Epilogue
Three Months Later
The September sun streamed through the windows of the drawing room at Ellery Hall as James stood beside Frances, watching Mr. Henderson from Somerset Trust make his final notes.
They had just completed a tour of the entire estate—the farms, the cooperative storehouse, the fields where the rotation system Frances had suggested was already showing promising results.
Mr. Morrison had presented detailed accounts.
Mr. Sweeting, representing the farmers, had spoken eloquently about the changes that had been implemented.
And now, as the four men stood in the drawing room, James felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time when it came to matters concerning Somerset Trust—hope.
“Well,” Mr. Henderson said, closing his leather portfolio, “I must say, Your Grace, I am most impressed with what I have seen today.”
“I am glad to hear it,” James replied.
“The cooperative system is quite ingenious,” Mr. Henderson continued. “The farmers working together rather than competing with one another—it is a novel approach, and it is clearly yielding results.”
“That was my wife’s idea,” James said, placing a hand on Frances’s back. “She saw immediately what I had overlooked for years—that our strength lies in unity, not in isolation.”
Frances blushed. “I merely suggested it. James, Mr. Sweeting, and Mr. Morrison are the ones who implemented it.”
“And I,” Mr. Sweeting spoke up, stepping forward, “would like to say that Her Grace has been a true blessing to this estate. She has treated us farmers with respect and dignity, and she has worked tirelessly to improve conditions not only for us but also for everyone who lives and works here.”
“As has His Grace,” Morrison added. “He is very committed to making this estate what it once was—nay, better than it once was.”
Mr. Henderson nodded. “I can see that. And I will be putting in a most favorable report to the board.”
James felt Frances’s hand slip into his, squeezing gently.
“I must be honest with you, Your Grace,” Mr. Henderson continued.
“There are some older gentlemen on the board who were very fond of your late father. They have been… shall we say, less than enthusiastic about the changes you have made. It is they who have put the most pressure on you regarding marriage and other matters.”
“I see,” James said carefully.
“However,” Mr. Henderson gave a slight smile, “there is a younger set now who do not see things the same way. We are more concerned with results than with maintaining old alliances. And the results you have achieved here are undeniable.”
“I appreciate your candor,” James allowed.
“I intend to recommend to the board that we ease the restrictions on your management of the estate. You have more than proven yourself capable.”
“That is welcome news,” James said. “Though I must confess, I intend to free myself from Somerset Trust as soon as I can.”
Mr. Henderson did not seem offended. In fact, he nodded.
“I suspected as much. And I cannot blame you. The terms that were imposed on this estate were not very fair, to begin with. Your father, God rest his soul, was a poor businessman. Even though some of the people on the board were his friends and favored him, they did not trust his business acumen. And unfortunately, you inherited those unfavorable terms along with the estate.”
“Yes,” James said quietly.
“There is another gentleman,” Mr. Henderson revealed.
“An earl in Somerset, who recently accomplished what you are hoping to do. He took out a loan from a merchant—a Mr. Cornelius Ashworth—who set quite fair terms. Much more reasonable than what the bank demands. I would be happy to put you in touch with him, if you are interested.”
Frances looked up at him in surprise. “You would recommend your employer’s rival?”
Mr. Henderson smiled. “Your Grace, I only wish to see young, promising gentlemen such as your husband succeed. Somerset Trust was established to help estates thrive, not to keep them in perpetual bondage. If His Grace can find better terms elsewhere, then I am all for it.”
“That is most generous of you,” Frances said warmly.
“It is merely good sense,” Mr. Henderson replied. “Besides, once His Grace has freed himself and made this estate the success I know it will be, perhaps he will remember the bank favorably and recommend us to others who might benefit from our services under more equitable terms.”
“I shall certainly do so,” James said, extending his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Henderson. Truly.”
They shook hands, and Mr. Henderson gathered his things. “I shall send you Mr. Ashworth’s details within the week. Good day to you both.”
After Mr. Henderson departed, Mr. Sweeting and Mr. Morrison bid their own farewells, leaving James and Frances alone in the drawing room.
The moment the door closed, Frances turned to him with a radiant smile. “Did you hear what he said? He is going to help you free yourself from the bank!”
“I heard,” James said, pulling her into his arms. “And it is all thanks to you.”
“To me? I did nothing.”
“You did everything.” He kissed her forehead. “You saw what this estate could be. You gave me hope when I had none. You stood by me when I did not deserve it.”
“James—”
“Let me finish,” he said gently. “When I married you, I thought I was doing you a favor. Offering you security, independence, a title. But the truth is, you saved me. You saved this estate. You saved everything.”
She reached up and cupped his face. “We saved each other. And we are doing this together. You have worked just as hard as I have. You are the one who implemented all the changes, who stood up to the bank, who fought for the farmers.”
“We make a good team.”
“The best,” she agreed.
“I love you,” he said.
Even after three months of saying it nearly every day, the words still felt new and precious on his tongue.
“I love you too,” she whispered.
They stood there for a moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, savoring the peace and the happiness and the knowledge that they had finally, truly found their way to one another.
Suddenly, James pulled back with a mischievous grin. “I challenge you to a piano duel.”
Frances laughed. “A what?”
“A piano duel. You and me. Right now.” He gestured to the pianoforte that sat in the corner of the room—the beautiful instrument he had given her, which had been delivered to Ellery Hall when they had returned here after their reconciliation.
“You cannot even play,” Frances protested, though she was already moving toward the instrument.
“I have been practicing,” he said. “Franklin has been teaching me.”
“Franklin?”
“He is quite accomplished, actually. Did you not know?”
Frances laughed again and sat down at the pianoforte, scooting over to make room for him. “Very well. Let us see what you have learned.”
He sat beside her, and she showed him a simple duet—one part for her, one for him. It was a lively country air, the kind that made one want to dance.
They began to play, and at first, James fumbled the notes, his fingers clumsy on the keys. But Frances was patient, guiding him, and soon they found their rhythm.
Back and forth they went, her part answering his, his answering hers.
It was like a conversation in music, a playful argument played out in notes and chords.
He would play a phrase, and she would respond with something cheeky.
She would play something elaborate, and he would counter with something simple but effective.
By the end, they were both laughing, their shoulders pressed together, their hands nearly colliding on the keys.
“That was dreadful,” James said, still chuckling.
“That was wonderful,” Frances corrected.
“I think we can both agree it was dreadfully wonderful.”
She smiled and looked down at the keys. “There is something I have been working on. It is not finished yet, but… I cannot seem to stop myself from wanting to share it with you.”
“What is it?”
“A piece. A piano piece. For you.”
James looked at her in wonder. “You are composing music now?”
“Attempting to,” she said. “I am not very good at it yet. But I wanted to create something that was ours. Something that captured… this. Us.”
“Play it for me,” he coaxed.
She took a deep breath and began.
The melody started soft and tentative, almost melancholy. Minor chords that spoke of loneliness, of walls built high to keep out pain. James recognized it immediately—it was him before her. Before love.
But then the melody shifted. It grew stronger, more confident. The minor chords gave way to major ones. Light began to creep in. And there was a second melody now, winding around the first, complementing it, supporting it.
Frances. It was Frances.
The two melodies danced together, sometimes in harmony, sometimes in gentle discord, but always circling back to one another. And as the piece progressed, the original dark melody transformed. It grew brighter, warmer. It was no longer alone.
By the time Frances played the final chord—a bright, hopeful major chord that rang out in the quiet room—James felt tears streaming down his face.
“It is not finished,” Frances said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “The ending needs work. And there is a middle section I want to add. But that is the beginning.”
James could not speak for a moment. He simply pulled her into his arms and held her, his face buried in her hair.
“It is perfect,” he croaked. “You are perfect.”
“I am not perfect,” she murmured against his chest.
“You are to me.”
Outside, they could hear the sounds of the estate—farmers calling to one another, horses whinnying in the stables, children laughing as they ran through the gardens.
It was the sound of life. Of hope. Of home.
“Are you happy?” Frances asked.
James pulled back to look at her, cupping her face in his hands. “I have never been happier in my entire life.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. I have you. I have a thriving estate. I have a future I actually look forward to. How could I be anything but happy?”
She smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. “I am happy too. So very happy.”
“Good,” he said, kissing her softly. “Because I intend to spend the rest of my life making sure you stay that way.”
“And I intend to spend the rest of mine doing the same for you.”
He kissed her again, longer this time, and when they finally pulled apart, they were both smiling.
“Play it again,” he demanded. “Your piece. I want to hear it again.”
So she did. And as the music filled the room—that beautiful melody of darkness transformed by love—James closed his eyes and let himself feel it all.
The gratitude. The joy. The peace.
He had spent so many years running from happiness, convinced that he did not deserve it. Convinced that love would only bring pain.
But Frances had taught him differently. She had shown him that love was not something to fear. It was something to embrace. To fight for. To cherish.
And as her hands moved over the keys, creating something beautiful out of nothing, James knew with absolute certainty that he would spend the rest of his life loving this woman.
His wife. His partner. His everything.
The music swelled, filling the room with hope and promise and the unshakeable knowledge that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together.
Always together.
The End?