Epilogue
EPILOGUE
T he Bailey Estate, Sussex, England
Gravel crunched beneath the carriage wheels as it slowed, then came to a stop. Abbey sat ramrod straight, her gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap. She’d been married just over three months and couldn’t be happier. She glanced at Ewart as he waited for the coachman to open the door. When he did, the scent of late summer grasses and flowers assailed her.
Outside, a long driveway curved between towering oak trees, leading to a stone manor covered with ivy, with the last blooms of roses hugging the first floor of the house beneath its windows.
This was it. She was about to meet Ewart’s parents.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, watching her with steady eyes that gave her comfort.
“Ye have no idea,” she replied, voice trembling. She cleared her throat. “I’m being such a ninny. Imagine the scold Mrs. Fraser would give me about now.”
Ewart smiled and reached for her hand, brushing her knuckles with a kiss. “They’re going to love you. You don’t need to worry. The last letter I sent Father was a ballad of your praises.”
“Praises,” she muttered. “Good grief. So ye wrote and told them how well I can dust and mend?”
Ewart chuckled and nodded toward the open carriage door. “Let’s go meet them.”
“All right. But if I faint, don’t let me embarrass myself when I wake up.”
He laughed, stepped out, and helped her disembark. As soon as her foot hit the gravel, a man and woman emerged from the manor’s front door. They were regal-looking, like a king and queen. Only the crowns were missing.
And to think, just months ago, she’d been scrubbing floors and changing linens.
“You’re fine,” Ewart whispered. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Abbey smoothed her skirt, stealing one last glance at the grand estate that now—unbelievably—belonged, in part, to her. It still didn’t feel real. She hoped Ewart’s father lived a long, long life. She wasn’t ready to be a baroness.
The Baron and Baroness Bailey descended the steps. Their expressions were unreadable, and Abbey’s heart thundered in her chest. Please approve of me, please approve of me…
Ewart tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her forward. When they reached the steps, the baroness stepped forward first, her expression softening as her gaze landed on Abbey. “Abigail,” she said warmly, “or should I say Mrs. Bailey?”
Abbey took in the woman’s kind blue eyes and graying hair. “Yes, ma’am. It’s an honor to meet ye.” Out of habit, she bobbed a curtsy.
The baron stepped closer. Abbey braced for a slight or some cool word. Instead, he clasped her hand in both of his. “I admit, I wasn’t sure what to expect,” he said. “But Ewart’s letter made something very clear to us.”
Abbey turned to Ewart, breath catching. What on earth did he write? She returned her gaze to the baron.
“Young lady, we’ve spent most of our lives helping our peers arrange matches. We’re quite good at it,” he said with a smile. “I’ve always enjoyed forging alliances and doing what’s proper. But when it came to Ewart—our only son—we wanted his match to be special. What we failed to see, was, he ought to have a say in it.”
The baroness nodded and stepped closer. “We were fools to think we could begrudge our son a love match.” She looked at her husband, her eyes filled with regret. “We were such a match,” she went on. “And I suppose in all the excitement of arranging Ewart’s future, we forgot what it feels like to follow one’s heart.”
She turned back to her son. “We’re so sorry, Ewart. Can you forgive us?”
Ewart smiled. “Of course I do.”
He hugged his mother, then his father. Abbey blinked back tears. This was going so much better than she’d ever imagined it would.
The baron turned to her with a warm smile. “We’ve always wanted a daughter. Now we have one.”
Abbey blinked harder, not trusting her voice.
“Our only request,” the baroness said kindly. “Is that you be patient with us. We’re fond of tradition, but I think you’ll have much to teach us.”
Abbey finally found her voice. “I thank ye. And I’ll do my best.”
Ewart placed a hand at her back. “You already are sweetheart.”
His parents led them inside, and the scent of polished wood and spiced tea wafted through the grand entryway. It was the sort of place Abbey never thought she’d belong. But somehow, she didn’t feel like a guest or a stranger. She felt like family.
Abbey smiled to herself. She’d gone from dusting Mrs. Pettigrew’s bookshelves to living in her own story. One that wouldn’t put anyone to sleep, thank goodness. And one she didn’t plan to shelve any time soon.
This wasn’t just her happily ever after. This was the beginning of a lifelong adventure with her husband. She had her little family back in Denver made up of Mrs. Pettigrew’s household, but now she had another to call her own.
THE END