Epilogue
Almost everyone stayed for Christmas. The house up on the hill above Bath was crowded and noisy and festive with Yule log and greenery and bows and bells and filled with the rich smells that only Christmas could offer.
There was the church service on the night of Christmas Eve and bright stars to light their way down into Bath and back again.
There was the exchange of gifts among individual families on Christmas morning, the distribution of gifts to the servants for whom this was the busiest time of year, carol singing, dancing in the drawing room to the accompaniment of the pianoforte, games both organized and disorganized with the many children, relaxation time before a merrily blazing fire for those who could find that rare commodity, a quiet corner. And bright, endless conversation.
But after Christmas it was time to return home, and most of them were glad.
Family gatherings and festivities were wonderful things and provided memories that lasted a long while, sometimes a whole lifetime.
But they were high peaks in lives that were lived mostly on the plains, where there was likely to be greater peace and stability and contentment.
One could not live one’s life on the peaks, after all. They would become tedious and confining after a while.
Winifred and Nicholas were among the first to leave, early in the morning of the day after Christmas. They had a long way to go to London, though there had been no rain or snow over the holiday to slow them down, and none seemed to be in the offing.
It took a while for Winifred to turn her thoughts ahead.
Leaving home had been far more heart-wrenching than she had anticipated.
For of course she was not the only one involved.
Mama and Papa had put a brave face on it and had smiled and hugged her.
The children had been more long faced. Alice had cried, and the twins had followed suit.
Jacob had looked glum and kicked the carpet, and Andrew had looked bewildered.
Robbie had glowered and Nelson had nudged his hand and whined softly.
Sam had told Nicholas he hated him because he had made Alice and the twins cry, and then would not say sorry even when urged to do so by his mother. Sarah’s smile had wobbled at the edges.
Home would always be home, Mama and Papa had assured Winifred. But it never would be. Not really. Nothing would ever be the same again. Everything had changed, as everything always did. It was the nature of life.
Nicholas, beside her in the carriage, took her hand and laced their fingers, and gave her time to grieve before she turned her thoughts toward the new life that was ahead of her.
And oh, it was what she wanted more than anything else.
For she both loved him and was in love with him, and never let anyone try to tell her there was no difference between the two.
She was head over heels in love with him.
Three nights of passion with him had exhausted her and filled her with energy and the yearning for more and more of his lovemaking.
It was not all marriage was made of, of course.
There was far, far more. But it was quite acceptable to crave it almost more than all else during these early days, the honeymoon phase of their life together.
She marveled over the wonder of knowing she gave him every bit as much pleasure and satisfaction as he gave her. Her, plain, ordinary Winifred Cunningham. No, correct that. Winifred Ware.
But where were they going? She still had not asked.
“Where are we going?” she asked now.
He turned his head to look down at her. “Home,” he said. “Where else?”
“But where exactly is home?” she asked him.
“I thought you would never ask,” he said.
“And I thought you would never tell,” she said. “Is it London? Not your old rooms, surely. You promised to look for a house when you left Ravenswood, but you did not do so.”
“How do you know that?” he asked.
She looked sharply at him. “Because you never said.”
“Did I ever say I had not looked?” he asked her. “Or that I had not purchased? Or furnished and got it ready for you?”
She gazed at him and sank her teeth into her lower lip. “Did you?” she said. “All of those things?”
“Yes,” he said.
“All?” Her voice had risen to a squeak.
“Yes,” he said, and she punched the side of his arm.
He had chosen and purchased and furnished a house? And got it ready for her? He had done it all with her in mind, but with not a word to her?
Men! Really. Men!
“I suppose you want details,” he said. “I am not much good with words, Win. Not to describe something visually anyway. What I see in my mind and what comes out of my mouth often bear little resemblance to each other. I will show you, though. I hope you will like it. I know you will. I know you.”
Just like that? He knew her? He knew what sort of house and what sort of furnishings would please her? Could it be true? Curiously, she thought it might be.
She sat back in her seat and closed her eyes. And tipped her head sideways to lean against his shoulder.
“Tired?” he asked.
“Mmm,” she said.
“You have not been sleeping well?” he asked. “Has something been keeping you awake?”
She smiled but did not answer.
When she woke up, they were not far from London.
Except that, even when they arrived there, they did not stop but crossed a bridge over the River Thames and drove beside the water for a short while before turning south and finding themselves almost immediately in rural countryside and driving into a picturesque village, most of its houses and other buildings clustered about a green.
On the far edge of the village, just when she thought they were going to drive right on by, the carriage turned onto a short circular graveled driveway with what in summertime must be a colorful flower bed in its center.
The house was sizable yet somehow gave the impression of being a cozy cottage.
The roof was thatched, the walls whitewashed, the windows framed by green shutters.
Ivy grew up one side wall. There were flower beds all along the front of the house, dormant now but surely ready to spring to life at the first sign that winter was over.
To either side and at the back too, she guessed, there were lawns and flower beds and trees and bird feeders all awaiting the coming of spring.
“This is home?” She fell in love with it on sight.
“It is home,” he said as the carriage rocked to a halt before the green front door, which opened to reveal a plump, comfortable-looking woman who must be the housekeeper. A man moved past her to open the carriage door and set down the steps while the coachman steadied the horses.
Nicholas vaulted out of the carriage and helped her alight. Despite his earlier confidence, he was looking a bit anxious now.
“It is gorgeous,” she said, taking his hand and stepping down onto the gravel of her own driveway. “It is gorgeous, Nicholas.”
He introduced her to the housekeeper, who had stepped outside to welcome them before turning with the man to the baggage coach, which was pulling in behind them.
Nicholas led Winifred toward the front door. But he stopped before they went inside and bent to sweep her up into his arms.
“Welcome home, Win, my love,” he said as he stepped over the threshold with her.
Home.
It must be one of the loveliest words in the English language, she thought.