Epilogue
Juleshead Village
North Cornwall, England
A chill seeped through his thin woolen coat as Tom tossed the anchor over the edge of the boat. A loud pluh-plunk burped from the black sea, followed by a spray of cold water.
“Come here with ye.” He dug a hand-loomed shawl from under his coat, draped it over her head, then twisted it about her neck.
She squirmed in protest. “I think myself entirely capable of packing my own attire.”
“Do ye?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Watch yer ferocious tongue before I throw ye overboard.” When she huffed, he turned around, braced himself on the rocking boat, and muttered for her to hurry up. He grinned when she jumped on his back. “Hold on with ye.” Had she ever not?
Deserting the boat, he climbed onto a craggy, water-eroded rock, jumped to the next by memory, and didn’t touch the water until his boots were taller than the sloshing waves. When they reached the dry shore, Meg leapt off him.
Sighing, she spread out her arms and collapsed to the ground on the sand.
Tom threw himself next to her.
The night was black, moonless, and only tiny yellow stars reflected light from the heavens. A chilling breeze roared over them. The sand stirred. Distant scents of brine and salt and whatever Meg had been baking at home filled his senses with contentment.
“What’s wrong, lass?”
Another sigh.
He grumbled. “Dinnae make me chase my wife about the seashore.” When she did not laugh, or kiss him, he reached for her hand and entwined her sandy fingers with his. Concern niggled him, but he waited.
Finally, she leaned her head against his. “I am only surprised. I never thought Joanie would wish to leave.”
“Ye dinnae think she’s doing the right thing.”
“No. I think she is.” Meg rolled to her side, slipped her fingers between the buttons of Tom’s coat.
Her touch slid beneath his shirt, frigid and soft against the skin of his chest. “Violet was never more in need of a companion, and Joanie is just good enough to be sister and nurturing friend, all at once.”
Nostalgia echoed in Tom, a small pang. “She’s naught but a walk away, lass.”
“Yes.”
“And if the cottage is too empty for ye while I’m gone, then—”
“We should fill the cottage.” Meg lifted on one elbow and hovered her face overtop of his.
The grin he was so wont to seeing—every morning, every evening he returned home with fresh fish slapped over his back, every nighttime in bed—poured over him again.
Her hair dripped past the scarf and tickled his face. “What do you think, Tom McGwen?”
“Name it, and I’ll make it for ye.”
Her laugh fell over him as he slipped his hands around her back. “I think you know.”
“A chair.”
“We have too many already.”
“A loom.”
“No.”
“A cupboard.”
Her lips brushed his, teasing, warming his blood from the inside. “I think the cottage has everything we need,” she whispered. “Except children.”
“Ye cannae think any young McGwens will be as quiet as Joanie.”
“I did not expect they would.”
“And ye best expect them to lose their shoes.”
“Indeed.”
“The wee devils will have yer fury—”
“And your unruly nonsense. But if they go to climbing the barn roof and hiding from behind the chimney, I shall whack them with a broom as hard as Mr. Musgrave whacked you.”
“Och, ye liked it when I spied on ye.”
“Never.”
“Aye, but ye …” The sentenced faltered. His mind snapped in too many directions, whipped through memories, as a sudden knot of disbelief swelled in his throat. “I never told ye that.”
“Told me what?”
“About watching ye from the millinery shop chimney.”
“Of course you did.”
“No, I mean I didnae tell ye again.” He leaned up, pulling her to his lap as her arms weaved behind the back of his head. “I never told ye again.”
“You must have.”
“Nay.”
“Tom, I could not have …” A laugh choked out, but her eyes—so close to his—were glassy with starlight. “I could not have remembered. Dr. Bagot said I would never remember. Uncle too.”
“I didnae think God would mind to prove the old goat wrong.”
Her face pressed into his, silent for too many heartbeats, before she finally framed his cheeks.
“You did not answer me, Tom McGwen. I do not want more tables or cupboards or looms. I want to go home and sit in our chair, and you to smoke your pipe, and me to watch you, and us to have children everywhere in our red cottage.”
Laughing, he met her mouth. “Consider it done.”