Epilogue
Andrew took his wife to meet his sister-in-law in the spring, as promised.
If Dottie and the tenants and neighbors were astonished at the difference in their ages, no one could fail to recognize the love they had for each other.
By then, though she did not know it, Cynthia was carrying their child, and like some lucky women in that condition, she was blooming with health.
Everyone agreed that though she was older than they expected, and not exactly beautiful, she was a perfect Countess.
She remembered everyone’s names and talked sensibly with the country wives, who, like her, had to make a shilling do the work of a pound.
It was then that Andrew finally painted the portrait of his wife, her peaceful face glowing with the joy of the child growing inside her, her errant curl falling over her forehead and her eyes filled with tenderness as she looked at the man she had loved since the moment he fell unconscious on her doorstep.
It was the loveliest portrait he ever painted.
From the earliest age, he accompanied his parents on their quarterly visit to the Doncaster estates, where his Aunt Dottie doted on him.
He was a smiling little boy, curious about everything.
He was fascinated by the steam pumps and as soon as he could read, became an expert on them.
Andrew couldn’t understand it; he had never been able to fathom the working of any machine.
But Cynthia said it wasn’t unlike embroidery.
You just had to work out what went where.
As Andrew had predicted, Dottie and Cynthia became good friends. They would walk in the garden or sit companionably by the fire, chatting like sisters. Dottie never tired of hearing how Cynthia and Andrew had met: how he had fallen at her feet, and she had fallen in love.
The End