EPILOGUE #2
For S.V., who taught me that hope is worth the risk.
Sebastian's throat tightened. "Harriet…"
"Don't." She was crying now, tears streaming down her face. "Don't say anything. I'll start sobbing properly, and then Eleanor will wake up, and it will be chaos."
"Come here."
He pulled her into his arms, the book pressed between them, and held her while she cried. These were not the tears of grief he had grown so accustomed to comforting…these were tears of joy, of disbelief, of dreams finally realized.
"I didn't think it would actually happen," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. "Even when the publisher accepted it. Even when they sent the proofs. I kept waiting for something to go wrong."
"Nothing went wrong."
"I know. That's what's so strange." She pulled back to look at him, her face blotchy and beautiful. "Good things keep happening, Sebastian. The baby, the book, and this life we have. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it just... doesn't."
"Perhaps there is no other shoe."
"There's always another shoe."
"Not always." He cupped her face in his hands. "Sometimes things simply work out. Sometimes people get to be happy."
"That sounds too easy."
"It wasn't easy. We fought for this. We survived two years of heartbreak and came out the other side. We earned this happiness, Harriet. Both of us."
She was quiet for a moment, processing his words. Then she laughed a watery, incredulous sound.
"When did you become so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You were simply too busy arguing with me to notice."
"I was not arguing. I was engaging in spirited debate."
"Ah yes. Spirited debate. That's what we're calling it."
She swatted his arm, but she was smiling. "Read the book. Tell me what you think."
"I've already read the poems. Dozens of times."
"Read them in book form. It's different."
"Is it?"
"It feels different. More real." Harriet took the book from him and opened to a page near the middle. "This one. Read this one."
It was the poem she had shown him in the Lake District, two years ago.
The one about loss and waiting and the empty space where hope used to be.
But now, in the context of the full collection, it read differently.
It was not just a poem about grief—it was a poem about survival.
About coming through darkness and finding light on the other side.
"It's beautiful," Sebastian said, when he finished.
"You've said that before."
"It's still true." He looked up at her. "I'm proud of you, Harriet. More proud than I can say."
"Even though I published anonymously?"
"'By a Lady' isn't exactly anonymous. Everyone will know it's you within a fortnight."
"Will they?"
"Darling, you've been talking about poetry at dinner parties for years. You've quoted Wordsworth at three different earls. You once got into a shouting match with Lord Byron's cousin about the superiority of the Romantics." Sebastian smiled. "The ton is not stupid. They'll figure it out."
"I suppose I wasn't very subtle."
"You were magnificently obvious. It's one of the things I love about you."
Harriet took the book back, holding it against her chest like something precious. "I want to send a copy to my mother. And to Mrs. Thornton, she’s always been kind about my writing. And perhaps to that horrible critic who said women shouldn't attempt verse. I'd like him to choke on his own words."
"A noble goal."
"I thought so."
Eleanor's cry echoed from upstairs, signaling the end of her nap.
"Duty calls," Harriet said, but she was still smiling. "Will you come?"
"Always."
They went upstairs together, the book left on Sebastian's desk, its gold lettering catching the afternoon light.
Later, Harriet would send copies to everyone she had ever met.
Later, the reviews would come, mostly positive, a few scathing, all of them treating her work with the seriousness it deserved.
Later, she would begin work on a second collection, this one about motherhood and love and the strange miracle of getting everything you ever wanted.
But for now, there was only this: a crying baby, a laughing wife, and a life so full of joy that Sebastian sometimes thought it might burst.
***
The letter from Lady Fordshire arrived on a Tuesday.
Harriet was in the garden, watching Eleanor toddle unsteadily across the grass while Sebastian hovered nearby, and ready to catch her if she fell. It was a perfect autumn afternoon, the trees beginning to turn gold and crimson, the air crisp with the promise of winter.
"Post, my lady." The footman presented the silver tray with its single letter.
Harriet recognized her mother's handwriting immediately. She opened the letter while keeping one eye on Eleanor, who had discovered a particularly fascinating stick and was attempting to eat it.
My dearest Harriet, the letter began.
I have news that I wanted you to hear from me before the gossip reaches you through other channels. Lord Davies passed away last week. Apoplexy, apparently, he collapsed at his club and was gone within hours.
I know you have no reason to mourn him, and I would not expect you to. But I thought you should know, particularly given the circumstances of his widow and child.
Lady Davies, it seems, is not as well-provided-for as one might expect. Davies's debts were considerable, and the estate is entailed in a way that leaves her with very little. There is talk of her returning to her family, though I understand they are not eager to receive her.
I tell you this not to gloat, though I confess to a certain satisfaction but because it occurs to me that you might wish to take some action. The child, whatever his parentage, is innocent of his father's sins. And Lady Davies, for all her cruelties, is now a widow with few resources.
You have always been more generous than your enemies deserved. I leave the decision to you.
Your loving mother
Harriet read the letter twice, then folded it carefully and tucked it into her pocket.
"News?" Sebastian asked, still hovering over Eleanor, who had abandoned the stick in favor of pulling up grass by the handful.
"Lord Davies is dead."
Sebastian's expression flickered…surprise, then something harder to read. "I see."
"Apoplexy. Very sudden." Harriet watched Eleanor stuff a fistful of grass toward her mouth and intervened just in time. "No, darling, we don't eat the garden."
"Gahden," Eleanor repeated, then tried to eat the grass anyway.
"His widow is apparently destitute," Harriet continued, wrestling the grass from her daughter's grip. "The estate was encumbered with debt. She and the child have very little."
Sebastian was quiet for a moment. "And how do you feel about that?"
"I don't know." Harriet lifted Eleanor onto her hip, ignoring the grass stains now decorating her dress. "I should feel vindicated, I suppose. She was horrible to me. She made those years in London so much worse than they needed to be."
"But?"
"But I keep thinking about the child. He didn't choose his parents.
He didn't choose to be born into that mess.
" Harriet looked at Eleanor, who was now attempting to remove her hairpin.
"If something happened to us, I would want someone to help her.
To see past whatever mistakes we had made and help our daughter. "
Sebastian's expression softened. "You want to help them."
"I think I do. Not Lady Davies…I'm not that generous. But the child. Perhaps a trust, or an educational fund. Something that would give him opportunities regardless of his mother's circumstances."
"That's very noble of you."
"It's very practical. I don't want his suffering on my conscience." Harriet finally succeeded in rescuing her hairpin. "Besides, it would annoy Lady Davies tremendously to be indebted to me. I find that thought rather satisfying."
Sebastian laughed. "There's my wife. I was beginning to think you'd been replaced by a saint."
"Heaven forbid."
"Shall I have the solicitors draw something up?"
"Please. Something anonymous, if possible. I don't want her to know it's from us."
"She'll find a solution in due time.”
"Probably. But let her wonder for a while first." Harriet smiled, a sharp little smile that was pure mischief. "Consider it a final victory."
***
Christmas at Thornwood Park was, by unanimous agreement, a magnificent disaster.
Lady Fordshire had arrived a week before the holiday, bringing with her enough luggage to outfit a small army and enough opinions to overwhelm a much larger one.
She had immediately taken charge of the household, reorganising the kitchens, redirecting the decorations, and offering helpful suggestions about Eleanor's upbringing that Harriet received with gritted-teeth patience.
"She means well," Sebastian said, for the fourteenth time, as they dressed for dinner on Christmas Eve.
"She means to drive me to madness."
"That too."
"She told Mrs. Patterson that Eleanor should be weaned by now. Eleanor is eighteen months old. She barely tolerates solid food."
"Your mother raised two wonderful children. She has opinions."
"She has wrong opinions." Harriet fastened her earrings with unnecessary force. "And she keeps asking when we're going to give Eleanor a sibling."
Sebastian winced. That was a sore subject.
The truth was, they had been trying with a quiet hope that another child might come. So far, it hadn't.
"She doesn't mean to be insensitive," Sebastian said.
"I know. That's what makes it worse." Harriet turned to face him, her expression softening. "I'm sorry. I'm being difficult."
"You're being a daughter whose mother is staying in her house and rearranging her silver. That's not being difficult. That's being human."
"I love her. I do. But sometimes…"
"Sometimes you want to lock her in the wine cellar until Epiphany?"
Harriet laughed, the tension breaking. "Something like that."