Epilogue
THREE MONTHS LATER
“And the name, Your Grace?”
For one moment, Andrew could not answer. The vicar stood before him in his white surplice, with one hand resting near the silver basin and his kind old face lifted in patient expectation. The church was bright with morning sun, though the air still held a faint chill from the stone walls.
In his arms, the baby blinked solemnly at the world, as if she understood that a great question had been put to him and meant to judge his reply. Andrew looked down at her.
She wore a christening gown of fine white lawn, older than he was, brought out from some cedar chest where generations of Sinclair infants had slept in linen and family expectation.
Lace framed her small face. One tiny hand had escaped the sleeve and now gripped his finger with astonishing determination.
Behind him, the family waited.
Emma and Philip stood together, their little daughter Lilian pressed against Philip’s side, trying very hard to behave in church and failing only in small, charming ways.
Sophia was already near tears. Lady Keswick had surrendered to emotion before the ceremony had properly begun.
Lord Keswick stood stiffly beside her, looking as though he suspected infant baptism to be a solemn military action in which weakness must not be displayed.
And beside him stood Frances.
His wife.
Her hand rested lightly upon his sleeve.
No one else would have thought anything of it.
A wife touching her husband during a christening was hardly worthy of notice.
But Andrew felt that touch as one felt a promise.
She had placed it there when the vicar took up the water, just as his breathing had altered.
Once, the question of a child’s name had belonged to ghosts, to a nursery door kept shut, to a baby sister no one had named in his hearing, to the silence of a house that had taught him love was merely grief before it ripened.
Now a child lay warm and living in his arms, and Frances stood beside him, steady as sunlight.
He drew in a slow breath.
“Mary Grace,” he announced. “Mary Grace Hill.”
Frances’s fingers tightened softly upon his sleeve.
The baby sneezed. A ripple moved through the little company.
Lilian giggled before Philip bent his head and murmured something no doubt intended to restore order, though Andrew saw the corner of his friend’s mouth betray him.
Sophia pressed a handkerchief to her lips.
Lady Keswick made a sound that suggested complete emotional collapse.
The vicar smiled. “Mary Grace.”
The water touched the child’s brow. Mary Grace considered the matter for half a second, then expressed her opinion with a cry sharp enough to startle a rook from the churchyard yew.
“There,” Frances whispered, leaning closer. “You have been baptized.”
Mary Grace remained unconvinced. Andrew looked down at the two of them, at Frances’s dark head bent near the baby’s fair one, and felt the old terror inside him loosen its hold by another degree. It no longer ruled him.
The ceremony continued, prayers spoken over the child, vows given, blessings bestowed. Andrew answered where he was meant to answer. Frances’s voice joined his. When he heard it, something within him settled.
Afterward, they returned to Sinclair House, where the gathering expanded from solemnity into noise with astonishing speed.
The drawing room had been opened and filled with flowers.
White roses stood in bowls upon the tables, and pale ribbons had been tied along the mantel in honor of Mary Grace, though Frances had declared ribbons frivolous and then selected every one herself.
Tea was served. Cakes appeared. Lilian immediately made it her duty to determine which were superior and offered her conclusions with great seriousness. Mary Grace, having forgiven the sacramental affront, received admiration with the languid dignity of a monarch.
“She has your eyes,” Lady Keswick declared to Andrew, dabbing at her own.
“Impossible,” Frances teased. “She has scarcely decided what color they are.”
“She has your expression,” Emma told Frances.
Frances looked down at the baby, who was at that moment frowning at Lord Keswick with deep suspicion. “Then I pity His Lordship.”
Lord Keswick cleared his throat. “A very fine child.”
Mary Grace continued to stare.
“She does not appear impressed, Father,” Sophia said softly.
“I did not intend to impress an infant,” Lord Keswick replied, though his ears had gone faintly red.
Andrew, standing near the mantel, watched the scene with a quietness no longer born of distance. There had been a time when such gatherings fatigued him beyond measure. Now, though, he found himself oddly content to stand in the middle of it.
Philip came to his side with a cup of tea in hand. “You are smiling.”
Andrew did not look away from Frances. “Am I?”
“It is becoming frequent enough to cause concern.”
“I shall have my physician examine the condition.”
“I would not. He may find it incurable.”
Andrew’s smile deepened faintly. “I believe it is.”
Philip followed his gaze to where Frances sat with Mary Grace in her lap while Emma adjusted the christening gown and Sophia offered unnecessary assistance. Lilian nestled nearby, asking whether babies liked almond cake and whether Mary Grace would be permitted a pony.
Philip’s expression softened. “You look happy, Sinclair.”
Andrew accepted the words with a seriousness they deserved. “I am.”
Philip glanced at him. “That was easier for you to say than I expected.”
“It was not easy. Only true.”
His friend nodded once. That was Philip’s way of giving blessing without sentiment. Andrew appreciated it more than he could say.
The afternoon passed in such exchanges, in laughter and tea and the soft passing of the baby from one trusted pair of arms to another. Mary Grace slept through most of her own celebration, which Frances declared a sign of excellent taste.
It was not until later, when the first bustle had diminished and the guests had begun to drift toward the dining room, that Andrew noticed Frances slip away.
At once, his attention followed. He waited long enough not to be obvious, then entrusted Mary Grace to Emma, who received her with a knowing look and a smile.
Then, he went in search of his wife. He found her in the conservatory. The room lay at the back of the house, warm and glass-walled, filled with the green breath of orange trees and potted ferns. Frances stood near the far window with one hand resting upon the table.
“There you are,” he smiled, approaching her.
She turned.
A smile came to her mouth, but it did not quite settle. “Were you looking for me?”
“I am always looking for you.”
Her brows rose. “That is dangerously romantic.”
“I have been warned my condition is incurable.”
“By whom?”
“Philip.”
“Then it must be grave.”
He crossed the room. “Are you tired?”
“A little.”
“Unwell?”
“No.”
He stopped before her, studying her face. “Frances.”
She laughed softly, but there was a tremor beneath it. “You have become very difficult to deceive.”
“I learned from an expert.”
“I do not deceive. I withhold strategically.”
“Then you are withholding now.”
She looked down at her hands. Andrew’s heart began to beat harder.
“Tell me,” he said.
Frances drew a breath. “I had not meant to tell you today.”
He reached for her hand at once. “Tell me what?”
“I thought I should wait until tomorrow. Or perhaps next week. Or until I could be certain I would say it properly.” She looked up at him then, and the fear and joy in her eyes struck him with equal force. “But after today, after hearing you say her name, after seeing you with her…”
His hand tightened around hers. “Frances.”
“I am expecting,” she said.
The words entered him slowly. The conservatory seemed to fall away into sunlight and silence. He heard, distantly, the murmur of family somewhere beyond the doors.
Expecting.
His child.
Their child.
He thought the old fear would rise, with all its ancient authority, but he was no longer afraid.
“You… are certain?” he asked, taking her hand into his.
“As certain as a lady may be at this stage.”
“Have you seen the physician?”
“Not yet.”
“Then we shall send–”
“Andrew.”
He stopped.
Her eyes brightened with laughter now. “There he is.”
“Who?”
“The moderately overbearing husband.”
“I said I would attempt moderation. I did not claim success.”
“No, and I did not expect it.”
He lifted her hand and pressed it to his mouth. “You should have told me sooner.”
“I discovered it only recently.”
“How recently?”
“Recently enough that you may spare yourself the dramatic injury.”
“I am not dramatic.”
“Today you threatened a footman because he carried Mary Grace too near an open window.”
“It was a cold draft.”
“It was July.”
“Drafts are not governed by months.”
She laughed then, and the sound loosened the last knot of terror inside him.
Andrew drew her carefully into his arms. At first, he held her as though she might break.
Then, when she came willingly against him and rested her cheek upon his coat, he held her as a man held his whole life.
The orange trees breathed their green sweetness around them.
Sunlight warmed the glass. Frances’s arms went around him.
“I am beyond happy,” he whispered into her hair.
She grew still.
Then she drew back enough to look at him. “Are you?”
“Yes.” He touched her cheek. “Terrified. Overwhelmed. Already planning how many physicians may reasonably be consulted without provoking your anger.”
“One.”
“Three.”
“One.”
“Two, and Philip may stand witness to my restraint.”
“Philip will side with me.”
“Then I must choose another witness.”
She smiled, but her eyes shone. “You are truly happy?”
Andrew looked at her: his wife, his love, the woman who had taught him that happiness did not become safer because one refused it.
“I am,” he confessed. “I once thought love only gave a man more to lose.”
“And now?”
He glanced toward the house, where Mary Grace slept somewhere among family, where laughter moved from room to room, where the future had begun to gather quietly and insistently around them.
“Now I think it gives him something worth staying for.”
Frances’s smile trembled. Then she rose onto her toes and kissed him.
Andrew received the kiss with gratitude first, then joy, then that familiar longing which, even after months of marriage, had lost none of its power to unsettle him.
He drew her closer, though carefully, and felt her laugh softly against his mouth.
“You are already treating me as though I am porcelain,” she murmured.
“You are carrying my child.”
“I am still capable of being kissed properly.”
His eyes warmed. “A correction I am happy to receive.”
This time, he kissed her more thoroughly, still tenderly, still with reverence.
But with enough of the old fire that Frances’s fingers tightened in his coat and his own heart, battered and remade by love, answered with fierce certainty.
When they parted, her color was high and her expression very satisfied.
“That was better,” she teased.
“I live to improve.”
“No, you don’t. You live to command, protect, brood, and occasionally make speeches that would be excellent if they were not so inconveniently moving.”
“I shall add kissing properly to the list.”
“You may.”
He rested his forehead against hers. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Frances said softly. “Do you think Mary Grace will mind?”
“Mind what?”
“Not being the only child.”
Andrew glanced toward the door, as though he might see through the walls to the nursery above. “I think she will be outraged at first.”
“Very likely.”
“Then curious.”
“Then tyrannical.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Frances laughed. “She will be an excellent older sister.”
His throat tightened at the words.
Older sister.
He thought of the baby sister he had lost, nameless and fragile, and for the first time the memory did not end only in silence. It moved onward, somehow, into Mary Grace, into Frances, into the child not yet born. Life did not repair death, but it answered it.
Andrew pressed a kiss to Frances’s brow.
“We shall name this child together, too,” he told her.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“And you will tell me when I am being unbearable.”
“Often.”
“And I will endeavor to improve.”
“Occasionally.”
He smiled. “That seems fair.”
From the corridor came Lilian’s voice, bright and urgent. “Aunt Frances? Uncle Andrew? Papa says the cake cannot be cut until everyone is present, and I think that is unreasonable!”
Frances closed her eyes briefly. “Duty calls.”
“Cake calls,” Andrew corrected.
“A more powerful summons.”
He offered his arm. She took it.
Before they left the conservatory, Frances paused and looked up at him with that soft, secret smile which had become his favorite sight in all the world.
“Andrew?”
“Yes?”
“I am very glad this is our ending.”
He covered her hand with his. “My love, I have every intention of making it only the beginning.”
The End?