Epilogue
One year later
Hammering outside the window disturbed Isabel’s subject. One-month-old Andrew’s face pinched and turned red before he let out a wail.
Isabel dropped her paintbrush into the water jar and took off her smock before picking up her son. “Oh, now, did those men and their hammers wake you? There is nothing to be done for it, the harvest fair is tomorrow.”
The baby’s cries calmed as she cuddled him. Andrew looked up at her, his blue eyes joyful in recognition.
“There, it isn’t so bad. I almost finished painting you as well.
Would you like to see?” Isabel brought the baby around the stretched paper canvas.
Angling her arm to show him a picture he likely could not understand.
“See, there you are. And there is Mr. Mouse singing you a lullaby. Though he is not as good as your father.”
“Who is not as good as me?”
Isabel turned to the doorway where Victor leaned against the jam, dressed in shirt sleeves and no cravat. “I thought you were working outside. The noise woke Andrew.”
“The hammering, and the imaginative epitaphs, are your brothers’ work.”
“Edward has an astonishing vocabulary.” Isabel spoke in a singsong voice more at Andrew than to her husband.
“I was referring to Nigel and Morris.” Victor came further into the studio.
“Oh! Uncle Nigel and Uncle Morris are here. Believe nothing they say.”
Andrew smiled at that comment as if he understood his rapscallion uncles, who left school for the week of the fair, would be his best aids in finding mischief.
Victor leaned over his son and smiled. “You did not tell me, what is not as good as me?”
Isabel nodded at the painting. “Mr. Mouse is serenading Andrew, but not as well as you do.”
“I should hope not.” The smudge of dirt on Victor’s face kept him from looking truly affronted. “I have it on good authority my songs are well-loved.”
“What brought you inside? Did you find an excuse like I did to avoid harvest fair work?”
“Not escaping. I need your opinion on something. Can you come outside?”
Isabel glanced out the window to see the wind tugging at the changing leaves. “Let me give Andrew to his nurse first.”
“His nurse?” Mother Dalrymple’s voice floated in from the corridor. “Who needs his nurse when grandmama is here? Besides, if I look at another bunting, I might suffer a fit. Your mother, sisters-in-law, and friends have them almost completed.”
Victor’s mother took Andrew who seemed happy enough to go to someone else willing to cater to his every need.
Victor walked at Isabel’s side down the corridor. He held up his dirt smudged hand. “I would offer you my hand, but it is filthy.”
“That explains why you did not touch our son. I am sure I have a smudge or two on me some place as well.” Isabel examined her forearms to find a dot of vermilion.
A footman held open the outer door for them to pass through. They entered the yard full of organized chaos. Benches and chairs scattered here and there. David and Edward moved a table. Barlow carried a bale of hay. All seemed to be as it should.
“What did you need to show me?”
Victor led Isabel to the old barn. Once again, the stalls had been turned into vendor booths, and long tables were set down the center of the room. “I wanted to show you how this space turned out.”
“It is exactly what we pictured. Though I think we will be spared rain tomorrow, it will be good to know the food will not get wet.” Despite another rainy season—though not as cold as last year—the harvest was promising. Still, it was not what it had been even three years ago.
Victor proceeded around the long tables to the stall that overlooked the scenic paddock. The one where she had twisted her ankle over a year ago. It was the only one not ready for a farmer’s wife to sell her apple tarts or berry jams. “We have one extra space. And I have an idea for it.”
Though she was wearing proper flat slippers, Isabel could not help but check the cracks in the stone floor. It was of course perfectly repaired. “What idea?”
“There is a local painter who has stacks and stacks of drawings of little animals. I thought that she might sell them to the children for a haypenny each. Then that money could go to the orphans and widows fund at the church.”
“And who is this artist?”
A twinkle entered Victor’s eye as it did when he was about to tease her. “I do not recall her name, but she is a wee bit shorter than I and very pretty.”
“Shorter? Why only a month ago you agreed I was taller.”
“It seemed the prudent thing to say at the time, as you were ever so much rounder than I am—”
Isabel did not let Victor finish before playfully swatting him. “A husband is not to comment upon his wife’s figure when she is about to be delivered of his heir.”
Victor stepped back further in the stall to avoid Isabel’s swipes. “Which is why I agreed you must be taller than I am.”
“So I am only taller when I am wider? I hardly think that is fair.” She came closer, almost nose to nose.
“I think we should agree we are both the perfect height.” His grin was a bit lopsided, the teasing still there.
“Why are we the perfect height?”
“For this.” Without reaching his arms to hold her.
He leaned in and his lips brushed hers, once, then twice as she adjusted the angle so their lips fit together in that perfect slant for the slow passionate kiss that was full of the promises made a year ago in front of the preacher.
Promises whispered late in the night as they talked, and promises to be kept later when they were alone.