Epilogue
Two Years Later
“No higher,” Benedict warned.
Marjorie looked down from the oak tree with considerable indignation.
“You said that three branches ago.”
“And I meant it three branches ago.”
Sophia stopped on the garden path and laughed.
Benedict stood beneath the old oak, his arms folded across his chest. The effect was somewhat diminished by the small child sitting upon his shoulders.
Eveline had one fist tangled securely in her father’s dark hair, while the other held half a biscuit.
Their daughter was eighteen months old, round-cheeked, brown-haired, and possessed of hazel-green eyes which had not yet decided which parent they intended to resemble. Her smile, however, was entirely Sophia’s.
Benedict insisted otherwise. Sophia suspected it was because admitting their daughter had Sophia’s smile would force him to acknowledge how completely powerless he became whenever Eveline used it on him.
The child had discovered this weakness several months earlier and exploited it with extraordinary efficiency.
She also possessed an alarming determination to go wherever Marjorie went and do whatever Marjorie did. This had made Benedict’s life significantly more complicated.
Amelia stood beside him with a book tucked under one arm.
At eleven, the twins had begun to grow into the people Sophia had always suspected they might become.
Amelia remained quieter, thoughtful and observant, though she had acquired a dry wit that Benedict blamed entirely on Sophia.
Marjorie remained Marjorie… only taller, and therefore capable of reaching more dangerous branches.
“Papa.” Eveline pulled Benedict’s hair. His expression tightened. Sophia smiled.
“Yes, darling?”
Eveline pointed upward. “Up.”
Benedict followed the direction of her finger toward Marjorie. “No.”
Eveline considered the answer. Her small brows drew together. Sophia recognized the expression instantly. So did Benedict.
“Oh dear,” Amelia murmured.
“What?”
“She has Marjorie’s face.”
“I do not have a face,” Marjorie called from the branch. “I have an expression.”
“That is considerably worse,” Benedict sighed.
“I think she should come up.”
“No.”
“I shall hold her.”
“No.”
“You always say no before considering anything.”
“I have considered it.”
“When?”
“During the seven seconds in which you were speaking.”
Marjorie sighed theatrically.
Eveline pointed again. “Up.”
“No.”
Her lower lip appeared. Benedict’s resolve visibly weakened. Sophia knew that look, too.
She approached them. “Is there a crisis?”
Benedict turned. His face changed the moment he saw her. Three years of marriage had not altered that. There remained something in the way Benedict looked at her that made Sophia feel, even now, as though she had entered a room he had been waiting in.
“Your daughter wishes to climb the tree.”
“Our daughter.”
“At present, I am reconsidering the arrangement.”
Sophia laughed.
Eveline saw her and immediately reached out both hands. “Mama.”
Benedict carefully lifted her from his shoulders and passed her into Sophia’s arms. Sophia kissed the warm little cheek.
“You wish to climb?”
“Yes.” The answer was triumphantly clear.
Benedict frowned. “She cannot climb.”
Marjorie leaned down from above. “I can teach her.”
“Absolutely not,” he shook his head.
“I taught Amelia.”
“You did not teach me,” Amelia replied. “You pushed me onto a branch and told me not to fall.”
Benedict closed his eyes briefly. Sophia pressed her lips together.
There had been a time when this conversation would already have ended.
Benedict would have said no. Marjorie would have argued.
Benedict would have become sterner. Marjorie would have become more inventive.
Eventually someone would have climbed something in secret, and Benedict would have spent an evening wondering why his rules failed whenever children were involved.
Now he opened his eyes and looked at the lowest branch. Sophia watched the calculation happen. It was broad, barely three feet above the grass. His gaze moved to the ground beneath it, noticing soft earth and no stones. Then, he looked toward the distance between the branch and the trunk.
He glanced at Sophia. She lifted one eyebrow.
He sighed. “One branch.”
Marjorie nearly fell from hers. “What?”
“One,” Benedict repeated. “The lowest. She sits. She does not stand. I hold her the entire time.”
Sophia stared at him. Amelia stared at him. Even Eveline seemed impressed.
Marjorie’s face broke into a magnificent grin. “Uncle Benedict!”
He sighed heavily. “Do not make me regret this.”
Marjorie chuckled. “You already regret it.”
“Profoundly.”
Sophia kissed his cheek. Benedict looked suspicious.
“What was that for?”
“I was merely remembering someone who once declared trees were dangers, not invitations.”
Marjorie laughed from above. “I remember that!”
“Of course you do,” Benedict muttered.
“You also said safety and climbing were not natural companions,” Sophia reminded him.
Benedict looked at her. “You have maintained a disturbing record of my remarks.”
“Only the useful ones.”
“The ones which can later be used against me.”
“Those are generally the useful ones.”
Amelia smiled over the edge of her book. Benedict glanced at her.
“You need not encourage your aunt.”
“I did not say anything.”
“You smiled.”
“That is not against the rules.”
Sophia raised her eyebrows.
“Yet.”
Benedict almost smiled. Sophia shifted Eveline upon her hip.
“And now?”
“Now what?”
“What do you think of trees?”
Benedict looked toward the branch, then toward the girls: Marjorie above, Amelia beside him, Eveline squirming eagerly in Sophia’s arms. His expression softened.
“Now,” he said, “I believe some invitations require supervision.”
Sophia’s heart gave the same quiet ache it always did whenever she saw how thoroughly love had changed him without making him any less himself.
He had not become careless. He still checked carriage wheels before journeys.
He still inspected the nursery fires twice before bed.
He still held opinions about ponds, horses, ladders, gates, thunderstorms, unfamiliar dogs, uneven stairs, poorly secured windows, adventurous gardeners, unsuitable footwear, and whether eleven-year-old girls ought to be permitted bows of their own.
He learned that love could not be kept safe by making the world smaller. Sometimes love meant standing beneath a tree with both arms raised.
Sophia placed Eveline into his hands. Benedict lifted the little girl carefully onto the lowest branch. Eveline gasped. Her little face filled with wonder.
“Tree!”
“Yes,” Benedict said, keeping both hands firmly around her waist. “It is a tree.”
“Up.”
“No.”
Marjorie groaned. “She is wasting her best argument.”
“She has only one argument,” Amelia said.
“It is effective.”
Benedict looked upward. “Come down.”
“I am perfectly safe.”
“Marjorie.”
She pouted. “Fine… I am coming.” She began descending. Eveline watched with enormous concentration. One small foot lifted experimentally. Benedict tightened his grip.
“No.”
Eveline looked at him.
“No feet.”
She looked down at her feet as though surprised to discover she possessed them. Sophia laughed.
“She cannot remove them, Benedict.”
“She may leave them where they are.”
“Perhaps you should write a rule.”
“I am considering it.”
Marjorie dropped lightly from the final branch. “There ought to be three rules.”
“There are not.”
Marjorie crouched beside Eveline. “First, you test the branch.”
“Marjorie,” Benedict warned.
“Second, you always know where your feet are.”
He shrugged. “All right, that one is acceptable.”
Marjorie looked delighted at the concession. “Third—”
“No third.”
She frowned. “You cannot have two rules.”
He nodded. “I assure you I can.”
“It is unreasonable.”
“Life will continue.”
Sophia covered her mouth. Amelia lowered her book.
“Did Uncle Benedict just say life will continue despite something being untidy?”
Marjorie stared at him. “This is much more serious than the tree.”
Benedict looked toward Sophia. “This is your doing.”
“Almost certainly.” Sophia did not sound sorry.
His expression softened as he looked at her. “I love you, Sophia.”
Her heart filled with the same quiet wonder those words always brought.
“I love you, too,” she replied.
Benedict smiled, bent toward her and kissed her beneath the oak.
The End?