EPILOGUE
One Year Later
“Your Grace, the Duchess has declined to attend the garden party.”
Mrs. Kemp delivered this news with the particular neutrality she had perfected over a year of managing a household where the Duchess regularly declined invitations that any other woman in her position would have accepted eagerly.
Rhys looked up from his correspondence, unsurprised.
“Did she give a reason?”
“She said, and I quote: Annabelle’s Latin examination is tomorrow, and I do not delegate Annabelle’s Latin.”
He laughed, the sound escaping freely as it did so often now. A year of matrimony had not changed Mel in any fundamental way. She was still practical, still focused, still determined to complete what she had started regardless of the social obligations her new position supposedly required.
She was still, in all the ways that mattered, the governess he had given his heart to.
“Please send my regrets as well,” he said. “I find that I am also unavailable for garden parties when Latin examinations are imminent.”
Mrs. Kemp nodded, her expression carrying the faint approval she displayed whenever the Duke and Duchess chose family over society.
“Very well, Your Grace.”
He found Mel in the schoolroom an hour later, surrounded by conjugation charts and vocabulary lists, drilling Anna on verb forms with the same intensity she had displayed when she was merely a governess rather than one of the highest-ranking women in England.
The children had grown over the past year, though the changes were subtle rather than dramatic.
Anna was taller, her organisational systems more sophisticated, her ambitions more clearly defined.
She had announced, three months ago, that she intended to pursue scholarly study when she came of age, and Mel had immediately begun adjusting the curriculum to prepare her.
Viola had bloomed. She spoke in full sentences now, confidently, her quiet observations delivered with the certainty of someone who knew her voice mattered.
She had begun writing stories, small tales about a governess who solved mysteries while teaching Latin, and Mel had encouraged her with the same patient attention she gave to everything.
Thistle remained Thistle. Wild and curious and perpetually accompanied by creatures of varying species.
Brutus had been joined by Caesar and two additional toads whose names Rhys could never quite remember.
There was also a hedgehog who lived in the garden, a family of mice in the stable, and an ongoing negotiation about whether a terrier might be added to the household.
“The party,” Mel said, without looking up from the conjugation chart.
“You’re going to ask about the party.”
“I’ve already declined on both our behalves.”
She looked up then, her expression carrying the particular warmth she reserved for moments when he exceeded her expectations. “That was practical of you.”
“I’ve learned from the best.” He crossed to where she sat and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“How is the examination preparation progressing?”
“Anna will pass. She has mastered the material thoroughly.” Mel glanced at their eldest daughter, who was reciting verb forms with fierce concentration.
“The examination is merely a formality.”
“Then why the intensive preparation?”
“Because excellence is not achieved through complacency. Anna understands this.”
She did understand it. All three of them understood it now, having been taught by a woman who believed that standards mattered and that meeting them was not optional.
Rhys settled into his usual chair and watched his wife teach his daughters, feeling the particular contentment that had become the background music of his life.
This was not the existence he had imagined for himself fifteen years ago, when he was young and foolish and determined to avoid anything that resembled responsibility.
This was better. This was infinitely, immeasurably better.
The End