Epilogue #3
“You see,” Charity continued, undeterred, “we have all endured this with remarkable composure, and I think it only fair that we be acknowledged for it.”
Albina made a small sound, one that suggested she had reached the limit of what she was willing to tolerate from all of them at once.
“This is not a discussion that requires continuation,” she said. “There are guests waiting, and if you do not turn your attention to them immediately, they will begin approaching in a manner that lacks all structure.”
“They have already begun,” Charity said, glancing past her.
Indeed, they had.
Voices pressed in from every direction, names spoken, hands extended, people stepping forward with congratulations that overlapped one another. Temperance found herself pulled into it.
At some point, she became aware that Harper had not stepped away. He remained beside her, answering when addressed, allowing her to move as she wished, and when the press of people became too insistent, his hand found the small of her back.
As the ceremony drew to a close and goodbyes were said, the couple made their way to the carriage. Once inside, finally they had the privacy that they had been lacking all evening.
”Well,” she said, after a pause that was not quite hesitation, “I believe we have finally escaped.”
“It would appear so,” Harper replied, his tone even, though not distant, his attention resting on her in a way that felt far less guarded than it had in the presence of others.
“And you have nothing at all to say about it?” she asked, tilting her head just slightly, her gaze narrowing with quiet curiosity rather than accusation. “No observation, no conclusion, no perfectly reasonable remark about how efficiently the day was conducted?”
“I thought it best,” he said, “not to reduce it to efficiency.”
“That is very unlike you.”
“I am capable of variation.”
Temperance leaned back slightly against the carriage seat, considering him with a look that was no longer teasing, but thoughtful.
“You are full of surprises today.”
“I suspect,” he said, “that you will find that to be the case more often than not.”
“I shall hold you to that.”
A small silence followed then, almost as if the thought had been waiting for its moment, he said:
“There is something else. I find that I am not anticipating what comes next with any degree of apprehension.”
It was Temperance who moved first, though she did not seem to have decided to do so until she had already begun. Harper met her without hesitation, his hand lifting to her cheek as though the gesture required no thought at all. Their kiss was brief.
“I love you.”
How freeing it felt to be able to say it out loud.
“I have been considering,” Harper continued after a moment, “that it would be rather unreasonable to leave matters as they are, when there is no particular advantage in doing so, especially when the circumstances have altered as significantly as they have.”
Temperance glanced at him, her curiosity returning. “You may as well say it plainly.”
“I intend to,” he said, “though I find that I would prefer to say it properly, rather than abruptly.”
“And what would be the proper way of saying it?”
He did not look away from her as he answered.
“That I would like for us to begin a family,” he said.
Temperance did not react with surprise, though she did not answer at once either, her expression thoughtful rather than uncertain, as though she had already turned the idea over in her own mind before.
“And you have given this more than a passing thought?”
“I would not have raised it otherwise,” Harper replied. “It is not something I would consider lightly, nor something I would introduce merely because it is expected, but rather because I believe it would be… right.”
She studied him for a moment.
“And you believe that it would suit us?” she asked.
“I do,” he said. “I see no reason why it would not, and several why it would.”
Temperance’s lips curved slightly, though her tone remained composed. “That is a very practical way of approaching something that is not entirely practical.”
“I find that practicality tends to be reliable.”
“And yet this is not only a matter of reliability,” she said. “It is also a matter of whether it is wanted.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Which is why I am asking you.”
She did not hesitate then.
“I think,” she said, “that it is very much wanted.”
He watched her, as though ensuring that she meant it.
“You are certain?”
“I would not say it if I were not,” she replied. “And I do not see any reason why we should delay something that we both clearly intend.”
“That was my conclusion as well.”
“I thought it might be.”
A brief pause followed, though it was easy, unforced.
“And Joseph?” she added, her tone softening just slightly. “He would like it?”
“I believe he would,” Harper replied. “It would be a good thing for him to have a sibling.”
“Then I see no reason not to begin considering it properly,” Temperance said, as though concluding something that had already been decided between them. “If we are agreed, it would be rather unnecessary to treat it as something distant.”
“I see no reason either,” Harper replied.
“Then we are decided.”
Two Months Later
Two months had passed since the wedding, and yet Temperance found that there were still moments in which she paused, as though expecting to feel confined or altered in some irreparable way, only to discover that she felt neither, but rather something far more settled than she had ever allowed herself to anticipate.
That morning, however, something was not as it ought to be, though she could not immediately say what it was, only that there was a peculiar lightness in her head and a faint unease in her stomach that refused to be ignored, even as she attempted to dismiss it as nothing more than a passing inconvenience brought on by poor sleep or insufficient food.
When she rose from her bed, she found herself forced to steady her hand against the post, the room tilting in a most disagreeable manner that she had never before experienced, and it was in that moment, as she stood quite still and allowed the sensation to pass, that the thought came to her—not abruptly, but with a quiet certainty that settled rather than startled.
There had been signs, she realized, though she had paid them little mind at the time.
A certain fatigue that lingered longer than it ought, a restlessness that was not quite discomfort but not entirely ease either, and the absence of something she had not consciously noted until now, though it had clearly been missing long enough to matter.
Temperance exhaled slowly, her hand lowering from the bedpost as her thoughts began to arrange themselves into something far more deliberate.
“No,” she murmured, though there was no real denial in it, only the acknowledgement that the possibility was no longer something to be dismissed.
It would be foolish, she told herself, to draw a conclusion without confirmation, though even as she thought it, she knew that she was not uncertain.
Still, she rang for her maid.