Epilogue #2
“If you always cry cheat whenever you lose, then you rob yourself of the opportunity to learn, to improve. I want those opportunities for you. You’ll fail thousands of times in your life. And you never know which one might change your life.”
“What do you mean?”
“I failed the night I met your mother. And it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Because if I hadn’t, she wouldn’t be my wife, and we wouldn’t have you and your sister. And I cannot imagine anything worse.”
His son’s dark eyes were wide, but no longer sad when they met Benedict’s. “So you would not be ashamed of me?”
Benedict’s heart cracked in two. His father’s voice had once made cheat and failure feel like a life sentence. They would feel like an opportunity to Rafe. Benedict would make sure of it. His arms enveloped the boy before he’d made a conscious decision to do so.
“I have never and will never be ashamed of you. Not for anything you’ve ever done or ever could do. Nor will your mother. I am so proud to call you my son every day. Have I done something to make you worry?”
“No. It is only, Mama said it was embarrassing for you when I won last week.”
“Oh, sprig, your mama was teasing me. She is not actually embarrassed for me.” Benedict recalled the moment clearly—only because Eliza had been referencing a very different, all too pleasurable, sort of game they had played the night before.
A game Benedict had been all too eager to lose, embarrassingly eager in fact.
A game his son would never, ever know about.
“Are you sure?”
“I promise. And I’m sure she’ll tell you herself. Now, what should we do with the rest of our morning?”
Rafe caught the edge of his lip with his teeth, gnawing it for a moment. “I owe Posy an apology.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea, sprig.”
“Can I give her flowers too? Mama always likes them.”
“I’m certain Posy will love that. What kind do you want to give her?”
“She loves yellow. Maybe some yellow ones?”
“Absolutely perfect,” Benedict assured him. Together, they crafted a bouquet of wildflowers—some more crumpled than others.
The sun was high in the sky by the time the Sinclair boys returned to the house, each with his own yellow bouquet.
They found Eliza and Posy in the nursery enjoying a tea party with such esteemed guests as Miss Marples, the rag doll, and Mr. Franklin, the tin soldier of Rafe’s that Posy had claimed as a suitor for the doll.
Rafe stepped into the room ahead of Benedict, bouquet clasped between both hands. When he hesitated for a moment, Benedict rubbed his back with a palm.
“I’m sorry, Posy. I know you didn’t cheat.”
Benedict’s daughter, with her light curls and dark eyes, smiled encouragingly. “I forgive you—as long as you promise not to do it again.”
“I promise. I brought you these,” he said, thrusting the ragged bouquet out to his sister.
“Oh, yellow is my favorite! Thank you. I know you’re too grown up for tea parties, but do you want to join us?”
Rafe began to shake his head, but Benedict gave him a slight nudge in the back. The boy’s gaze turned to him with a questioning expression before he took in his father’s meaning.
“Yes, that would be nice,” he agreed, with no real enthusiasm.
“You can have my place,” Eliza said, offering her seat to Rafe.
She reached Benedict’s side, then closed the door behind them.
“Praise the Lord, I thought I might have to drink the tea,” she whispered as she dragged him down the hall.
“It’s not likely to cause them bodily harm, is it?”
“No, it’s only molasses and toasted breadcrumbs. She still hasn’t developed a taste for proper tea yet.”
Benedict’s stomach curled at the thought. “It’s his penance. Speaking of, I brought you these.” He presented his own bouquet with a flourish. It was little more than a collection of the various wildflowers she had cultivated, but he was pleased with how he’d arranged them.
“Lovely, but what have you done that requires penance?”
“It’s preemptive. For all the unholy things I plan to do to you tonight.”
Eliza met his gaze for a moment before a snort of laughter escaped her. “I look forward to it,” she said, then took a seat at the top of the steps. Benedict sat down beside her.
Her hand slid atop his, their fingers entwining. Benedict twisted their hands, lining up their palms so he could pull them up and place a kiss on her wrist.
“Rafe had quite the accusation. How do you feel?” she asked. That she understood him should no longer have come as a surprise to Benedict, but she never failed to astonish him.
“I— Good? I think? It was… healing—to say the things to him I wish I had heard when I was his age.”
“I’m glad.” Eliza dropped her head to rest on his shoulder. “We’ve raised a kind boy. He’ll grow into a good man—just like his father.”
“Yes?”
Eliza abandoned his hand and caught his cheek in her palm instead. “You’re a good man, Benedict Sinclair. And quite easy to love, as it turns out.”
He closed his eyes, letting the truth of it settle. “Only because I found you,” he whispered, then kissed her—slow, sure, and utterly undone by her love.
A gentle breeze wafted in from the open window, bringing with it the scent of mossy earth, late-summer rain, and fresh violets—proof of everything they’d built together and everything still to come.
The End