Epilogue
TWO MONTHS LATER
The weeks after that brought more changes to the estate than Phoebe could have predicted but it was all welcome, as they had come with endless reasons for gratitude.
She felt even more strongly about it and she watched her and her husband’s family gather on her terrace, bathed in the warm summer sun and they conversed.
Rowland and Anna had arrived that morning, and Barbara not long after, declaring loudly that she refused to be left out of any gathering that involved croquet, gossip, or the opportunity to embarrass her nephew in front of witnesses.
All three of them now stood scattered across the lawn in various states of good-natured chaos, mallets in hand, while a boy from the stables trailed after them collecting the balls that Rowland kept sending wildly astray.
“You are entirely hopeless at this,” Anna informed her brother, preferring to forgo the trouble of hiding her delight.
“I am adjusting to the terrain,” Rowland replied with great dignity, lining up another shot that promptly sailed past the hoop entirely.
“The terrain is flat grass, Rowland.”
“Deceptively flat.”
Barbara, watching from beneath the shade of a wide-brimmed hat, made a sound that might have been a laugh disguised as a cough.
“I have known this family only a handful of months, and already I find myself endeared to the lot of you,” she declared.
“Anna, my dear, once the season resumes in earnest, I intend to introduce you to every eligible gentleman of my acquaintance worth the trouble. I have a rather substantial list.”
Anna flushed with pleasure. “You needn't go to such trouble on my account, Aunt Barbara.”
Barbara had become an aunt to all of them at some point and she seemed rather thrilled to have even more nephews and nieces to look after.
“Nonsense. It is no trouble at all – merely the pleasure of matchmaking, which I have sorely missed since Edward robbed me of the opportunity of performing the duty for his sake. Though I will admit that it ended up better than we could have hoped.” Barbara's gaze slid pointedly toward her nephew, who was presently attempting, with limited success, to keep Phoebe from overexerting herself at the croquet lawn.
“Careful with your swing, darling,” Edward murmured, hovering at Phoebe's elbow with an attentiveness that had only grown more pronounced as the weeks passed and her condition became more apparent. “You needn't strain yourself for the sake of a game.”
“Edward, I am playing croquet, not hauling a bag of coal. I am certain I can manage just fine.” Phoebe huffed with fond exasperation.
“All the same–”
“He has always been like this,” Barbara called from her seat, without looking up from her lemonade.
“Though I confess I had rather hoped marriage might cure him of it.
You would do better to worry over your own dismal performance, nephew, than to fret over your wife's mallet swing. You have lost three matches running.”
“I have been distracted,” Edward stated with as much dignity as he could muster.
“By what, precisely? You have done nothing these past two hours but hover.”
“By my wife,” he admitted simply, and Barbara rolled her eyes so exaggeratedly that Rowland burst into laughter was loud enough to draw Anna's swift, pinching retaliation.
“I do not know how you expect any suitors to take interest in this one, aunt Barbara. It is much more likely that she will terrify prospective suitors away, given how intimidating Anna can be due to how sharp-tongued she can be.” Rowland reported to the dowager.
“If anyone in this family ought to be considered terrifying,” Barbara said, entirely without inflection, “It is you, Rowland. I have rarely met a man so committed to glaring at anyone who so much as glances at his sisters.”
Rowland opened his mouth to protest, found no adequate defence, and closed it again while Anna dissolved into helpless laughter and even Phoebe could not entirely smother her own smile.
“I shall have you know,” Rowland replied once he had recovered some of his dignity, “That I have never once glared at a gentleman without adequate provocation.”
“You glared at Lord Brakefield,” Anna reminded him. “At the charity gala he hosted last month, if I recall correctly, which was one of your less than ideal moments.”
“He was looking at you for an unreasonable length of time,” Rowland protested, looking offended by the accusation.
“He was addressing all of the guests present and imploring them to donate to his cause for orphans. He had to appeal to the masses in order to get something out of them.”
“All the same.” Rowland sniffed, unrepentant, and set about lining up another disastrous shot while Barbara watched with open delight and Anna pressed a hand to her mouth in an attempt to silence her laughter.
“You see what I am obliged to contend with,” Barbara said to Phoebe, though there was no real complaint in it.
“A nephew who cannot manage a simple game of croquet, and a grand-niece by marriage who provokes him at every opportunity. I confess I have not enjoyed an afternoon so thoroughly in years.”
“We are glad to provide the entertainment,” Phoebe grinned.
“You provide considerably more than entertainment, my dear.” Barbara's gaze softened as it settled on her, something unusually gentle crossing her weathered features.
“I watched my nephew spend a great many years convinced he was owed nothing but duty and an early grave. It does my old heart a great deal of good to watch him make such a thorough fool of himself over you instead.”
Phoebe felt her throat tighten, and reached instinctively for Edward's hand, finding it already extended toward hers as though he had anticipated the gesture before she made it.
Phoebe watched them all – her brother's wounded dignity, her sister's unrestrained delight, Barbara's dry satisfaction at having landed her point cleanly – and felt something in her chest swell nearly more than she could endure.
It was such an ordinary afternoon, and yet she could not remember the last time ordinary had felt quite so much like a gift.
So much had changed since the days when hope had felt like something to be rationed carefully, lest it be wasted on a man who would never return it.
Now Edward stood beside her without a trace of the distance he had once guarded so fiercely, his hand settling on the small of her back, as his attention drifted to her again and again throughout the afternoon as though he could not quite believe his good fortune.
“Your Grace,” he said, when she managed – despite his consistent concerns interrupting her – to send her ball cleanly through the final hoop, “That was masterfully done.”
He lifted her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles, and then paused, frowning slightly at a faint smear of blue paint across her fingers that had escaped her notice entirely.
“Have you been at your paints again this morning?” he asked, pulling out his handkerchief and gently rubbing at the stain with far more care than the small mark warranted.
Phoebe felt herself flush with a pleasure that had nothing to do with embarrassment. “I have. I confess I did not expect to find such enjoyment in it, when I began. I had always assumed my talents extended only so far as sketching.”
She had recently developed an interest in painting and once she expressed her curiosity to explore the medium, Edward supplied her with a generous amount of different paints and canvases so she could try her hand at painting.
So far, she was utterly enthralled by the activity and could often be found in the studio Edward had arranged for her in one of the estate’s rooms.
“Your aunt continues to brag shamelessly about the painting you gave her,” Edward remarked, glancing toward Barbara. “She has hung it in the most prominent place in her sitting room and informs every visitor, unprompted, that her dear nephew’s wife painted it herself.”
“It was a poor likeness of her garden,” Phoebe protested, though she could not quite hide the pleasure from her voice.
“It was a beautiful likeness,” Barbara called, without lifting her gaze from her tea, “And I will hear no argument on the matter.”
The afternoon passed by in a daze of easy laughter and gentle teasing, the sun sliding slowly toward the tree line, until at last the carriages were called and the house grew quiet around them once more.
Rowland and Anna departed with promises to return before the month was out, and Barbara pressed a kiss to Phoebe's cheek, then murmured something about spoiling the child terribly once it arrived, before she conceded and accepted Edward’s assistance into her carriage.
At last, only the two of them remaining in the fading afternoon light, staring at the almost vacant driveway.
“Come,” Edward beckoned softly, drawing her toward the stairs once the last of the carriages had rolled away. “You have been on your feet the whole afternoon, however much you insist otherwise.”
She did not argue, too content in the quiet warmth of his hand around hers to protest over being fussed over, and let him lead her up to their chamber.
“You spoil me,” she stated once they arrived, hardly as a complaint as he undid the fastenings of her dress with hands that had grown so achingly familiar with the task.
“I intend to spoil you a great deal more before this is through,” he murmured against her shoulder, pressing a kiss there that made her breath catch. “You have given so much of yourself to everyone around you for so long, Phoebe. Allow me the pleasure of giving something back.”
He kissed her softly, smiling when she pressed against him immediately, already overcome with need. It deepened almost instantly, and as his tongue tangled with hers, he led them both to the bed, carefully lifting her into his arms to he could set her upon it with ease, never breaking the kiss.
He laid her back gently against the pillows, and pressed kisses along her skin and his hands moved over her slowly, caressing the soft curve where their child grew, over the swell of her breasts, down the length of her, as though committing every changed inch of her to memory with reverent attention.
Phoebe lightly sank her teeth into her lip to keep herself from moaning out instinctively, but quickly stopped when she remembered how Edward often remarked how much he liked to hear her whenever she was swept up in the throes of pleasure.
When his mouth pressed against her hip and then he sank lower, nestling his face between her legs, she gasped his name into the quiet of the room, fingers threading into his hair.
He was utterly gentle and devoted to making her feel as good as possible, his tongue stroking at her dripping center. His hands stayed firm on her hips but occasionally, one would reach up to grope at her breasts.
“Edward –” she gasped suddenly as the ecstasy crashed over her, unexpected but smoothly.
Edward watched, pleased at his work and when she reached out her arms, he obliged instantly, kissing her so tenderly, she felt her heart shudder pleasantly in her chest. Afterward, he lay next to her and gathered her delicately to lay against him, her head resting over the steady, familiar rhythm of his heart.
Phoebe sighed, contentedly as she felt the light press of his lips into her hair.
“I love you,” he uttered softly. “More than I believed myself capable of loving anything.”
“I love you,” she replied instantly, tracing idle patterns over his chest, feeling entirely, impossibly whole. “I do not believe I have ever been so happy in all my life.”
“Then I shall endeavor to ensure you remain so, for however many years we are given.”
Phoebe had no doubt about it, and she was excited for what lay ahead of them, determined to firmly advocate for their happiness at every turn.
And they lived happily ever after.
The End?