Epilogue
Six Months Later
The afternoon sun streamed through the windows of the drawing room at Everleigh Manor, illuminating three sisters who sat arranged on various furniture like a portrait of contentment.
Anthea occupied the chaise by the window, her hand resting on the gentle swell of her stomach—five months along and just beginning to show properly.
Across from her, Veronica perched on the edge of the settee, her own pregnancy more advanced at seven months, her hands folded protectively over a belly that had become quite pronounced.
And Poppy sprawled in the largest armchair with the particular gracelessness of someone in their third month, when nausea was still a daily companion.
"I still cannot quite believe it," Poppy said, reaching for another ginger biscuit from the tea tray. "All three of us. At the same time. What are the odds?"
"Apparently quite good when all three of us are happily married," Veronica said with a soft smile. She shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. "Though I confess, I did not expect it to happen quite so quickly."
"Oliver is thrilled," she added. "He has already begun sketching nursery designs. I think he plans to paint a mural of the countryside on every wall."
"Henry is terrified," Poppy admitted cheerfully.
"He keeps asking if I am certain I am well enough, if I need anything, if he should send for another physician.
I told him yesterday that women have been having babies since the beginning of time and I am unlikely to be the exception who requires constant medical supervision. "
"And what did he say?" Anthea asked, amused despite herself.
"That he did not care about other women, only about me, and would I please stop being so cavalier about something so important." Poppy grinned. "It was rather sweet, actually. Annoying, but sweet."
"Gregory is no better," Anthea said. "He has forbidden me from riding, from walking too far, from lifting anything heavier than a teacup. I caught him yesterday trying to carry me up the stairs because he thought I looked tired."
"Did you let him?" Veronica asked.
"Absolutely not," Anthea said. "I can still manage stairs, thank you very much. Though I confess, the concern is... touching. If occasionally excessive."
She felt her child move beneath her hand—a flutter that was becoming more frequent, more insistent. A reminder that her body was creating life, that in four months she would be a mother.
The thought still terrified her sometimes. But it also filled her with a joy so profound it made her chest ache.
"Are you hoping for a boy or girl?" Poppy asked.
"Healthy," Anthea said immediately. "That is all I want. A healthy child who—" She stopped, emotion catching in her throat.
"Who you will love and protect and raise to be extraordinary," Veronica finished softly. "Just as you loved and protected us."
Anthea felt tears prick her eyes. Pregnancy had made her absurdly emotional—she cried at everything from beautiful sunsets to particularly moving poetry.
"I am going to be a terrible mother," she said, trying to make it sound like a joke but landing somewhere closer to genuine fear.
"You are going to be a wonderful mother," Veronica said firmly. "Because you will love your child fiercely and teach them to be brave and honest and kind. Just as you taught us."
"I did not teach you those things," Anthea protested. "You already were those things."
"But you showed us it was safe to be them," Poppy said. "Showed us that being kind did not mean being weak. That being honest did not mean being cruel. That being brave meant choosing to be vulnerable even when it terrified you."
She reached over and squeezed Anthea's hand.
"You are going to be an amazing mother," Poppy said. "And your child is going to be so loved. By you, by Gregory, by two aunts who are already completely besotted even though they have not met them yet."
"Three aunts," Anthea corrected, thinking of Sybil. "Four, if we count Cassandra."
"An entire village of aunts," Veronica agreed. "This child will never lack for love or support."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, three women who had survived Beatrice's cruelty and found happiness despite her best efforts to destroy them.
The door opened, and Gregory entered, still wearing his riding clothes from the morning's estate inspections.
"I thought I might find you here," he said, smiling at the assembled sisters. "Plotting world domination?"
"Planning nurseries," Poppy corrected. "Though I suppose that amounts to the same thing."
Gregory moved to sit beside Anthea on the chaise, his hand immediately going to her stomach in the gesture that had become instinctive.
"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly.
"Perfectly well," Anthea assured him. "The baby has been active today. I think they are practicing acrobatics."
As if to prove her point, a strong kick landed directly against Gregory's palm. His eyes widened with wonder—the same expression he got every time he felt their child move.
"Strong," he said. "Like their mother."
"Or stubborn like their father," Anthea teased.
"Both," Gregory decided. "Definitely both." He leaned down and kissed her temple. "We are in so much trouble when this child arrives."
"Completely doomed," Anthea agreed, but she was smiling.
She looked around the room—at her sisters with their growing bellies and happy marriages, at her husband who loved her with a steadiness that still sometimes took her breath away, at the future they were all building together.
A year ago, she had been certain happiness was impossible. Had believed love was a trap, marriage a cage, vulnerability a weakness.
And now here she sat, surrounded by proof that she had been wrong about everything.
"We should do this more often," Veronica said.
"Once the babies arrive, it will be chaos.
But right now, while we can still move without assistance—" She struggled to shift position, making everyone laugh.
"Well. While some of us can still move without assistance.
We should treasure these quiet moments."
"Agreed," Anthea said. "Though I suspect once the babies arrive, we will create new traditions. Louder, more chaotic ones."
"I look forward to it," Poppy said. "To all of it. The sleepless nights and the crying and the utter madness of having three infants in the family at once."
"You say that now," Gregory said dryly. "Wait until you have actually experienced a sleepless night."
"I am sure it will be dreadful," Poppy agreed cheerfully. "But we will face it together. All of us. That is the whole point, is it not?"
She was right. They would face it together. Face everything together—the joy and the challenges, the triumphs and the struggles.
Because they were family. Not just by blood or marriage, but by choice. By love. By the bonds they had forged through shared suffering and shared happiness.
Anthea leaned against Gregory's shoulder, her hand still resting on her growing belly, and let herself feel completely, unreservedly happy.
She was going to be a mother. Her sisters were going to be mothers. They were going to raise their children together, teach them together, love them together.
And Beatrice—bitter, cruel Beatrice—would have no part in any of it.
That felt like victory. Like justice. Like proof that love really did conquer all, even the darkest of family legacies.
"I love you all," Anthea said suddenly. "I know I do not say it enough. But I do. I love you all so much."
"We know," Veronica said gently. "We have always known."
"But it is nice to hear," Poppy added. "So feel free to say it as often as you like."
Gregory pressed another kiss to Anthea's temple. "I love you too," he murmured. "You and this child and this life we are building. All of it."
Anthea turned to kiss him properly, not caring that her sisters were watching, not caring about propriety or restraint.
She was happy. Loved. Building a future she had once thought impossible.
And that was worth celebrating.
The End?