Epilogue
Keeping oneself busy was the surest way to avoid thinking of unpleasant things.
Mrs. Robert Elgin, née Matilda Holly, knew this with absolute surety.
That was why she spent time with friends, on the committees her mother so loved, and wandering about York in search of things to capture her attention.
Perhaps a place like London would offer more distractions for a woman thirty years of age and a widow, but London was far too expensive for her. Still, with a good reason, and a safe place to stay, she would not be adverse to visiting.
When a letter came from her dearest friend directly after Lady Hartwell arrived in London, Matilda couldn’t help smiling as the best of reasons was laid out on the page. She read the letter through a second time with an ever growing smile.
Dearest Tilly,
How did you realize before I did what was to come this spring?
Or perhaps early summer, according to the first physician I have spoken with.
We are utterly beside ourselves! Roman thought I was dying when I was sick for the entirety of the carriage ride to London.
You have never seen a man so pale. I suspected the cause and reassured him until we arrived at our townhouse.
Tilly, I am to be a mother! I will have my own sweet little one to raise, and I am quite ready to give my heart to a babe.
I think my family will be happy to learn of this, but I have not yet determined how best to tell them.
I know you can keep this confidential. I certainly could not wait to tell you the news, though.
Thank you for all the help you have given me as my friend, indeed, you are as near to me as a sister.
You must come before my confinement, which will be spent in York, of course.
Roman says that every Hartwell heir has been born in Yorkshire for three hundred years, and we will not break with tradition now.
I put forth the idea that we may be having a Miss Eastwood rather than a future baron, and that did not deter him.
He has said any daughter of ours must be a true daughter of York, as there is no finer place to be born.
Were I not now assured of my husband’s love for me, I should be tempted to be jealous of the entire medieval city. It is a good thing I love the old stone walls, too.
I hoped I would find contentment in my marriage to Roman, and I am overjoyed that I have found that and more.
I am truly happy, and I am certain of myself in a way I never have been before.
My life is my own to shape, my husband is my refuge and support, and there is so much that is good and bright ahead of us.
My dear Tilly, I already miss your laugh and kind counsel. Please write to me often. I will certainly write you of every absurd and curious thing I hear or see. There is bound to be much of such things in so big a place as London.
All my love,
Tamsin, Lady Hartwell
Matilda folded the letter and tucked it into the book she had carried with her to the New Walk.
It was one o’clock in the afternoon, the air was crisp and cold, the sky astoundingly blue for a mid-February day.
The almanacs predicted more snow in short order, so the clear sky had to be enjoyed at once.
Sitting alone on a bench was nothing new to her. Matilda had taken full advantage of her status as a married woman and then widow, accounting to only her husband and then to no one about her comings and goings. It was the most freedom she had ever had in her life.
Yet there were moments when she rather wished she had a companion, of sorts.
She had thought of getting a dog, after watching Tamsin take so well to the large boarhound, Athena.
But though she liked animals, keeping up the care of one was both expensive and time consuming.
Perhaps a cat would be better. A nice calico or tabby to curl up with by the fire.
Except her mother, who she currently lived with, sneezed a great deal when cats were about.
Matilda had moved home after her late husband’s death, with every intention of leaving again after a proper mourning period, but she kept finding reasons to stay.
Reasons her mother supplied or supported, too.
Then there was her brother, Christopher Holly. Something had changed at Christmas, for the better, and Matilda had great hopes that her brother was soon to make an announcement that would distract her for at least a month’s time.
But for herself, everything felt unsettled. Rather similar to the feeling of walking into a room and knowing something had changed, but not being able to put her finger on it. Had something moved? Been lost?
Perhaps she was overthinking things, and she was merely a touch melancholy due to the change of seasons. That did happen more years than not.
A barge moved along the canal, and she watched its slow progress with a small shake of her head. That could be the problem. She was watching others move forward and progress, like Tamsin and Christopher, while staying in stagnant waters herself.
A movement at the corner of her eye drew her attention to the path, and she immediately stiffened when she saw the person responsible for the flash of cheerful blue.
Mr. Arthur Sterling was strolling along the New Walk in a fashionably cut great coat that was a deep blue one usually associated with royalty. Had he not held himself with great self-possession and stood at a height that was nearly indecent, he could have looked quite foolish.
Instead, he looked dashing.
She opened her book quickly and held it up to cover her face. If fortune favored her, he had not realized it was she who sat on the bench, vulnerable to his notice and remarks.
Fortune did not favor her.
The man had the audacity to call to her from at least fifteen feet away. “Mrs. Elgin, fancy seeing you beneath these calm skies.”
Wincing, she lowered her book enough to glare over the top of it at him. “Mr. Sterling.” She gave him no other greeting, but lifted the book again.
A born and bred gentleman would have known that was the signal to depart, but he had the excuse of spending two decades at sea to act without manners. Though she rather suspected he knew better and chose to do what he wanted anyway. Just like a man.
He approached, came within six feet of her, and bowed most respectfully.
The smile he wore was crooked, the gleam in his eyes far too knowing.
“Ah. You are reading The Pirate? I have added that to my collection recently. I have great hopes that a man as studied as Walter Scott would do credit to the sea, even if he’s written about the dishonest seamen. ”
Her nose wrinkled behind the book. “Sir Walter Scott. He is a baronet.”
That made Mr. Sterling chuckle. He seemed to take her engagement as reason to move a step closer. “Is he? Never met the man. Wouldn’t know. How far along in the book are you?”
“I have already read all three volumes once.”
“Really? Do you fancy piracy a romantic endeavor, Mrs. Elgin?”
Of course he would try to diminish a lovely work by asking such a thing.
She slammed her book shut. “Mr. Sterling, I enjoy the complexity of the story, the goodness of the women in the pages, and the struggle of morality among all the characters. The Pirate is not a book which glorifies piracy, nor do I. It is a book about whether people can change, how we decide what is good or bad as a society, and if modern morality is a threat to what came before or the solution to it.” Her chin lifted.
“You ought to read a book before you criticize it.”
The infuriating man’s expression broadened into a grin as she spoke.
He gave a tap to his hat’s brim, setting it at a rakish angle.
“Mrs. Elgin, if you thought I was criticizing your choice in literature, I apologize. I was asking an honest question, about your perception of piracy within the current movement of the romantics as one to admire or disdain.” His entire tone had changed.
His diction, too. Infuriating, awful man now sounded more a gentleman than a sailor, as he usually did.
“Scott, baronet now but not when I first found him, is a favorite of mine. Rob Roy, Waverley, Ivanhoe, have been my companions on many voyages of the years. But I was away when The Pirate was published, and I am eager to catch myself up on his work.”
She stared at him in stunned, furious, humiliated silence. The tongue lashing she had delivered had fallen on innocent shoulders. “I-I am dreadfully sorry, Mr. Sterling. I misunderstood. Do forgive me. That was a most unladylike display of temper.”
He stepped a little closer, bent to bring them eye level, and said quietly, “I wouldn’t apologize, Mrs. Elgin. I enjoyed the display far too much to forgive you for it.”
Well! Perhaps not-so-innocent-shoulders! She stiffened. Opened her mouth to retort, but he was already tipping his hat and turning away.
“Good day to you, Mrs. Elgin. I hope you enjoy your reading.”
Enjoy her reading? Now that he had so thoroughly irritated her? How very dare he?
She rose from the bench and walked in the opposite direction of that horrid man. She would write to Tamsin at once and tell her friend about the encounter, and make her promises to visit in Spring.
Though mortified by her behavior, she was much more annoyed by his.
Someone ought to tell that man how gentlemen were expected to behave, especially if he wished to remain ashore in York.
Matilda would see to it herself, if she must, when the opportunity presented itself.
She would tell his sister-in-law, Lady Juniper Sterling, about it, too. Perhaps that would help.
Her lips twitched upward. At least she knew something quite helpful now.
He was well read. Which meant he had an education.
Which meant, of course, he might be reasoned with.
As the sister to a talented solicitor, and the widow of a somewhat gifted barrister, she certainly knew how to prepare a case and win an argument.
Next time, he would not find her so ill-prepared for an encounter.
Matilda took in a deep breath of the cold, clear February air as the bells of the Minster struck two o’clock, singing the time out for all the city to hear. Then went home with her head held high, already composing her letter to Tamsin in her mind, a smile curling her lips upward once more.
Thank you for enjoying Roman and Tamsin’s romance.