’s head on his shoulder, his fingers idly stroking her hand.
“What will we call it?” he asked, as if they were discussing a new horse or a literary society.
Rose thought for a moment. “If the child is a girl, we’ll call her Julia. For—”
Felix interrupted; voice warm. “For your friend.”
“And if a boy?”
He grinned, a wolfish edge to it. “Julian, of course.”
She laughed and then let herself imagine it: a sister or brother for Lizzie, the sound of laughter echoing through the corridors of Carden Hall, the promise of mornings just like this one, stretched out end to end.
They stayed beneath the tree until the sun dipped low and the garden was a patchwork of shadow. When they returned, Lizzie was still asleep, fists curled, and face smudged with dirt.
Felix scooped the child up, tucked her against his shoulder, and looked at Rose.
“You’re everything to me,” he said. “Thank you for teaching this miserable old cynic how to love.”
Rose, who had always believed herself unlovable, took the words and stitched them into her heart.
They walked back to the house, Rose’s arm tucked in Felix’s, Lizzie snoring between them, the future unwritten but, for the first time, not unwelcome.
The End?