Epilogue
SIX MONTHS LATER
“Uncle Morgan! Uncle Morgan, look what I can do!”
Philip hung upside down from the settee in Ambrose and Imogen’s drawing room, his face red with exertion and triumph.
“Very impressive,” Morgan said, though his expression suggested he was mentally calculating the likelihood of the boy tumbling onto his head. “Though perhaps you should—”
“I can do it too!” Arthur announced, immediately flipping himself over the arm of a chair with considerably less grace than his brother.
“Boys!” Miss Winslow called from across the room, where she sat with Eliza and Imogen. “Indoor voices, please. And definitely no calisthenics on the furniture.”
“But Uncle Morgan said it was impressive,” Philip protested.
“I said no such—” Morgan started, then sighed as both boys grinned at him with identical mischievous expressions. “I’m being framed.”
“Welcome to my world,” Ambrose said, settling into a chair with a glass of wine. “They’ve perfected the art of selective hearing and creative interpretation.”
Eliza laughed from across the room, and Morgan felt his chest warm at the sound.
She looked radiant today, her cheeks flushed with happiness, her eyes bright as she chatted with Imogen and Helen.
The deep blue of her gown brought out the hazel in her eyes, and her hair was arranged in a style they’d seen in Vienna six months ago, loosely pinned with small pearl combs.
“Stop staring at your wife like a besotted fool,” Ambrose said, amused. “You’ll give yourself away.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You absolutely are. You’ve barely taken your eyes off her since you arrived.”
How can I deny it when I know it is true?
The past six months had been… transformative.
After their reconciliation, they’d left London almost immediately.
Not because Eliza was fleeing, but because they both needed a fresh start, something to enjoy that was their own.
Needed time away from scandal and gossip and painful memories to simply be together.
They’d gone to Paris first, just as Eliza had planned.
Walked along the Seine. Visited the Louvre.
Ate pastries in sidewalk cafés and practiced their French with varying degrees of success, most of which was hers.
Then Vienna, where they’d attended the opera and Morgan had, to Eliza’s great amusement, behaved himself admirably.
Rome, where they’d thrown coins in the Trevi Fountain and explored ancient ruins. Venice, Florence, Prague.
Six months of discovery. Of learning each other all over again, but this time without fear, without walls, without holding back.
“We brought gifts,” Morgan said, gesturing to the large trunk by the door. “Far too many gifts, according to me. But Eliza’s a terrible influence and kept insisting we buy things.”
“I did no such thing,” Eliza called from across the room. “You were the one who wanted to purchase an entire Venetian chandelier!”
“It was an exceptional chandelier.”
“It was the size of a carriage.”
The boys immediately abandoned their acrobatics and raced to the trunk. “Can we open it? Please?”
“Of course,” Eliza said warmly. “Morgan, help them with the latches?”
What followed was delightful chaos as the boys pulled out treasure after treasure. Wooden toys from Germany, illustrated books from France, sweets from Austria that they immediately tried to eat before Miss Winslow intervened.
“And this is for you,” Morgan said to Ambrose, handing him a carefully wrapped package. “From a bookshop in Prague. The proprietor assured me it was a first edition.”
Ambrose unwrapped it carefully, his eyes widening. “Morgan, this is… this is an extraordinary atlas. Thank you.”
Imogen received a delicate music box from Vienna, Helen a beautiful shawl from Florence, and the boys an elaborate puppet theater that immediately became the center of their attention.
“You spoil us,” Imogen said, but her smile was warm with affection.
“We had six months of accumulated guilt over not writing often enough,” Eliza said. “We had to make amends somehow.”
As the men became absorbed in helping the boys set up their puppet theater, a process that seemed to require a great deal of engineering and heated debate about proper staging, Eliza settled more comfortably on the settee beside Imogen.
“So,” Imogen said quietly, “I have news. About Whitfield.”
Eliza’s expression sobered immediately. “What happened? The trial was supposed to be last month…”
“It was. He was convicted on all three counts of murder.” Imogen’s voice was gentle. “But the judge, he showed mercy, if you can call it that. Instead of hanging, Whitfield was sentenced to life imprisonment.”
Eliza was quiet for a long moment, her hands twisting in her lap. “Life imprisonment,” she repeated.
“In Newgate. He’ll never be free again.”
“Good.” Eliza’s voice was firm. “He doesn’t deserve freedom. He doesn’t deserve to see the sun or breathe fresh air or experience anything resembling happiness after what he did to Abigail. To all of them.”
“I thought you’d want to know,” Imogen said. “That it’s truly over now.”
“Yes,” Eliza nodded, blinking back tears. “Abigail has justice. Finally. After all this time.” She looked at Imogen. “Thank you. For telling me.”
“There’s something else,” Helen said quietly from her chair. She’d been listening to the conversation, her expression thoughtful. “It’s about Whitfield’s daughters.”
“I didn’t know he had daughters,” Eliza said, surprised.
“From his first marriage. Two of them.” Helen’s expression was troubled. “They’re young, poor girls are barely out of the schoolroom. And now, with their father’s conviction, with the scandal…”
“They’re ruined,” Imogen finished. “Through no fault of their own. The ton has turned on them. Invitations have been withdrawn. Friendships have ended. They’re being punished for their father’s crimes.”
Eliza’s heart clenched with sympathy. “That’s not fair. They’re innocent.”
“When has fairness ever mattered to society, especially for women?” Helen said bitterly. “Those poor girls. To lose their mother so young, and now to have their father revealed as a monster…”
“Is there anything we can do for them?” Eliza asked. “Some way to help?”
“I don’t know,” Imogen said. “They’ve withdrawn from society entirely. Gone to live with relatives in the country, I believe. But perhaps, in time, when the scandal has died down…”
They fell silent, each clearly lost in their own thoughts about the innocent lives destroyed by one man’s cruelty.
“Did you ever receive word from your parents?” Imogen asked.
“Nothing,” Eliza said softly. “It is easier that way. From whispers, it appears they’ve gone to America of all places. I hope they… find happiness there.”
“Well,” Imogen said finally, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Enough talk of all that. Tell me more about your travels. Vienna! Was it as magical as they say?”
Eliza let herself be drawn into happier conversation, describing the opera houses and palaces, the coffee houses and balls. But part of her mind remained with those two young women, carrying a burden they never asked for. She knew that feeling all too well.
As the afternoon wore on, they moved from the drawing room to the gardens, where the boys could run off their energy while the adults enjoyed the unseasonably warm weather that autumn.
Morgan found Eliza standing beneath a flowering tree, watching Arthur and Philip chase each other in circles while Ambrose refereed their increasingly elaborate game.
“Happy?” he asked, slipping his arm around her waist.
“Very.” She leaned into him. “Though I confess, I’m exhausted. We’ve barely been back in London a week, and I feel like I could sleep for days.”
“Then we’ll go home soon. You should rest.”
“In a bit. I want to…” she paused, biting her lip. “Actually, there’s something I need to tell everyone. While we’re all together.”
Morgan looked at her, noting the nervous excitement in her expression. “What is it?”
“It’s time, Morgan.” She took his hand, squeezing gently. “Come on.”
She gathered everyone together, Ambrose and Imogen, Helen, even the boys, who were bribed into sitting still with promises of more sweets later.
“We wanted to share some news,” Eliza said, her hand tight in Morgan’s. “Something we’ve known for a few weeks now, but wanted to wait to tell you in person.”
“What is it Aunt Eliza?” Arthur asked.
“I’m pregnant,” Eliza said simply. “We’re going to have a baby.”
For a moment, there was stunned silence. Then Imogen shrieked, an undignified sound that made everyone jump, and rushed forward to embrace Eliza.
“Oh, my goodness! Oh, this is wonderful! This is…when? How far along?” Imogen asked.
“About three months,” Eliza said, laughing as Imogen squeezed her. “We wanted to wait until we were certain before saying anything.”
Ambrose clapped Morgan on the shoulder, grinning widely. “Congratulations. Both of you. This is extraordinary news.”
“Does this mean we’ll have a cousin?” Philip asked, his eyes wide.
“Yes,” Morgan said, kneeling to the boys’ level. “In about six months, you’ll have a new cousin to play with.”
“Will it be a boy or a girl?” Arthur wanted to know.
“We won’t know until the baby arrives.”
“I hope it’s a boy,” Philip said. “Then we can teach him to climb trees.”
“Or a girl,” Arthur countered. “Girls can climb trees too. Aunt Eliza said so.”
Helen embraced Eliza warmly, whispering congratulations, and even the boys, after a moment of consideration, seemed excited by the prospect of a new addition to their extended family.
As the celebration continued around them, with servants bringing pastries and refreshments, Morgan pulled Eliza aside, his hand settling protectively over her still-flat stomach.
“Are you all right, dear?” he asked quietly. “Not too tired?”
“I’m perfect.” She covered his hand with hers. “Happy. Excited. A little terrified.”
“Me too,” Morgan admitted. “All of those things.”
“We’re going to be parents, Morgan.”