Chapter Twenty-Five
“The Royal Horticultural Society has accepted your paper.”
Edmund looked up from the correspondence he had been reviewing, his expression shifting from polite attention to genuine surprise. Helena stood in the doorway of his study, the letter from London clutched in her hand, unable to suppress the smile that had been growing since she opened it.
“Accepted?” he repeated.
“Accepted. They wish to publish it in their next quarterly journal. They have described your findings on the twice-blooming rose hybrids as ‘a significant contribution to the science of horticulture, with implications that extend far beyond the ornamental garden.’ They are also requesting that you present your research at their autumn symposium.”
Edmund was silent for a long moment. Helena watched the emotions play across his face, disbelief, pride, a hint of the old uncertainty that had characterised him before he learned to accept that he deserved good things.
“I did not expect acceptance,” he said finally. “I thought at best they might find it interesting. A curiosity, perhaps. But not this.”
“Not a significant contribution?” Helena crossed the room and perched on the edge of his desk, setting the letter before him. “Edmund. You have spent years developing this technique. You have produced results that no one else has achieved. Of course they accepted it.”
“But I am a Duke.” The words carried the echo of old objections. “Dukes do not publish horticultural papers.”
“This Duke does.” Helena reached out, touching his face. “This Duke has redefined what a Duke can be. Just as this Duchess has redefined what a Duchess can be.” She smiled. “We are rather good at defying expectations, you and I.”
Edmund caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. It was a gesture that had become habitual between them, the casual intimacy of a matrimony that had long since moved beyond formality.
“You convinced me to submit the paper,” he said. “You edited my drafts and challenged my conclusions and refused to let me abandon the project when I lost confidence.”
“I provided encouragement. You did the work.”
“We did the work together.” He pulled her closer, and she went willingly, settling into his lap with the ease of long practice. “As we do everything together now.”
Helena rested her head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek.
Outside the study window, the autumn light was golden, casting long shadows across the grounds of Westmere Park.
The roses had bloomed twice now, just as Edmund had predicted, once in summer and again in late September, their petals catching the softer light of the changing season.
It had been six months since the legal challenge had been dismissed.
Six months since she had found the letters in his desk and everything had changed.
Six months of learning what it meant to be cherished without reservation, to be part of a partnership that demanded nothing except honesty and offered everything in return.
In that time, so much had shifted. Her mother was settled happily in the Dower house, her health stable under Mrs Blackwood’s attentive care.
Rosalind’s wedding was approaching, only three weeks away now, the preparations in their final stages.
The Dowager had emerged fully from her years of frozen grief, becoming an active presence in the household, offering advice and assistance with a warmth that still sometimes surprised Helena.
And Helena herself had changed most of all.
She no longer carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.
She no longer assumed that every act of kindness was tied to an obligation, that every moment of happiness was merely a prelude to disappointment.
She had learned, slowly and sometimes painfully, to accept affection as it was offered, freely, generously, without the constant expectation of withdrawal.
It had not been easy. There were still moments when the old habits surfaced, when she found herself waiting for the other shoe to drop, steeling herself against disasters that never came.
But those moments were fewer now. And when they came, Edmund was there to remind her that she was safe, cherished and she did not have to protect herself anymore.
“I have something to tell you,” she said, not lifting her head from his shoulder.
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is not ominous.” She paused, feeling the flutter of nervousness in her stomach. “It is significant news.”
Edmund’s arms tightened around her. “What news?”
Helena took a breath. She had been waiting for the right moment to tell him, had wanted to be certain before she spoke, had wanted to choose a time when they were alone, unhurried, able to process what she was about to say.
“I have been feeling unwell in the mornings,” she said carefully. “For the past several weeks. And I have been tired in ways I cannot quite explain. And there have been, other changes.”
She felt Edmund go still beneath her. His breathing had shifted, shallow now, careful, as though he was afraid to move.
“Helena.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Are you saying that…” He could not bring himself to finish his sentence.
“I am saying that I have consulted with the physician.” She lifted her head to look at him, finding his face full of an emotion she could not quite name. “And he has confirmed what I suspected.”
Edmund stared at her. His eyes were bright, with the sheen, of tears he was clearly struggling to contain.
“A child,” he said. “We are going to have a child.”
“We are going to have a child.” Helena felt her own eyes fill. “Sometime in the spring, if the physician’s calculations are correct.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They simply looked at each other, the magnitude of what she had said settling between them like something sacred.
Then Edmund pulled her close, burying his face in her hair, and Helena felt his shoulders shake with the force of his emotion.
“I did not think this ever possible.” His voice was muffled, unsteady. “I know.” Helena held him tightly. “I know.”
They had not spoken of it directly, but she understood what he meant.
The months of their matrimony before the walls came down, the separate bedrooms, the careful distance, the terms that had kept them apart even as they lived under the same roof.
By the time they had found their way to each other, by the time the connecting door had opened and their lives had truly joined, Helena had quietly wondered whether the time for children had passed.
“A spring baby,” Edmund said, pulling back to look at her. His face was wet with tears he no longer tried to hide. “Our child, born in the spring.”
“When the roses are beginning to bloom again.” Helena smiled through her own tears. “It seems fitting, somehow.”
“It is perfect.” He cupped her face in his hands, looking at her with an intensity that made her breath catch. “You are perfect. This is, I do not have words, Helena. I do not have words for what I feel.”
“Then do not try to find them.” She turned her head, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Just feel it. That is enough.”
They sat together in the golden afternoon light, holding each other, letting the reality of what was coming settle into their bones. A child. Their child. A new life that would be born from their affection, that would carry forward everything they had built together.
Helena had never imagined this. When she had accepted Edmund’s proposal in that small sitting room in Somerset, she had expected duty and obligation. She had expected a practical arrangement, a matrimony of convenience that would secure her family’s future at the cost of her own romantic hopes.
She had never imagined affection. She had never imagined happiness. And she had certainly never imagined this, sitting in her husband’s lap in his study, crying happy tears, planning for a child that would be born into a family that was devoted to it before it even existed.
It was more than she had ever dared to dream.
It was everything.
***
The preparations for Rosalind’s wedding had reached their final, frantic stage.
Helena found herself swept up in a whirlwind of decisions, flowers and menus and seating arrangements and the thousand small details that seemed to multiply every time she thought she had them under control.
She did not mind. The work was joyful, purposeful, a way of channeling the overwhelming happiness that had filled her since she had told Edmund about the baby.
They had agreed to keep the news quiet for the moment.
The early months were uncertain, the physician had cautioned, and it was wise to wait until the pregnancy was further along before making any announcements.
But Helena found herself touching her still-flat stomach when she was alone, marvelling at the life that was growing there.
“You are glowing,” Rosalind observed during one of their final fittings for the wedding gown. “More than usual, I mean. What is your secret?”
Helena smiled mysteriously. “I am simply happy for you.”
“You are hiding something.” Rosalind’s eyes narrowed with sisterly perception. “You have been hiding something for weeks. I thought at first it was just wedding nerves on my behalf, but it is more than that.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Helena Ridley, you are the worst fibber in England.” Rosalind set aside the fabric swatches she had been examining. “Tell me. Whatever it is, tell me.”
Helena hesitated. She had promised Edmund they would wait. But this was Rosalind, her sister, her closest confidante, the person who had been by her side through every crisis and triumph of the past five years.
“If I tell you,” she said slowly, “you must promise not to say a word to anyone. Not William, not Mama, not anyone. We are waiting until after your wedding to make the announcement.”
Rosalind’s eyes went wide. “Helena. Are you with child?”
“I am.” Helena felt her smile break free despite her attempts at restraint. “In the spring.”