Chapter Twenty-Two #2
They stood like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, the afternoon sunlight warming their faces. The garden was quiet around them, peaceful, as though the world itself were holding its breath.
“We should go inside,” Serena murmured eventually. “People will wonder where we are.”
“Let them wonder.”
“The children will want to see us.”
“The children are with Mrs McConnor, being thoroughly spoiled with biscuits and stories. They can survive a little longer without us.”
“Nathaniel—”
“Serena.” He pulled back just enough to look at her, his expression suddenly serious.
“When we go inside, everything changes. There will be wedding plans to discuss and announcements to send and a thousand practical matters to attend to. Elspeth may be gone, but her shadow will linger for a while yet. There will be challenges ahead—social challenges, personal challenges, all the complications that come with building a life together.”
“I know.”
“I want this moment. This hour, this afternoon, this brief space of time where nothing exists except you and me and the promise we have made to each other.” His hands tightened on her waist. “Give me this, Serena. Let me be selfish just a little longer.”
How could she refuse him? How could she refuse anything when he looked at her like that—as though she were the answer to every question he had ever asked, the solution to every problem he had ever faced?
“You can be selfish,” she said softly. “For a little while longer.”
His smile was like sunrise.
***
They walked and talked for hours.
They spoke of their childhoods—of Serena’s early happiness before her mother’s death, of Nathaniel’s boyhood escapades with Edward.
They spoke of hopes not yet shaped into certainty: the home they wished to build, the manner in which they hoped to raise the children.
They spoke, too, of their fears—Serena’s lingering unease at society’s judgment, Nathaniel’s dread that he might yet fail her.
And all the while, they touched. Not boldly, not urgently, but with a constant, unconscious intimacy, as though separation—even by inches—had become unthinkable.
Their hands remained entwined as they walked.
Their shoulders brushed when they sat upon a garden bench.
Fingers traced idle patterns upon skin as they spoke.
Serena had never known intimacy could be such a thing—not merely physical closeness, though there was that as well, but something far deeper.
The intimacy of being known. Of offering one’s thoughts, fears, and hopes without dread of censure.
Of trusting another so fully that vulnerability became not a danger, but a gift.
“Tell me something you have never told anyone,” she said, as they sat together upon the bench where Nathaniel had once found her comforting Samuel.
He was silent for a moment, considering. Then he said quietly, “After Edward died, I used to speak to him. At night, when sleep would not come. I would lie awake and speak into the darkness—tell him of my day, ask his counsel, pretend he could hear me.” He paused. “I still do, sometimes. Even now.”
Serena felt her heart clench. “That is not strange, you know. That is grief.”
“I know. Still, I have never confessed it to anyone. It felt too… exposed.” He glanced at her, uncertain. “Does it alter how you see me?”
“Yes.” She reached for his hand. “It makes me love you the more.”
He huffed a quiet breath of disbelief. “How can speaking to my dead brother accomplish that?”
“Because it shows me the man beneath the reserve and defences. A man who loved his brother so deeply that death could not sever the bond. A man who found a way to endure loss without denying love.” She squeezed his fingers. “That is not weakness, Nathaniel. It is strength.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he lifted her hand and pressed a reverent kiss to her knuckles.
“Your turn,” he said. “Tell me something you have never told anyone.”
Serena considered. There were many things she had never spoken aloud—years of loneliness, small humiliations borne in silence—but one truth rose above the rest.
“When my father died,” she said slowly, “I felt… relief.”
Nathaniel’s brows lifted, but he did not interrupt.
“Not because I did not love him—I did. But he had suffered so long, and watching that suffering was breaking me. Each day I watched him diminish, watched pain claim more of him, until little remained of the man he had been. And when he died, my first feeling was relief—relief that his suffering had ended. And that mine had, too.” Her voice faltered.
“I have never quite forgiven myself for that.”
“Serena—”
“I know it is not rational. I know grief and relief may coexist. Yet for years, I believed that moment revealed something cold or unworthy in me.”
“It reveals nothing of the kind,” Nathaniel said fiercely. “It reveals compassion. You loved him enough to wish his pain ended, though it cost you dearly. That is not selfishness—it is mercy.”
She swallowed. “I know that now. I did not, then.”
“I could never think less of you,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “Nothing you might tell me could diminish my regard. Nothing.”
She gave a faint, breathless laugh. “Nothing at all? That is a bold assertion.”
“It is nonetheless true.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “We are all imperfect, Serena. What matters is not the absence of pain or contradiction, but the courage to face it honestly. And you are the most honest soul I have ever known.”
“I am not certain that is entirely accurate,” she said lightly. “I have learned a great deal of discretion over the years. It is a governess’s necessity.”
“Professional discretion does not count,” he replied. “I speak of the bravery to be seen as one truly is. You have given me that gift.”
She traced the line of his jaw, marvelling that she could touch him now without fear. “We are quite a pair, are we not? Two damaged souls who found one another amid the wreckage.”
“Survivors,” he said.
“Yes.” She smiled. “Survivors.”
Something in his expression made her breath catch—love, tenderness, and beneath it a peace she had not seen before, as though a long-held burden had finally been set down.
“I am glad you came to Greystone Hall,” he said softly. “Glad you stayed when others fled. Glad you challenged me and refused to allow me my solitude. I am glad for all of it—even the difficult moments.”
“Especially the difficult ones,” Serena said. “They brought us here.”
“Yes.” He kissed her brow, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. “They did.”
The sun dipped low, casting the garden in gold and rose. Flowers glowed as though lit from within.
Or perhaps, Serena thought, the world simply seemed more beautiful now that she did not face it alone.
“We should go in,” she said reluctantly. “The children will wonder—”
“One moment more.”
“Nathaniel—”
“One moment.” He drew her close. “Let me hold you in this light a little longer. Let me remember this—you, here, with our future before us.”
She did not argue. She rested her cheek against his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart.
This was real. This was her life now.
No more wandering. No more quiet goodbyes. No more empty rooms and borrowed homes.
She would marry him. She would belong to this family. She would have a home—lasting, steadfast, her own.
The thought was frightening.
It was also wondrous.
“I love you,” she said simply.
“I love you too,” he answered. “Always.”
“Always.”
And in the last light of the sinking sun, they held fast to one another—and allowed themselves, at last, to believe in happy endings.