Epilogue
CHRISTMAS DAY
“Thomas, a little higher—yes, there! That’s perfect. And Mary, mind the garland, love, don’t let it slip off the banister again.”
Catherine’s voice carried through the great hall of Belgrave, steady but full of laughter.
The scent of pine and oranges filled the air, mingling with woodsmoke from the massive hearth.
The firelight danced across the walls, glinting off the brass ornaments and the great glass baubles that hung from the Christmas tree towering near the windows.
“Your Grace,” called little Oliver from beneath the tree, his curls falling into his eyes. “Is it true Father Christmas comes here too? Even if it’s not Brightwater?”
She crouched beside him, smoothing his hair fondly. “I’m quite certain he finds his way to every child who deserves him,” she said softly. “And you’ve all been very good this year.”
Mary gasped. “Even Thomas?”
Thomas crossed his arms, scandalized. “I was good!”
Laughter erupted from the circle of children gathered near the hearth, and Catherine joined them, smiling. “Yes, even Thomas,” she said. “Especially Thomas—he’s been helping the footmen since morning.”
That won her a grin from him and another burst of giggles from the rest.
The townhouse was alive with noise and light and movement, so full it almost startled her. It had been a long time since these rooms had felt so warm. The chandeliers gleamed with ribbons, the windows were frosted white, and every corridor smelled faintly of spices and fresh bread.
For weeks, she had thrown herself into preparations—organizing, decorating, arranging gifts for the Brightwater children who still lived there until their own home could reopen. The work left her little time for thought, and she preferred it that way. Busy hands, quiet mind.
She stood now, pressing a hand to her apron to steady the small ache in her chest that sometimes crept up when she stopped moving. She looked around at them—the children chasing each other around the tree, Mrs. Simms scolding gently, the maids laughing—and felt the familiar swell of affection.
“Your Grace?” Mrs. Simms called. “The cook says the plum pudding’s ready for inspection.”
“Tell her I’ll come shortly,” Catherine replied, smiling. “And remind her to save a bit of batter for the little ones—they’ll riot if they can’t lick the bowl.”
Mrs. Simms laughed and disappeared toward the kitchen.
Catherine turned back to the tree, frowning slightly as she noticed one bare patch near the top. “We need another ribbon there,” she murmured to herself. “A bit of red, perhaps…”
Before she could call for someone, a deep voice came from behind her.
“I believe I can reach that.”
A smile coasted over her face before she turned. Duncan stood in the doorway, coat unbuttoned, a faint dusting of snow melting in his dark hair. His expression was calm, softer than it had been in months, his eyes warmer than she remembered.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said quietly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Good morning, Duchess.”
Something in the way he said it—quietly, almost playfully—made her throat tighten.
He crossed the room in a few long strides, pausing by the great tree. “You’ve turned this house into a forest,” he said, faint amusement curling through his voice.
“Into a home,” she corrected gently.
Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat neither spoke. Then Thomas tugged at Duncan’s sleeve. “Your Grace! You’re tall enough. You can hang this one!”
Duncan looked down, taking the ribbon the boy thrust toward him. “Ah,” he said gravely. “An important task.”
The children crowded around as he reached up to tie the ribbon to the bare branch, his shoulders stretching, his height impressive enough to draw gasps of admiration. When he finished, Mary clapped.
“It’s perfect!” she declared.
“Nearly as perfect as your duchess,” Duncan said, glancing at Catherine.
Her lips curved before she could stop them. “Flattery won’t save you from being handed another ornament.”
He laughed under his breath, the sound sending a ripple of warmth through her chest.
Within minutes, he was helping the children hang the last few trimmings, pretending to compete with them over who could find the best spot for each decoration.
His composure softened in their company; he lifted one boy onto his shoulder to reach a high branch, teased another about tying knots that would never come loose.
Catherine watched from near the hearth, her heart too full. The sight of him like this, unguarded and playful, filled her with an ache she didn’t quite know how to name.
He caught her gaze once, mid-laughter, and the look lingered.
It had been months since that morning in the garden. Since then, he had kept his word in quiet, steady ways: walking with her to Brightwater’s site, listening when she spoke, never retreating again behind the wall of silence that had once divided them.
And now, standing amid laughter and ribbons, she thought: perhaps this is what healing looks like.
Before she could tell her husband just how delighted she was to spend yet another Christmas season by his side, the sound of wheels crunched on the snow outside. The children rushed to the windows.
“Guests!” Thomas shouted. “It’s two other carriages!”
Catherine straightened her skirts, suddenly self-conscious. “Helen and Stephen, likely.”
She turned as the butler entered. “Lord Suthmeer and Lady Helen,” he announced.
Helen burst through the door in a swirl of red wool and laughter, with Stephen trailing closely behind her. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, her curls windblown and charmingly disheveled.
“Catherine!” she cried. “You’ve turned the place into a Christmas dream!”
Catherine smiled, embracing her. “You’re late. We nearly started without you.”
“Stephen’s fault,” Helen said with a teasing glance. “The moment he saw me on the road, he insisted we stop so we could arrive together—properly dramatic, of course.”
“Pure generosity,” Stephen said solemnly, earning laughter from everyone nearby.
Duncan approached to greet them, shaking Stephen’s hand. “You survived the roads, then.”
“Barely,” Stephen replied. “But the reward was worth it.” He glanced toward Helen, and his smile softened.
Catherine caught the exchange and couldn’t help but grin. “You two are getting worse at pretending.”
Helen blushed scarlet. “We’re not pretending at all. Stephen asked me to marry him.”
“Ah,” Catherine said, delighted. “Finally.”
“Indeed,” Duncan murmured, smiling. “Congratulations.”
As Helen laughed and Stephen gave a mock bow, another voice came from the entryway.
“You’re all making too much noise for this early in the morning.”
The dowager duchess stood there, her silver hair gleaming beneath her fur-lined hood, her cane tapping lightly against the floor.
“Grandmother!” Duncan said warmly.
She gave him a pointed look. “Yes, yes, here I am. Now the celebration may begin.”
Catherine smiled and curtsied. “Merry Christmas, Grandmother.”
“Merry Christmas, child.” The older woman surveyed the room with satisfaction. “I must say, this house hasn’t looked so alive in years. Well done, Duchess.”
Catherine’s throat tightened with emotion. “Thank you.”
The dowager’s expression softened. “And you—” She gestured at Duncan with her cane “—don’t let her out of your sight.”
“Not a chance,” he said quietly.
Before Catherine could blush further, the butler reappeared. “Lord Portsbury,” he announced.
The room fell still.
Catherine turned toward the doorway. Her father stood there, hat in hand, looking smaller than she remembered—older, perhaps—but sober.
“Father,” she said softly.
He nodded once. “Catherine.” His voice was low, careful. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Of course not,” she said, stepping forward. “I’m glad you came.”
“I received your letter,” he murmured, eyes shifting toward Duncan. “And your husband’s invitation. It seemed… timely.”
“It is time that we reunited,” she said simply.
For a moment, they stood in silence. Then, quietly, she gestured toward the fire. “Come warm yourself. We’re just about to have music.”
The awkwardness between them was fragile but real, the kind that comes before forgiveness. And for the first time, she didn’t feel anger, only something gentler. Sympathy, perhaps.
The children gathered in front of the hearth as Helen took her place at the pianoforte. The dowager and Stephen found chairs nearby, Duncan stood beside Catherine, and even her father lingered at the back of the room.
“Are we ready?” Catherine asked.
“Yes, Your Grace!” came the chorus of voices.
Helen began to play. The first notes of the carol rose softly, uneven at first, then stronger as the children found their courage. Their small voices filled the hall—sweet, off-key, but full of joy.
Tears pricked Catherine’s eyes. Around her stood everyone she loved: her husband, her friends, the children she had fought for, and the father she might one day forgive.
When the last verse ended, applause filled the room. Duncan’s hand found hers, warm and steady.
“They’re magnificent,” he murmured.
Catherine smiled through her tears. “They’re home.”
Outside, snow drifted down in slow, silent flakes, settling against the glass. Inside, light and laughter glowed bright as the fire.
And for the first time in a long while, Catherine felt her heart entirely whole.
The dining room gleamed with candlelight, every surface polished to brilliance.
The great table stretched beneath garlands of evergreen and ribbons of gold, laden with enough food to feed a regiment—roasted pheasant, buttered parsnips, sugared fruits, and puddings that steamed beside silver pitchers of brandy cream.
The Brightwater children filled the end of the table, flushed and happy, their chatter rising like birdsong.
At the other end of the table, the dowager duchess raised her glass.