Epilogue
In the Marais, the apartment occupied the entire top floor of an elegant building on a quiet French street.
The rooms were spacious and filled with the assurance of wealth, high ceilings adorned with decorative molding, fine furniture upholstered in rich fabrics, oil paintings in gilded frames.
Crystal decanters lined the sideboard in the drawing room, Persian rugs covered the floors, and tall windows offered views of Paris rooftops and the distant spire of Notre-Dame.
It was a home. Truly theirs in ways the London house had never been.
Kate woke slowly, consciousness returning in gentle stages. She lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds of Paris awakening beyond their windows, vendors calling in the street below, the distant clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones, church bells marking the hour.
Then she turned her head and found what she sought.
A gentle smile instantly lit up her face.
Gina slept beside her, face peaceful in repose, golden hair spread across the pillow.
No binding compressed her chest, just the natural rise and fall of unrestrained breathing.
No masculine disguise, no performance, no armor.
Just Gina, free to simply exist in the privacy of their bedroom. Of their home now.
Kate propped herself up on one elbow, taking the rare opportunity to study her wife in her sleep. The curve of her cheeks, the blonde lashes against pale skin, the small scar on her shoulder where Ramsay’s bullet had grazed her three years ago. Every detail was precious, familiar, beloved.
They’d built this. Against all odds, despite every danger, they’d built a life together.
A sound from elsewhere in the apartment broke Kate’s contemplation, a high, bright laughter followed by an enthusiastic stream of French that could only belong to one person.
Kate smiled again, pressing a soft kiss to her wife’s temple.
Gina’s eyes fluttered open, and a sleepy smile curved her lips. “Is she awake already?”
“She’s been awake,” Kate murmured. “And from the sound of it, she’s enlisted Vikram as her morning entertainment.”
“Poor Vikram.” Gina’s hand came up to trace Kate’s jaw tenderly. “He has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.”
They lay there for a moment, listening to another peal of laughter from afar, and Kate saw Gina’s smile widen at the sounds.
She saw how her eyes instantly lit up with an emotion she already knew well herself.
“We’re fortunate, aren’t we?” Kate said softly. “That the sisters agreed. That we found her.”
Gina swallowed with difficulty at the emotion of the memory.
Two years ago, when they’d gone to the convent orphanage in Montmartre, she hadn’t dared hope.
Two English ladies—well, one English lady and her “companion”—wanting to adopt a child.
It should have been impossible. But the Mother Superior had looked at them with kind eyes and asked only one question: “Will you love her?”
And they had. From the moment they’d seen that little girl with dark curls and watchful green eyes, far too quiet for a four-year-old, they had loved her.
“Very fortunate,” Gina agreed at last. “I can’t imagine our life without her now.”
“Neither can I.” Kate pressed a kiss to Gina’s forehead. “Though I could imagine a few more minutes of peace before she discovers we’re both awake.”
As if summoned by the words, footsteps pattered down the hallway, followed by an urgent whisper that wasn’t quite as quiet as intended: “Vikram, do you think they’re awake yet?”
Kate and Gina looked at each other and burst into quiet laughter.
“Too late,” Kate said, sliding out of bed and reaching for her dressing gown. “I’ll go rescue Vikram.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Gina promised, stretching luxuriously now that she had the bed to herself.
Kate wrapped the dressing gown around herself and padded barefoot toward the door, her heart full of happiness.
The apartment’s main living area opened before her, spacious and filled with morning air from open windows. And there, in the center of the Persian rug, was their daughter.
Céleste. Six years old now, all dark curls and bright green eyes, currently attempting to convince Vikram that she absolutely needed to practice her handstands before breakfast.
“But what if I forget how by lunch?” she retorted, mixing rapid French with halting English, her hands on her small hips, in a stance she had clearly learned by watching Kate and Gina bargain with merchants. “Skills must be practiced daily, Vikram. You said so yourself about mathematics.”
Vikram, now twenty and far more patient than any young man had a right to be, was trying very hard not to laugh. “I don’t recall handstands being quite the same as mathematics, ma petite.”
“They require balance and concentration. That’s very mathematical.”
“Is it now?”
“Maman!” Céleste spotted Kate and immediately abandoned her argument, running across the room. “You’re awake! Tell Vikram that handstands are mathematical so I can practice before breakfast!”
Kate caught her daughter up in her arms, pressing a kiss to dark curls. “I think handstands are very energetic for this early in the morning. Did you wake our guest?”
“I woke up first!” Céleste said proudly. “And then Vikram was already awake drinking coffee, so I only suggested we should do something interesting together.”
“She’s been ‘suggesting’ for twenty minutes,” Vikram remarked with unrepentant affection; his voice was now deeper than before, yet it retained that gentle warmth and a distinctive accent from his native land. “I’m thoroughly entertained.”
He’d grown into himself beautifully over the past three years—very tall, very confident, his business acumen sharp after years of working alongside them.
He’d arrived from London two days ago, bringing news of the shipping company and updates from Jane, who now managed the London household with remarkable efficiency.
In that moment, Mary appeared from the direction of the kitchen, carrying a tray with fresh bread and preserves.
She had traveled with them to Paris a year earlier, relieved to leave behind the rigid scrutiny of London, and had integrated herself with complete satisfaction into that most unconventional household.
“Good morning, ma’am,” she said warmly, then caught herself with a small smile. “Kate. I still forget sometimes.”
“Old habits,” Kate said easily.
Here, in their Paris home, such formality felt unnecessary among those who knew their truth.
“Where’s Maman Gina?” asked Céleste naturally.
“Getting dressed,” Kate said. “Maman Gina had a late meeting last night, remember? About the ships. But she’ll be out soon, and then we can all have breakfast together.”
“Can I show her my handstands then?”
“Outside,” Kate and Vikram said simultaneously.
Céleste sighed dramatically but nodded nevertheless.
Vikram caught Kate’s eye, his expression warm with understanding. “It suits you both, you know. This life. Paris agrees with you.”
“It does,” Kate said softly. “Though we miss London sometimes. Miss having you closer.”
“I know.” Vikram’s smile turned slightly mischievous. “But someone has to maintain the respectable Mr. Moore-Sullivan’s reputation in London society. Can’t have people asking too many questions about why he never returned from the Continent.”
Kate looked at him with both gratitude and affection. “Thank you, Vikram. For everything. For understanding. And for your work there.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for,” he said simply. “You gave me a home when I had none. A family. How could I do anything less than protect it?”
Mary set the tray down on the dining table, glancing between them with affection. “Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes.”
Minutes later, Céleste had abandoned her campaign for indoor handstands and was now attempting to climb onto Vikram’s lap, chattering in rapid French about something she’d seen in the market yesterday—a man with a performing monkey, and could they please get a monkey, because she would take very good care of it and teach it mathematics.
Vikram listened with genuine interest, responding in kind, his French nearly as fluent as hers now.
Kate watched them, her heart full with the simple domesticity of the moment. This life they’d built, unconventional, precious, and theirs, stretched before her like a gift she’d never dared hope for.
And it was enough. More than enough.
It was everything.
By the time Gina emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a simple morning gown with her hair pinned loosely, the table was set and the smell of fresh bread filled the apartment.
Céleste spotted her immediately and launched herself across the room. “Maman Gina! Vikram says I can’t have a monkey but I told him that’s not fair because Madame Dubois has three cats and cats are much less intelligent than monkeys so really we should be allowed—”
“Good morning to you too, ma chérie,” Gina said, scooping her up despite the girl’s gangly six-year-old limbs. She pressed a kiss to Céleste’s forehead. “And I’m afraid Vikram is right. No monkeys.”
“But—”
“No monkeys,” Kate said firmly from where she was pouring coffee. “Though perhaps we could visit the man in the market again this week, so you can see the monkey without bringing it home.”
Céleste considered this compromise with the seriousness of a seasoned negotiator. “And could we bring it nuts to feed it?”
“We could bring it nuts,” Gina agreed, setting her down. “Now go wash your hands for breakfast.”
Céleste scampered off, and Gina crossed to Kate, pressing a soft kiss to her temple before accepting the cup of coffee she offered.
“She’s going to wear us down eventually,” Kate murmured.
“Probably,” Gina agreed. “But not today.”
They settled around the table—Kate and Gina at either end, Céleste between them on one side, Vikram across from her, Mary taking her place beside him with the familiarity of someone who was family rather than staff.
It was unconventional. All of it. But it was theirs.