Epilogue
Pine, oleander, rock rose and salt of the sea.
Verity smiled at such exotic scents and then stretched out her arms where she lay, her entire being suffused with warmth.
Languidly, she opened her eyes.
Silhouetted against the azure sky was a wonder of a tree. A pale-grey trunk which divided into smaller pale-grey trunks but each topped with… She shaded her eyes. Well, if she was to be non-scientific, lots of spikey leaves, with clusters of dramatic white flowers.
A Dracaena draco, or dragon tree.
Shifting her head to one side, other wonders came into view.
Tall stone pines with their clouds of green, the nuts of which had become a favoured indulgence, roasted and sugar-coated.
Wild olive and nettle trees thrived, filtering the blazing sun.
Date palms made one feel cool with their deep-green hues while the fragrances of hibiscus and plumbago wattled the senses.
No glasshouse in England, let alone garden, could boast such an array of specimens, but here, in the Alameda Gardens of Gibraltar, a stone’s throw from the continent of Africa, all was possible.
Her lips curved as she recalled their travels thus far, the same voyage that Miles had spoken of all that time ago at Mrs Tait’s dinner. No longer just plans and maps but made real with every mile beneath their feet.
And what a wonder it had been thus far.
A schooner had transported them from Plymouth to the Portuguese coastal city of Porto, but not just any schooner, for Miles had purchased a three-masted ship from a duke and adapted it.
The captain’s cabin to the rear had been combined with the first officer’s and painted in white. Additional port holes had been cut, the existing ones widened, with mirrors set opposite so that the light multiplied upon itself when the weather complied.
They’d spent more than a few nights in harbour to make sure all would be well, but she’d revelled in the excitement of it all, Miles by her side lending her comfort and strength.
But also…
In years past, when contemplating ships, she had naturally concentrated on the smallness of the cabins, the darkness of the corridors, the oppressive low ceilings…
She had not understood that the true nature of sea travel lay not below deck, but above it, when on a day without cloud, one could see forever, wind catching at your hair, a feeling of being suspended between endless sky and sea.
There, one could breathe like nowhere else. The horizon not confining but beckoning…
Leaving the ship in Porto, they’d sipped ruby-red wine in the Douro valley, marvelling at how the vines eked an existence on vertiginous slopes, then they’d travelled over land down the coast towards Gibraltar. They’d pressed flowers, sketched, lingered and walked through meadows.
Lynch, ever efficient, had scouted ahead for lodgings, the freedom of the road suiting him as much as it did them.
Of course, it would be fanciful to say all had been without incident as once, just once, the air had vanished around her, the walls and low ceiling of a wine bodega closing in.
Breath had shortened, pulse rising sharp and fast and…
Without fuss, Miles had scooped her into his arms, tendered a word to the owners about the days of heat, and taken her outside to the brightness and air.
There in the shade of an olive tree, he’d held her, voice low and steady against her ear, speaking of nothing and everything, until her breath had returned, and the world had widened once more.
And that was that. Forgotten amongst the many pleasures. Come but gone.
The Iberian weather had enabled them to travel along sun-warmed roads in wagons and open coaches, the air never seeming to grow stale.
And if it did happen to rain… Well, there was plenty to keep them occupied inside the airy lodging rooms that Lynch had sought out – reading or wrapped in each other’s arms, skin to skin.
Verity’s eyes drifted closed at the thought.
And when she opened them, a small gecko, delicate, iridescent, almost jewel-like, darted from a crack in a low stone wall, its motion quicksilver one moment, then utterly still. Verity smiled, recalling her delighted astonishment the first time she’d set eyes on such a creature back in Portugal.
She languidly brushed a lock of hair from her face and the gecko scurried off.
These Alameda Gardens were a haven for the soldiers stationed here to enjoy when off duty and for the residents to walk shaded from the fierce summer sun.
And since time immemorial, this promontory had been guarded by a soaring limestone rock.
It rose seemingly from naught, abrupt and commanding, as though the earth itself had thrust upward in a single defiant gesture, its vastness both protective and awe-inspiring. Less a part of the landscape but more a steadfast guardian, protecting all below her.
Verity pushed herself upright and stretched once more.
Her hair had come loose, cotton dress crumpled, and her feet were bare. Yet she cared not a jot.
Within arm’s reach, a lavender bush bloomed so she snapped a stalk and pinched the bud to release its perfume.
Beside her, Miles slept, one arm curved behind his head, jacket and waistcoat thrown aside. Throat bare, corded and strong, his chest gently shifted with breath.
Set back from a path, they’d partaken of a leisurely picnic, but detritus all around them confirmed a morning well spent: her sketches of seeds and flowers while Miles’ notebook was filled with careful observations of the exotic plants.
All would be compiled for a future book on the flora of the peninsula.
A shared endeavour. A shared life.
Gently, Verity traced the lavender stalk over Miles’ cheek and lips, his skin evermore tan from their open-air travels, hair brushed with gold.
Each day, she could not help but admire the adroit and practical manner in which he attended to their travelling routes, luggage and lodgings. No fuss or fret at the inevitable trials and tribulations of travel, just calm authority.
While they’d journeyed by land, their schooner had sailed from Porto and was now docked here in Gibraltar. Soon there were decisions to be made – to enter the Mediterranean Sea and sail along the Spanish coast or return to England?
What a wonderful decision to have…
She leaned over and lightly kissed her husband.
His lips clung, a broad hand curving to her nape.
“Rather a fine way to wake,” he murmured, lashes lifting to display glittering green eyes.
“I was just thinking…” she murmured. “About fate. How everything is…as though it was all meant to be. Here. Now. At this time. In these Gardens. Not before when we were young. It could never have been. But now.” She touched his stubbled cheek. “I love you so.”
“Fate gifted us a second chance.” He brushed a loose curl from her temple but his hand remained in a long, lingering touch.
“And I adore you, my Amaranth.” His lips curved before he kissed her but when she drew back there was a different light in his eyes altogether.
“Shall we return to the villa? I find myself in need of another siesta?” He sat up, those powerful thighs shifting, and a heat coursed through her that had nothing to do with the Iberian sun.
So with haste, they packed away their books and pencils and notebooks, donned boots and shoes, before walking hand-in-hand through the Gardens.
The deep-green date palms embraced above their heads, leaf kissing leaf while the sun filtered through to cast them in shadow and then light, all the hues and shades and wonders of nature.
From here she could glimpse the sea, where their schooner lay awaiting.
There could be more adventures to far-off lands…or none at all. It mattered not.
With Miles’ hand secure within her own, there was no darkness, nor fear.
All was light.
And together, into that light, they stepped.
The End