Epilogue
FOUR YEARS LATER
The east wing no longer looked broken and jagged as it had after Mr. Buckley’s death. It was vibrant with light and the echo of sound that often came from the pianoforte. The scent of varnish clung to the wood, in sharp relief against the lavender cloud that followed Mrs. Buckley around.
Emma stood in the doorway with her hands folded at her waist, observing Mrs. Buckley and Owen seated together on the sofa, their heads bent close over the toddler between them.
She had just returned from visiting Mrs. Clifton at Primrose End, where Mrs. Clifton now lived with Mrs. Buckley.
Neither of the women needed constant companionship, but they enjoyed the quiet cottage and having someone to talk to at the end of the day.
They fell into the habit of coming up to Buckley Place for dinner most evenings, which pleased everyone in both households.
Mrs. Buckley and Mrs. Clifton had become fast friends, to the benefit of everyone.
Simon was convicted and given a sentence of transportation, then put on a ship, to the massive relief of all the Buckleys. Now that he no longer lived on English soil, Emma was able to relax.
“Your mama is the best of us all, but she will teach you one day,” Mrs. Buckley said. “You need only ask her.”
“I want to learn!” Lilly declared, the dimple popping that she shared with her father.
Owen chuckled. “Of course you do. You intrepid little thing. Why don’t you see what you can plunk out already?”
“Really, Papa?” Lilly didn’t wait for further permission. She climbed down from the sofa and ran across the room, pulling herself onto the piano seat. Emma leaned her shoulder against the doorway and watched her husband stretch his arm across the back of the sofa.
She could not take it any longer. As Lilly painfully hit the keys, Emma rounded the sofa and lowered herself onto the seat beside Owen, nestling into his side.
“Care to show her how it’s done?” he asked.
“I prefer this.”
“My ears do not,” Mrs. Buckley muttered.
“Someday she will be a great proficient,” Emma conceded. “But not today.”
Mrs. Buckley rose, letting out a sigh. “The Danverses are coming to dine this evening. I’d best make sure Mrs. Rooney has the rooms made up in case they choose to stay the night. It’s too far to travel back to the school so late.”
“I’ve already spoken to her,” Emma said. “Peter is bringing his new wife tonight.”
“She is a darling little thing,” Mrs. Buckley said.
Lilly slammed her hands on the keys, causing all of them to startle.
Emma took Owen’s hand and tugged. “Care to walk in the garden with me?”
Owen glanced back at his aunt.
She shooed them away. “Go. I will watch Lilly.”
They left the room as their daughter continued to play the pianoforte terribly, heedless of her parents abandoning her for a walk in the sunshine.
Emma and Owen walked the path that curved around the urns and flowers until they made it to the stone bench that faced Mr. Buckley’s pride—the Italian fountain.
Emma sat on the cold stone bench, smoothing her skirts, and Owen settled beside her. The fountain splashed steadily, the bubbling water soothing against the distant chords of Lilly’s disjointed music.
Emma’s smile tugged at her mouth as Owen’s hand tenderly held hers.
“You have that look,” he said.
Emma angled her face toward him, feigning ignorance. But she knew exactly what he meant. “What look?”
“The one that says you have something important to tell me.”
She did not deny it.
His thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow and familiar. “Well?”
Emma’s throat tightened, and she turned her attention to a fallen leaf on the gravel as though it were urgently interesting. “You know how dearly we both wished for Lilly to have a sibling.”
His hold on her hand tightened. “I do.” His voice gentled.
Emma rested her free hand over her middle.
Owen’s gaze dropped, then returned to her face with a caution that made her grin widely. “Emma,” he said carefully, “is there a reason you’ve done that, or have you developed a particular fondness for your own stomach?”
Emma’s lips twitched. “I do rather like to hold my stomach, especially when I am ill in the morning.”
For a beat, he did not move at all. It was as if the world had gone quiet except for the fountain and the dreadful music their daughter played behind them. Then Owen gasped, pulling her into his arms and sliding her onto his lap.
She laughed at the sudden motion as he buried his face in her neck, breathing her in. Her stomach rolled from the motion, but she suppressed the nausea.
“Truly?” he asked, his voice rough.
Emma nodded. “Truly.”
Owen’s smile was bright, displaying his teeth. “I do not deserve you.”
“Enough of that.” Emma pressed her forehead to his. “Happiness is not earned.”
His voice was a whisper. “Then what is it?”
“A gift,” Emma said.
His breath caught, and she kissed him, her lips sliding over his with practiced ease. She tightened her hold around his neck and lost herself in the familiarity and comfort that came from being so wholly loved.
When Owen leaned back, he squeezed her waist lightly. “Does Aunt Clara know already?”
Emma cringed. “She might.”
“I thought so. She let us take this walk too easily.”
“You say that as though she is not constantly seeking time with Lilly.”
He glanced up in consideration. “That is a fair point. I love you, Mrs. Buckley.”
“I love you, Captain.”
Owen’s smile widened, and he kissed her again, heedless of anyone who might look down into the garden and see them.