Epilogue
One Year Later
She was late coming down to breakfast.
William sat at the head of the dining table, pretending to read the morning paper while every fibre of his being strained toward the doorway.
Eliza was never late. In the year of their marriage, she had established herself as the most punctual person he had ever known, a trait that alternately amused and frustrated him, depending on whether he was the one being waited for.
But this morning, she was late.
And she had been ill yesterday. Had waved away his concern with a smile and a claim of “something I ate,” but he had seen the pallor of her face, the way her hand pressed against her stomach when she thought he wasn’t looking.
He was always looking.
That was one of the many things he had learned in their first year of marriage: he could not stop looking at her.
Could not stop watching her move through their home, their life, their shared existence.
She had become the centre of his world in a way that should have terrified him but instead felt like coming home.
The terror had not disappeared entirely, of course.
It lurked beneath the surface, rearing its head in moments of vulnerability.
When she fell ill, he panicked. When she was sad, he feared he had caused it.
When she looked at him with that particular expression, soft and trusting and full of love, part of him still waited for the other shoe to drop.
But the terror was quieter now. Manageable. A whisper rather than a scream.
Eliza had taught him that.
The door opened, and she appeared.
William set down his paper, his eyes sweeping over her automatically. She was dressed in a simple morning gown of pale green, her favourite colour, and her hair was pinned up in a loose arrangement that was already escaping its confines.
She looked beautiful.
She also looked nervous.
“Good morning,” he said, rising to pull out her chair. “I was beginning to worry.”
“I’m sorry. I was…” She hesitated, something flickering in her expression. “I had a matter to attend to.”
“A matter?”
“Nothing urgent.” She took her seat, accepting the cup of tea he poured for her with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How did you sleep?”
“Poorly, once you left the bed.” He returned to his own chair, studying her face. “You were gone for nearly an hour. I noticed.”
“I didn’t realise you were awake.”
“I am always awake when you’re not beside me.” It was the simple truth. He had become so accustomed to her presence that her absence registered like a physical ache. “Eliza, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong.”
“You’re lying.”
“I am not lying, I am…” She set down her teacup with a small clatter. “I am trying to find the right words. Give me a moment.”
William’s heart began to pound.
The right words. She needed to find the right words. That phrase had never preceded anything good in his experience. Right words were for difficult conversations, for confessions, for the kind of news that changed everything.
“Whatever it is,” he said carefully, “we’ll face it together. That was our agreement.”
“I know.” She drew a breath, then laughed softly at herself. “I am making a very poor beginning.”
“A beginning to what?”
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and he saw something in her eyes that made his breath catch. Not fear. Not sadness. Something else entirely.
Hope.
“I am with child.”
For a moment, William could only stare at her.
With child.
His wife was with child.
“Eliza,” he said at last, his voice unsteady. “Are you certain?”
“The physician confirmed it this morning. I wished to be sure before I told you.” Her fingers tightened in her lap. “I know we spoke of children, but I did not know whether the news would…”
He was beside her before she could finish.
Kneeling at her chair, he took her hands first, then laid one careful palm over the still-flat line of her waist.
“We are to have a child,” he said, as though testing the words.
“Yes.” Her smile trembled. “Are you pleased?”
“Pleased?” He looked up at her, and the wonder in his face almost undid her. “I am frightened out of my wits. And happier than I know how to say.”
A laugh escaped her, half relief and half tears.
“I thought you might be frightened.”
“I am. Of course I am.” He bent and pressed his lips to her hand. “But I am not running.”
Her expression softened.
“No.”
“I do not know how to be a father,” he admitted. “Not yet. But I want to learn. I want this child, Eliza. I want our family.”
“Our family,” she repeated softly.
He rested his hand over hers.
“I cannot promise I shall never be afraid. But I can promise I shall never again mistake fear for wisdom.”
She covered his hand with her own.
“That is enough.”
For a while they remained so, hand over hand, the breakfast forgotten between them.
Outside, sunlight spilled across the waking gardens.
Inside, William bowed his head over their joined hands and laughed softly, as though joy itself had startled him.
And this time, he stayed.
The End