Chapter 22
"Matilda never mentioned a sister."
"Half-sister. And no, she wouldn't have. Our father made sure of that."
"Your father?"
"He paid my mother to disappear when I was born. He could not have scandals in the family."
"But you knew about Matilda?"
"I kept track. From a distance. Until she died."
"And now?"
"Now I want answers."
"About?"
"Everything. The fire, her death, why she was so miserable."
"How do you know she was miserable?"
"She wrote to me. For the last six months before she died."
Lucien went very still. "She wrote to you?"
"Weekly. Long letters about how trapped she felt, how cold you were, how desperate she was to escape."
"I... I didn't know she felt that way."
"No, you wouldn't have. Too busy with your own isolation to notice hers."
"That's unfair," Arabella interrupted. "They were wrong for each other. Both trapped. It wasn't just his fault."
Margaret studied her with sharp eyes. "You're the new wife. The one who fell in the lake."
"Dived," Lucien corrected automatically.
"Either way, you caught him. Matilda couldn't."
"Matilda didn't want to catch him," Arabella said firmly. "She wanted to be free."
"Free from him."
"Free from everything. The expectations, the propriety, the life planned for her."
"How would you know?"
"Because I almost had that life. If I hadn't fallen..."
Lucien looked at her.
"Into that lake, I'd have married someone suitable and been miserable forever."
"Instead you married him."
"Instead I married someone unsuitable and I am chaotically happy."
"Chaotically happy," Margaret repeated. "Matilda would have liked that phrase."
"Would she?"
"She had a secret fondness for chaos. Used to create it when we were children."
"You knew her as a child?"
"Briefly. Before Father discovered I existed and paid us to leave."
"But she remembered you?"
"She found me. Years later. She said she'd always known something was missing."
"A sister."
"A friend. She had no real friends, you know. Just society connections."
"That's sad."
"That was her life."
"Not at the end," Lucien said quietly. "At the end, she had plans. Friends helping her. Hope."
"It did not do a lot of good."
"No, but... at least she died reaching for something better."
"Pretty way to phrase burning to death."
"Harsh way to phrase an accident."
"Was it? An accident?"
"Yes," Lucien said firmly. "Cassandra knocked over a candle during an argument. The fire spread faster than anyone expected."
"Cassandra. The vindictive blonde Matilda wrote about?"
"The same."
"She caused my sister's death?"
"Accidentally."
"Still caused it."
"Yes."
"Where is she now?"
"Gone. Banished. If she returns, she'll face consequences."
"That's not enough."
"It has to be."
"Why?"
"Because more violence won't bring Matilda back."
"But it would feel good."
"Temporarily."
"Sometimes temporarily is enough."
"No," Arabella said gently. "It never is."
Margaret slumped suddenly, all fight leaving her. "I just... I missed my chance. To know her properly. To be sisters."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"Yes. I have a sister of sorts now—Cordelia. I can't imagine losing her."
"Sister of sorts?"
"My husband's cousin. We've taken her in."
"Collected her?"
"Rescued her."
"From what?"
"From a mother who saw her as currency."
"Like Matilda's parents saw her."
"Exactly."
"And you just... took her?"
"We gave her choices."
"It must be nice. Having choices."
"You have choices too."
"Do I?"
"Stay for breakfast," Arabella said impulsively. "Tell us about Matilda. The real Matilda, not the society version."
"Why would you want to hear that?"
"Because she was part of Lucien's life. That makes her part of our history."
"Even though she wanted to leave him?"
"Especially because of that. It means we understand each other."
"You're very strange."
"So everyone says."
"I like it."
"So does everyone, eventually."
Margaret stayed for breakfast, which turned into lunch, which turned into dinner. She told stories of Matilda that Lucien had never heard—the girl who rescued birds, who secretly wrote poetry, who once dressed as a boy to attend a lecture on astronomy.
"She was brilliant," Margaret said. "Just... stifled."
"Many women are," Arabella observed.
"You don't seem stifled."
"I have an unusual husband."
"I'm right here," Lucien protested.
"One who lets you be yourself?"
"One who encourages it."
"Even the chaos?"
"Especially the chaos."
"Matilda would have envied you."
"Matilda would have found her own happiness, given time."
"Time she didn't get."
"No."
They were quiet for a moment, remembering a woman none of them had truly known but all wished they had.
"Stay," Arabella said suddenly.
"What?"
"Stay. For a while. Get to know us. Let us get to know Matilda through you."
"That's... I couldn't impose."
"It's not imposing. It's healing."
"For whom?"
"All of us."
Margaret looked between them; Arabella eager, Lucien cautious but not opposed, Cordelia curious, even Thistle wagging hopefully.
"All right," she said. "For a few days."
A few days turned into a week. A week turned into a month. By the time Margaret finally left, she was family—another stray collected by Arabella's enormous heart.
"You can't keep everyone," Lucien told her as they waved goodbye.
"I don't want everyone. Just the interesting ones."
"That's still too many."
"That's exactly the right amount."
"We're running out of rooms."
"We have forty-three rooms."
"And at this rate, we'll fill them all."
"Would that be so bad?"
"It would be chaos."
"Our favourite thing."
They stood together at the edge of the long gravel drive, watching as Margaret’s carriage rolled away into the distance.
The wheels crunched softly against the stones, growing fainter with each turn until only a thin cloud of dust marked her departure.
Cordelia stood beside them, hands folded neatly, her face calm but her eyes glistening.
Thistle sat proudly at their feet, tail sweeping through the dust, ever alert for opportunities to misbehave.
“We did it,” Arabella said suddenly, breaking the quiet with a voice that trembled between wonder and disbelief.
Lucien glanced at her, brow lifting. “Did what?”
“Survived,” she said, turning to face him fully, her eyes bright in the golden light of late afternoon. “The truth about Matilda, Cassandra’s schemes, Harrington’s revenge. We survived it all.”
He smiled faintly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “We did more than survive.”
“Oh?” she asked, tilting her head, the beginnings of a grin tugging at her lips.
“We thrived,” he said simply, and somehow that single word carried the weight of everything they’d endured.
“Through chaos?”
“Because of chaos.”
“Our chaos?” she pressed, teasing but soft.
“Our perfect chaos,” he affirmed, his tone both proud and affectionate.
“With our criminal dog?”
“Essential to the chaos,” he said without hesitation, looking down at Thistle, who wagged as if in agreement.
“And our collected family?”
“The best part of the chaos.”
They both looked down at the dog, who was currently sneaking something shiny from Morrison’s pocket with expert precision.
“He’s getting worse,” Lucien observed, folding his arms.
“He’s getting better at it,” Arabella countered, eyes twinkling.
They went inside, still bickering pleasantly, their words echoing down the old hallway as the last traces of sunlight spilled across the worn wooden floors.
The air carried the faint scent of smoke and lavender polish, a reminder of the day’s madness slowly settling into peace.
Outside, the sun sank behind the gardens, casting long golden shadows across the cracked walls of Blackthorn Manor.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, it always did, but tonight, for once, they were safe, together, and happy.
“You know,” Lucien said as they prepared for bed, “I think Matilda would have been happy for us.”
Arabella glanced over her shoulder as she brushed out her hair, a faint smile ghosting across her face. “Because we’re happy?”
“Because we’re honestly happy,” he clarified, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at her as though the very idea still amazed him. “No pretence, no propriety, just… us.”
“Chaos and all?” she jested, turning toward him, one eyebrow raised.
“Especially the chaos,” he said, his grin widening.
“She would have liked the chaos.”
“According to Margaret,” he said, beginning to unbutton his shirt with exaggerated care, “she loved it.”
“Then we’re honouring her memory.”
“With chaos?”
“With life,” Arabella corrected softly, climbing into bed and drawing the covers around her. “Real, messy, complicated life.”
“She’d approve,” he murmured, sliding in beside her.
“I think so too.”
There was a quiet moment, filled only by the soft crackle of the dying fire. Then she said, “Should we name the baby after her?”
Lucien tilted his head. “If it’s a girl?”
“Matilda Arabella?”
“Arabella Matilda?”
“Matilda Margaret Arabella?”
He gave a mock groan. “That’s too many names.”
“That’s the perfect amount of names,” she replied, unable to hide her grin.
“For a future chaos collector?”
“Exactly.”
He chuckled. “And if it’s a boy?”
“Lucien Junior.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Thistle Junior?”
Arabella shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“Julian Junior?”
“He’d be insufferable.”
“More insufferable.”
“Impossibly insufferable.”
“So what do we name a boy?” she asked, resting her chin on her hand, her eyes soft in the candlelight.
“Something strong,” Lucien said after a thoughtful pause.
“Like Beast?”
He laughed outright. “That’s not a name.”
“It could be.”
“No.”
“Beast Blackthorn,” she said, savoring the sound of it. “It has a ring.”
“A terrible ring.”
“Our kind of ring.”
“We are not naming our child Beast,” he said firmly, though his smile betrayed him.
“But we could name him after the lake.”
“Lake Blackthorn?” he asked, half amused, half horrified.
“I was thinking more… Douglas.”
He blinked. “Douglas?”
“It means dark water,” she explained, as if the meaning alone might make it poetic.
“You want to name our child after the place we met?”
Arabella hesitated, her teasing softening into something gentler. “That’s… actually romantic.”
“I think I agree.”
“Douglas Blackthorn,” she said slowly, as though testing the name against the air.
“Douglas Lucien Blackthorn.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Douglas Lucien Thistle Blackthorn.”
Lucien burst out laughing. “We are not naming our child after the dog.”
“The dog saved us from Harrington,” she reminded him, poking his arm.
“Still not naming the baby after him.”
“Middle name?”
“No.”
“Third name?”
“No.”
“Secret fourth name?”
He turned to stare at her. “That’s not a thing.”
“It could be our thing.”
He exhaled, half exasperated, half delighted. “We have too many things.”
Arabella smiled and nestled closer against him. “We have exactly the right number of things.”
They argued about names until they fell asleep, wrapped around each other with Thistle snoring at their feet. Outside, the night was peaceful—no fires, no threats, no dramatic revelations.
Just peace.
It wouldn't last, it never did with them, but for tonight, it was enough.
More than enough.
It was perfect.
And in the morning, when Arabella woke to find Lucien's hand protectively over her growing belly, when Thistle had somehow acquired Morrison's second-best cravat, when Cordelia was teaching the kitchen maids to pick locks "for emergencies," when the whole chaotic, criminal, perfect mess of their life resumed, she knew that this was exactly where she belonged.
Not in the calm, ordered life she might have had.
But in this beautiful chaos. With her beast, her collected family and her criminal dog.
And their future child who would undoubtedly inherit all of their worst and best qualities.
"Regrets?" Lucien asked, catching her smiling.
"Never."
"Not even about the fires?"
"Especially not about the fires."
"Chaos and love?"
"Crime and family?"
"Danger and happiness?"
"All the same."
"That makes no sense."
"That makes perfect sense."
"For us."
"Only for us."
"I love you," he said suddenly.
"I love you too."
"Even though our life is insane?"
"Because our life is insane."
And really, Arabella thought as Lucien kissed her good morning while Thistle began his daily crime spree and Cordelia could be heard teaching someone else something they definitely shouldn't know, what more could anyone want?
Chaos.
Love.
Family.
Crime.
All wrapped up in one perfect, imperfect life.
With the promise of more chaos to come, starting with whatever Thistle had just stolen from Morrison's pocket, which appeared to be...
"Is that my pocket watch?" Lucien asked.
"Appears so."
"How did he..."
"Criminal genius."
"We're raising our child with a criminal genius dog."
"The best kind."
And so they bickered into the morning, as they would bicker into tomorrow and all the tomorrows after that, because that's what they did. That's who they were.
The Beast and his Lady.
The Earl and his Countess.
Lucien and Arabella.
Parents-to-be.
Dog owners.
Family collectors.
Chaos creators.
And perfectly, impossibly, criminally happy.