Epilogue #2
“Put it on, please.”
“William, it is dark.”
“I am aware it is nearly dark. Put it on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Not far. Please, Anne. Put it on.”
She put it on.
William led her through the long hall and out.
Not onto the drive, but through the door that opened onto the back garden.
He steered her down the garden path, through the arch in the yew hedge at the far end, and across the small private lawn beyond, which the girls called with great ceremony, “the secret lawn,” and which was used in summer for hide-and-seek and reading novels.
In the middle of the lawn, under the old cedar tree, he had had a rug laid out.
On it stood a low table. And on the table stood a lamp burning very softly inside its glass, two glasses, and a small covered basket.
There was a silver bowl of grapes and, since it was October and the evenings were cool now, two warm woolen blankets folded neatly at the edge.
Above the cedar tree, the first stars were coming out.
“Oh, darling.”
“Do you like it?”
“William…”
“It is not… It is nothing elaborate. I only thought that we should spend some time together before the weather really turns.”
“It is not nothing. William. Come here.”
Anne drew him down with her onto the rug, and he pulled a blanket over both of their legs. He poured her a glass of wine, and they sat with their backs against the broad base of the cedar tree and looked up through the black cut-out shape of the branches to where the stars were thickening overhead.
“It is very quiet,” she said, after a moment. “And very beautiful.”
“Not as much as you are.”
“I can hear the river.”
“Yes.”
“William.”
“Mm?”
“You have done this because there is something you wish to say to me?”
“You know me too well, Duchess.”
“I do. What is it?”
He was silent for a moment. He turned the stem of his wineglass between his fingers.
“I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me? What have I done now?”
“For our time together so far, Anne. This year, and as we go into winter and look forward to the next. For what you have done in it. For what you have made of all of us. I am not a man who thanks people easily, I know that. I am trying to get better at it. I wanted to say it properly, only to you, away from the house and the girls and the usual noise of our life.”
“Thank you, darling, for letting me be a part of it.”
“Thank you for choosing me. Thank you for staying. Thank you for teaching us all, without any of us noticing you were doing it, how a house is supposed to feel. What makes a house a home.”
“You are becoming quite the poet.”
“That is all. That is all I had. I wanted you to hear it under a starlit sky.”
She set her wineglass down on the rug beside her and turned around to face him. She reached out and gently cupped his face in her hands.
“William Redmond,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I have something to tell you, too.”
“Oh?”
“I was going to tell you at the fair, but I lost my nerve. I was going to tell you in the carriage, but Celia was asleep on my shoulder. I decided to tell you since last Tuesday, in fact, and I have not managed it until now. I wished to say it in a quiet place. I am grateful to you for providing the quiet place.”
“Anne?”
“Dr. Ashleigh came on Tuesday.”
“Really? How did I not know—”
“He is quite certain this time. He is… He was careful, William. He did not wish me to have false hope again. He came back on Thursday and again yesterday. He is as certain as such a man is capable of being.”
“Anne, you cannot mean…”
“I am with child, William. I am sure of it. He is sure of it. Almost three months, he thinks. Since August.”
William did not speak. For a moment, he did not seem able to. In the space of perhaps two seconds, his face had gone through a succession of emotions she could not quite read. Then, at the end of it, he rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes as he so often did when he needed a moment.
His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, and he stayed like that for what felt like a long while, breathing unevenly.
“Anne.”
“Yes?”
“Are you…?”
“I am not afraid, William.”
“You are not?”
“All right, I am a little afraid. But not the way I was. I am happy, William. I am happier than I know what to do with. I have been carrying this for a week by myself, and I have been quite foolish with the happiness of it. I wanted you to know that I’m happy before anything else.”
“Oh, my Anne.”
“You are weeping, William.”
“I am not.”
“You are… a little.”
“Very well, a little. Can you blame me?”
“Truly, I cannot. Although you must imagine it is quite a sight.”
She laughed softly against his cheek, which she wiped with her thumb, and then kissed him. His mouth at first, then she moved to his jaw, then up to the corner of his eye, where the tear had spilled over. All the while, he held her.
The stars thickened over the cedar tree, and from the direction of the house came the faint sound of a nursery window being closed for the night.
“Take me inside, husband.”
The bedroom was warm. William had had a fire built up. The curtains were drawn against the October night, and the bedside lamp burned low so that the room held a deep amber dimness.
He stood for a moment looking at her across the room, where she had come to stand at the foot of the bed with her hand resting lightly on the carved post.
She had taken off her cloak downstairs. She had not yet taken off anything else. Her hair was still pinned, and her wedding ring caught the low light. The pale green wool of her dress hung soft around her.
“Come here,” he murmured.
She walked toward him, and he took her face in both hands. He kissed her forehead. He kissed the bridge of her nose. He kissed her closed eyes, one after the other. He kissed, last of all, her mouth, and she made a small sound against his lips. Her hands came up to the buttons on his waistcoat.
“Slowly,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Yes.”
“I want to do this slowly.”
“Yes.”
He undressed her the way he always had, and the way she liked—carefully and with attention. Yet, tonight there was an extra carefulness, a thing just under the usual care, which she understood and did not need to name.
His hand, when it came to rest low against the flat of her belly, did not press or linger. It only settled there, briefly and reverently.
“I cannot—”
“You do not need to. I know.”
“I do not have the words for it.”
“I know, my love. Hush. I know.”
He laid her back against the pillows. He did not rush it, which she was grateful for. She wanted to savor each moment with him that night as one would a fine wine.
They kissed hungrily, their lips moving together and sucking. And when at last he drew back a little to look at her in the low amber light, she saw something in his face she had not before. It said it all.
“William.”
“Yes?”
“I am not fragile. I am not made of glass. I should very much like to…”
“Oh, yes. Your wish is my command, Duchess. But we will go easy.”
“Thank you.”
His hand slid into her loosened hair, and her hand moved to the back of his neck. She laughed low against his mouth because she was so very happy. He laughed too, and for a while after that, neither of them said anything of any use.
As Anne drifted back to the present with her cheek against his chest, she listened to the strong, steady beat of his heart.
I shall remember this. Every bit. The fair, and the ring toss, and the cedar tree, and the lamp on the rug, and his face when I told him, and the reverent way his hand rested for one second low on my belly.
She closed her eyes. His arm tightened around her. The fire settled in the grate with a soft collapse of embers, and his fingers slid down between her legs.
“I need something from you first,” Anne said as she rose onto her knees and straddled him.
“What could that be?”
“Let me know you.”
She moved down his thighs and took his manhood in her mouth, wanting to taste and feel all of him. She bobbed her head up and down, sucking hard and swirling her tongue as if he were the most exquisite dessert in all of Paris.
She thought she heard him curse, which only made her more brazen. She moved down her free hand to cup him from underneath and stroke the base of his shaft.
“I will not last long if you continue,” he growled. “I need to feel you, too.”
She pulled up her skirts and sank onto him hard. She moved up and down, slow and strong, as they began to dance in tandem. He thrust up into her, holding her hips tight, and she saw stars behind her eyes.
“You. Are. Everything,” he said, punctuating his thrusts as he hit the deepest part of her.
“William!” she cried out.
They fell apart together, as they often did, settling into a comfortable position on the bed.
Outside, somewhere across Mayfair, a church bell struck the hour. Inside, the household slept. In the nursery two floors up, Celia was likely dreaming about a gingerbread man of great nobility. Felicity was dreaming of nothing she could recall afterward, except a general impression of light.
And in the great bed in the Duke’s bedroom, a man held his wife while she slept, keeping his hand splayed against the soft place beneath her heart. Although he did know that she was watching the fire, and that she did not sleep for a long time either.
She was too happy to sleep. She was, she thought, perhaps the happiest woman in England.
And she wished, for a little while yet, to stay awake and know it.
The End?