Epilogue
SIX MONTHS LATER
“Trapped discussing bonnet ribbons with Mama.” Peter appeared beside Cressida. “Surely that qualifies as cruelty.”
Cressida watched their mother laugh near the rose arbor, her hand resting on Mary’s shoulder. “She asked about your prospects because she cares now.”
“I suppose.” Peter grabbed a champagne flute from a passing tray. “Papa asked for my opinion yesterday. Without misattributing Cicero.”
“Progress.”
“He still mangled Aristotle at breakfast.”
The shift had been gradual. Three weeks ago, Lady Bardwell had asked about Cressida’s reading with genuine interest. Last week, she had offered practical advice about Ashmere’s tenants without criticism.
They were small things. Perhaps insufficient to erase years of neglect, but they were trying, and that counted for something.
Her father approached them now, moving with the careful precision of a man navigating unfamiliar territory.
“Cressida. Peter.” He nodded to them both. “Your grandmother’s garden is looking well.”
“It is,” Cressida agreed.
Lord Bardwell cleared his throat. “I wanted to ask—that is, the Duke has mentioned that you’ve been involved in the renovation. The tenant cottages, specifically.”
“Yes.” She studied him warily.
“I thought perhaps you might share your approach. Not,” he added quickly, “because I doubt your methods, but because I’d like to implement something similar on my properties. If you’d be willing to advise me.”
The request hung between them, awkward but sincere.
“I’d be happy to,” Cressida said quietly. “Perhaps we could correspond about it?”
Relief flickered across her father’s face. “I’d like that. Very much.” He hesitated. “You’re doing good work there. Important work. I should have said so sooner.”
It wasn’t an apology for everything that had come before. But it was acknowledgment, and that felt like progress.
“Thank you, Papa,” she said, her face breaking into a tentative smile.
He was soon called away to assess the different shades of lilac her mother was considering.
“They’re trying,” Theodore remarked, appearing at her shoulder with the uncanny timing of a man who had been watching from across the garden. “I can see it.”
“I know.” She leaned into him slightly. “It’s strange. I spent so long wanting them to see me, and now that they’re making the effort, I’m not sure what to do with it.”
“You don’t have to forgive them immediately.” His hand found hers. “Or completely. You’re allowed to let them earn it.”
Cressida turned her head, eyeing him. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“They hurt you.” His voice carried an edge that suggested he hadn’t entirely forgiven that particular transgression. “But they’re making amends. So, yes, I’m allowing them to prove themselves.”
“Cressida!” Harriet wove through clusters of guests, her face luminous despite the late summer heat. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere.”
“I’ve been here.” Cressida gestured around the garden. “Rather conspicuously, I thought.”
“Yes, well, I had important news and couldn’t wait another moment to share it.” Harriet’s hands fluttered with barely contained excitement. “I’m with child.”
Cressida’s response was immediate and instinctive. She embraced her friend fiercely, joy blooming warm in her chest. “Oh, Harriet! That’s wonderful!”
“John is insufferable about it already. He keeps asking if I need anything, if I’m comfortable, if I should be sitting down.” Harriet pulled back, her eyes twinkling. “I told him I’m breeding, not dying, but he refuses to listen.”
Peter cleared his throat pointedly. “I believe that’s my cue to find someone less prone to discussing delicate matters in public.”
“Don’t be stuffy,” Cressida told him. “You’ll have to endure such conversations, eventually.”
“Perhaps in thirty years.” He departed with exaggerated haste, nearly colliding with Mary, who had escaped their mother’s orbit with the determination of an escaping prisoner.
“Mama’s found a new target,” Mary announced cheerfully. “Lady Pemberton. They’re discussing the upcoming Season’s fashions with terrifying enthusiasm.”
“Terrifying seems excessive,” Cressida said.
“You haven’t heard Mama’s theories about sleeve shapes.” Mary shuddered. “I fled before she could involve me in a demonstration.”
Harriet laughed, then touched Cressida’s arm. “How are things at Ashmere?”
“Very happy, actually.”
“Good. You deserve it.”
“Your Grace!”
Lady Seymore swept toward them, Lady Norwell gliding behind, both radiating matriarchal satisfaction.
“There you are.” Lady Seymore kissed Cressida’s cheek. “We’ve been discussing you.”
“How ominous.”
“We were saying how well you look,” Lady Norwell said, cataloguing details with practiced efficiency. “Almost as though something agreeable has occurred.”
“It’s been a pleasant summer.”
“Pleasant.” Lady Seymore exchanged knowing looks with Lady Norwell. “How delightfully vague.”
“I did hear extraordinary gossip about Miss Oakley,” Lady Norwell said, settling onto a bench.
“The former Miss Oakley,” Lady Seymore corrected. “She married Lord Emerton, didn’t she?”
“For approximately three months before they both proved spectacularly unfaithful. Multiple affairs on both sides. They’ve fled to the Continent, completely ruined.”
“How unfortunate,” Cressida gasped.
“You dodged quite the bullet,” Lady Seymore said, her satisfaction evident. “Which reminds me.” She leaned forward eagerly. “When might we expect news?”
“News?”
“Children, dear girl. We’re asking about children.”
“You’ve been married for six months,” Lady Norwell added. “Theodore does know how these things work, does he not?”
“Grandmama!”
“If he requires instruction—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Cressida’s face burned. “Theodore is adequately informed.”
“Adequately.” Lady Seymore’s smile turned wicked. “How reassuring.”
Theodore materialized with impeccable timing. “Ladies. I trust you’re not harassing my wife.”
“Merely inquiring after her health,” Lady Norwell said innocently.
“Your timing is suspicious.”
“Don’t hover, darling.” Lady Seymore kissed his cheek. “It makes you look anxious.”
Cressida took Theodore’s arm gratefully. “Perhaps we should—”
“Actually,” he interrupted, his voice carrying just enough to include their audience, “there is something we wanted to share.”
Her pulse jumped. They’d discussed this, agreed to wait until the party to announce it. But standing here with his aunt and her grandmother watching with barely concealed speculation, the secret felt too large to contain.
Theodore’s hand covered hers where it rested on his arm. “We’re expecting.”
The words dropped into sudden silence.
Lady Seymore’s eyes widened. Lady Norwell pressed one hand to her chest. Even Harriet, who had been pretending not to eavesdrop from several feet away, gasped loudly.
“You’re—” Lady Seymore broke off.
“With child,” Theodore confirmed. “Due in spring.”
What followed was chaos of the most genteel sort.
Lady Seymore embraced them both with damp eyes. Lady Norwell declared herself vindicated in her excellent matchmaking. Harriet squealed and immediately began planning how their children would grow up together.
Peter reappeared, drawn by the commotion, and offered stiff congratulations that couldn’t quite hide his pleasure. Mary hugged Cressida hard enough to knock the air from her lungs, whispering her fierce excitement about becoming an aunt.
“I find this whole scene rather maudlin,” Peter said.
“Your day will come, eventually,” Cressida told him.
“God help me.”
Lord and Lady Bardwell approached more slowly, uncertainty visible in their careful steps.
“A grandchild.” Lord Bardwell’s voice carried genuine wonder. “Congratulations, my dear.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
Lady Bardwell reached for Cressida’s hand, then hesitated. “May I?”
Six months ago, her mother would have simply taken her hand. Now, she waited, acknowledging she’d forfeited the right to intimacy.
Cressida nodded.
Lady Bardwell embraced her gently, her perfume familiar despite everything else that had changed. When she pulled back, tears streaked through the powder on her face. “I’m so pleased for you.”
“Are you well? You’re not usually so emotional.”
“This feels different. Important.” Lady Bardwell touched Cressida’s cheek. “You look happy. That’s what matters most.”
“Mama—”
“I know we’ve made terrible mistakes.” Her voice dropped. “Saying so doesn’t undo the harm. But I see it now, how badly we failed you.”
Cressida’s throat tightened. “You’re trying. That helps.”
“It’s not enough, is it?” Her mother managed a watery smile. “But perhaps it’s a beginning. Perhaps this child will give us a chance to do better.”
“Perhaps.”
Her father stepped forward, uncomfortable but determined. “We’d like to be part of the child’s life. If you’ll permit it. Not as we were with you—” He stopped, his jaw working. “We’d like to do right by this grandchild. And by you.”
Theodore’s hand found the small of her back, warm and steady.
“We’d like that too,” she said. “But there will be conditions.”
“Whatever you require.”
“No criticisms. No judgment about how we raise our child. And if you ever speak to them the way you spoke to me—”
“We won’t.” Lady Bardwell’s voice turned fierce. “I swear it, Cressida.”
It wasn’t forgiveness, exactly. But it was space for possibility, given time and effort.
The afternoon dissolved into celebration. John insisted on a toast. Harriet and Cressida retreated to a bench beneath the oak, planning nurseries and how their children would know each other from birth.
Theodore found Cressida as the sun descended toward the horizon, the garden bathed in golden light. He sat beside her, his hand finding hers automatically.
“Your aunt is redesigning the nursery,” she told him. “She has strong opinions about wallpaper.”
“Naturally.”
“And Grandmama’s compiling a reading list for infants.”
His thumb traced circles on her palm. “Ready to go home?”
“Yes.” She leaned against his shoulder. “Very ready.”