Epilogue
Morning light spilled through the high windows of Stoneleigh House, turning the pale marble of the entrance hall to a sheet of glass.
Dust motes drifted in the brightness, and the house seemed to hold a long, patient breath.
Viola stood at the foot of the staircase, her hands clasped at her heart, and watched her father turn slowly in a circle as he gazed all about him.
He had taken off his hat the moment he crossed the threshold, holding it awkwardly to his chest, his gloves still on.
His eyes moved from the carved balustrade to the painted ceiling, from the crystal branches of the chandelier to the twin doors of the drawing rooms. There was no envy in his face. Only wonder.
“Papa.”
He turned, and Viola hurried forward and embraced him, tears in her eyes. “Papa, I am so very glad to see you.”
“As am I.” He set his crumpled hat aside and peeled off his gloves. “My dear Viola, this is the most beautiful house my eyes have ever seen.” He tipped his head. “And it is yours.”
She watched his gaze dart about the hall, as if he could not quite take it in, and saw how the light caught the silver at his temples, the lines in his brow heavier than before.
She did not want that weight on his shoulders a day longer, not now, when she had the means to lift it.
He had scraped and saved to keep their lives from growing too small.
It would be her joy to give him his ease.
“Papa, will you come with me?” She touched his sleeve. “There is something I wish to show you.”
He took her arm, and she led him down the long hall to the small morning room that looked out over the garden. There he paused, a smile pressing at his lips as he gazed out at the green.
“It is a joy to me that you are mistress here,” he said, a catch in his voice. “You always deserved more than I could give you.”
Viola shook her head and drew the watch chain from her pocket, the token he had pressed on her before she left for London, a piece of himself to carry into unfamiliar rooms. She lifted it, and let him see the fine new watch she had set upon it.
He stared, uncomprehending at first, and then his eyes flared.
“Viola.” His fingers trembled as they closed around the gold. “It is too much. I — ”
“No,” she said gently, tears starting. “It is not enough.” A single tear fell, and he brushed it away, shaking his head though a smile touched his mouth. “I know you blame yourself for what was lost, Papa. But it was never your fault. Lady Warrington knew that.”
His eyes lifted to hers, bright.
“I have learned that Lord Carrington’s late father was once your friend,” she said carefully, “and that he abandoned you when you needed him. Lady Warrington’s heart broke over his selfishness.
That is why she left this house to me, and gave me such a fortune besides.
” Her voice steadied. “And now, my dear Papa, I want you to live in comfort.”
A tear slipped down his cheek before he could dash it away.
“Every sacrifice you made for Hannah and me, every quiet hardship you bore — it was seen, and known, and treasured. I cannot repay it. But I can honor it.” She set her hand over his where it held the watch. “Please, let me. I think it is what Lady Warrington wanted.”
He cleared his throat, reaching for composure, but the effort only roughened his voice. “I did what any father would.”
“No,” she said fiercely. “You did far more.” She remembered the winters when the coal ran short and he had given up his own portion to keep her and Hannah warm; the careful way he had divided what little food there was, never letting them see the lack he kept for himself.
“I love you with all my heart, Papa,” she whispered.
“You will be content now — safe, and without strain, for the rest of your days. I swear it.”
They had sat late the evening before, the two of them, over the letters from the walnut box — his own proud words to a dead woman, and her answering hand beneath them, see that it is sent regardless — and Viola had given him all of it at last, the way she had promised herself it must be given: not in ink, but with his hand held fast in hers.
You were better loved than you knew, Papa.
He had wept. So had she. And this morning he stood a little straighter for it, like a man who had set down a weight he had never once complained of carrying.
Lord Tyne said nothing. He drew her close, and she folded into him as she had as a child, her cheek against his coat, breathing in the scent of home.
“My greatest pride is in the woman you have become,” he said, his throat still rough as she stepped back. “Thank you, Viola.”
They stood a long moment in the promise of it, until a discreet cough broke the quiet.
“Forgive me.” Lord Carrington stood just inside the doorway, and bowed. “I did not mean to intrude.”
Viola smiled, her eyes still bright. “Papa — may I present the Marquess of Carrington?”
“There is no need.” Lord Tyne stepped forward and put out his hand. “Lord Carrington, you will not remember me, but I knew you when you were a small boy.”
“You knew my father well, I believe.” Lord Carrington swallowed, a frown pulling at his brow. “I can only apologize for his want of compassion, for the selfishness he showed you. I — ”
“No.” Her father lifted a hand. “It is not your sin to carry, nor yours to apologize for. I have never held a grudge against your father, nor your family.” He glanced at Viola and smiled. “Hannah has told me what a boon you have been to my daughter. I am grateful to you, for every kindness.”
Viola’s vision blurred as her father shook Lord Carrington’s hand once more. Then, sensing the need for a quiet word between them, he stepped out, casting her a small smile as he went.
For a moment neither of them moved. Then Lord Carrington came toward her slowly, his hands behind his back, his eyes searching her face. He stopped a few steps away and inclined his head. “Are you well, Viola?”
“More than well,” she answered, hoarse. “To have my father here, to have it all at an end — ” She closed her eyes a moment. “It brings my heart such relief that I scarcely feel I deserve so much happiness.”
“You deserve all of it, and more.” He closed the distance between them, though he did not touch her. “After all you have endured, it is only right.”
She smiled, but said nothing.
“My brother is courting Miss Galbraith now, in earnest,” he told her, a faint smile coming.
“Lady Henderson has withdrawn from society for the present. The rumors are corrected. You will never again suffer such harshness from the lady. And Miss Galbraith, I understand, is deeply sorry for her part, for letting herself be so swayed.”
“It is understandable that a daughter would do as her mother asks.”
“All the same,” he said, the intensity of his gaze burning through her, “it was not right. I am glad it is at an end.” He paused. “Though there is one matter left to speak of.” He swallowed, looked away, then back. “The matter of my heart.”
Her breath caught.
“I have spent many an hour thinking how best to frame it — how to present myself to you. But the truth is simple. And so, with simplicity, I shall speak it.”
Her heart stuttered.
“I love you, Viola.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I think I loved you before I knew it. From the moment you stood in that solicitor’s office and accepted a legacy you had never sought, my heart was drawn to you.”
“I did not expect love,” she whispered, stepping closer, choosing to be the one to reach. “As I told Lady Henderson — it came upon me unlooked-for, and would not be denied.” The confession unfurled like a bright flag in the wind. “My heart is yours, Carrington. It belongs to no other.”
His hand caught hers, warm and certain. “Then there is nothing to hold us back.” His voice thickened.
“I am glad this house is yours, Viola — glad it will always be yours, even when you marry. I would never let myself imagine it my own. I ask you this not for the house, nor for society’s approval, but because I wish to give you my whole self. ”
The room went still as he stepped closer, until only a breath stood between them.
“Will you marry me, Viola?” Hope surged in his eyes. “Will you be my wife?”
“Yes!” There was no hesitation — her arms were around his neck before the word was fully out, tears of joy rising even as laughter broke through them. “Yes, my dear Carrington. Yes, I will!”
When she leaned back, he lifted his hands to cup her face, his touch tender and sure.
For a heartbeat they only looked at one another, and then he lowered his head and kissed her.
His lips met hers not hurriedly, nor cautiously, but with the certainty of a thing that had always been meant.
Her fingers curled at the lapel of his coat; his hands settled at her waist and drew her closer, until there was not a hairsbreadth between them.
The kiss held the promise of every season to come, shared in love and laughter — a promise she believed, and made her own.
“I love you, Carrington,” she whispered against his lips, her eyes still closed. “I think Lady Warrington would approve.”
His low chuckle made her smile, and she opened her eyes to the joy in his face.
“Yes, my darling.” He brushed a curl from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “I truly believe she would.”
Have you read the first book in The Warrington Bequests series? Read ahead for an excerpt. A Question of Worth