Epilogue #2
The children’s table was arrayed beside the adult gathering, close enough for supervision, far enough for plausible deniability. At the main table, their entire family and friends were present.
“If I had known Christmas at Scarfield would entail so much theatrics,” her father chuckled, “I would have equipped myself accordingly.”
“Darling, if you had any sense, you’d have brought a shield years ago,” Moira replied. “Nancy was lobbing stewed fruit at visiting clergy by the age of six.”
“That was an accident,” Nancy said. “And the vicar had it coming.”
“It’s true,” Moira agreed. “He tried to exorcise her after she recited all of Macbeth at supper.”
A wave of laughter traveled the length of the table. Hester and Thomas, parents themselves, nearly lost control of their wineglasses.
“I beg you,” Hester gasped, dabbing her eyes, “tell me you were also banished from grammar classes.”
“She never had grammar classes,” Oscar supplied. “She terrified three tutors into early retirement.”
Hester regarded Nancy with open adoration. “How are we not all in thrall to you, Duchess?”
“We are,” Fiona said, her smile soft as she raised her wineglass.
Next to her, Isaac shook his head. “Children have softened us.”
Fiona elbowed him gently. “Admit it, darling, you enjoy the disorder.”
Isaac relented with a smile. “Somewhat.”
A small laugh came from Nancy’s right, and she turned to see Lavinia concealing her amusement with a sip of wine. “I suppose I shall enjoy my peace while I still have it,” she murmured.
“Oh, you must,” Nancy agreed.
When the plates were cleared, and the dessert of Christmas pudding was served, Nancy’s father leaned toward her as the servants moved in to refill the glasses. “He is a changed man, your Scarfield.”
She looked at Oscar, now bent close to hear Clara’s whispered scheme, likely for a midnight adventure. “He is the same man,” she said, “but now he allows himself to be happy.”
Her father’s mouth twitched. “As do you. Your mother and I were worried for a time.”
Moira, overhearing, cut in. “You were worried? I was ready to stage a rescue mission. I had the coach readied.”
Nancy laughed. “You never let me be unhappy for long.”
Her mother winked. “That is what mothers are for, darling. Now, eat your pudding and try to keep the twins from setting the manor ablaze.”
There followed a chaotic interval in which the children staged a “pudding heist,” then sang two verses of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” at full strength. By the end of the meal, the twins and Clara’s friend from the village were yawning into their plates.
Oscar summoned Wilks, who nodded at the children’s table and orchestrated the most peaceful retreat Nancy had ever witnessed. Clara protested that she was not tired, then fell asleep on Henry’s shoulder before they left the room.
The adults adjourned to the drawing room, where a fire and conversation resumed with renewed vigor.
Hester pulled Nancy aside. “You must tell me how you manage it,” she whispered. “I love Thomas, but the mere idea of three children in the house terrifies me.”
Nancy laughed. “You do what all mothers do: you improvise, bribe, and most importantly, pray.”
“It is working,” Hester said, with a sidelong glance at Oscar. “He is besotted with you, you know.”
Nancy shrugged, feigning indifference. “He was always besotted. He just spent years pretending otherwise.”
“Men are fools,” Hester said. “But at least you have one who is your kind of fool.”
Nancy said, “That’s the best we can ask for, isn’t it?”
Across the room, Oscar conferred with her father, both men standing in the shadow of the mantel, discussing politics or property or perhaps just the children, as men will. Nancy watched them for a moment, struck by how alike they could be when the armor came off.
Nancy was on the verge of joining Fiona and Lavinia at the card table when she felt a hand at her elbow. She turned to find Oscar, who nodded toward the hallway. “A word, my dearest duchess?”
She arched a brow but followed, past the idle gossip and the surreptitious glances of her friends. He led her into the front hallway, where a sprig of mistletoe hung above an alcove. The bough was decorated with ribbon and berries, the handiwork of one of the footmen or perhaps even the twins.
Oscar drew her in, quiet and close. “I suppose you know the tradition,” he said.
She looked up at the mistletoe. “If one does not kiss beneath it, they are doomed to eternal loneliness?”
He smiled, the soft sort he reserved for her. “Something to that note.”
She leaned in, her body already knowing the choreography. “I am already married, you know.”
He regarded her, serious for a moment. “That is a technicality. I never did propose to you.”
She blinked, then laughed. “I proposed.”
“Precisely.” He brushed a hair from her cheek. “Allow me, then, to rectify the oversight.”
He kneeled, right there in the hallway, the Duke of Scarfield making a complete spectacle of himself. Nancy clapped a hand over her mouth. “You are not going to—”
He took her hand, looked up. “Nancy Rowson, will you marry me? Again and again, as many times as I have breath, for the rest of our impossible lives?”
She burst into laughter. “You are being silly!”
He grinned, a wide and triumphant thing. “Is that a yes?”
She pulled him up and rose to the tips of her toes. Drawing her closer, Oscar kissed her with the mistletoe, a silent witness.
When they pulled away, they heard soft laughs behind them, and Nancy turned to see her friends arrayed in the drawing room entrance. Hester and Fiona grinned like cats, while her parents pretended not to watch.
Oscar glanced at them, then back at her. “That was a very improper kiss, Duchess. I hope you do not regret it.”
She pressed her forehead to his. “I regret nothing about you. Not one moment. Not even the wretched ones.”
“I love you, Nancy,” he whispered. “I always will.”
The End?