Epilogue
“Mama, why is Aunt Rosalind crying?”
Helena looked down at her daughter, four years old now, with Edmund’s dark eyes and Helena’s determined chin, and smiled. Charlotte Ridley, named for Helena’s maternal grandmother, had inherited her mother’s talent for asking inconvenient questions at precisely the wrong moment.
“They are happy tears, darling. Aunt Rosalind is happy because she has a new baby.”
“But why does being happy make her cry?” Charlotte’s brow furrowed with the intensity of a child grappling with the fundamental absurdities of adult behaviour. “When I am happy, I laugh. Crying is for when you are sad.”
“Sometimes,” Helena said carefully, lifting Charlotte onto her hip despite the growing weight of the child, “our feelings are so big that they overflow. Like when you pour too much water into a cup and it spills over the sides. Happy feelings can overflow just as much as sad ones.”
Charlotte considered this with the solemnity of a philosopher examining a difficult theorem. “I suppose that makes sense,” she allowed. “But it is still very confusing.”
“Most things about grown-ups are confusing,” Helena agreed. “You will understand better when you are older.”
“That is what you always say.”
“Because it is always true.”
They were standing in the corridor outside Rosalind’s bedchamber at Thornwood House, where Helena’s sister had just given birth to her second child, a son, this time, after three-year-old Catherine.
William Hartley, whose investments had prospered as steadily as his matrimony, had emerged from the chamber minutes ago with tears streaming down his face and the dazed expression of a man who still could not quite believe his good fortune.
Helena remembered that expression. Edmund had worn it the day Charlotte was born, and again eighteen months later when their son arrived, another dark-eyed Ridley, named William after Edmund’s father.
Edmund had held his son for the first time and wept without shame, and Helena had watched from the bed, exhausted and overwhelmed and more besotted with him than she had ever imagined possible.
“Can I see the baby?” Charlotte asked. “Papa said I might be allowed if I was very quiet and very gentle.”
“We shall ask Aunt Rosalind. But you must promise to do exactly as she says. New babies are very delicate.”
“I know.” Charlotte’s voice carried the weight of experience. “Will was delicate too, when he was new. But now he is not delicate at all. He knocked over my tower yesterday and did not even say sorry.”
“Your brother is learning. He will be better when he is older.”
“That is also what you always say.”
Helena laughed and pressed a kiss to her daughter’s hair.
Charlotte was so very much her father’s child in some ways, the serious eyes, and the careful observation, the tendency to notice everything and forget nothing.
But she had Helena’s sharp tongue and stubborn will, a combination that promised interesting years ahead.
The door to Rosalind’s chamber opened, and William Hartley emerged once more, his composure somewhat restored.
“She is asking for you,” he said to Helena. “And for this one as well, if she promises to be gentle.”
“I promise,” Charlotte said immediately, squirming to be put down. “I am always gentle. Mostly. When I remember.”
Helena set her daughter on her feet and took her hand, leading her into the chamber where Rosalind lay propped against pillows, with a small bundle cradled in her arms.
“Helena.” Rosalind’s voice was tired but radiant. “Come meet your nephew.”
Helena crossed to the bedside, Charlotte pressed close against her skirts, and looked down at the newest addition to their growing family. The baby was tiny, red-faced, with a tuft of dark hair and eyes that blinked sleepily at the world he had just entered.
“He is perfect,” Helena said softly.
“He is loud,” Rosalind corrected with a tired laugh. “He has been crying since the moment he arrived. William says he takes after me.”
“You were a quiet baby, actually. Mama always said so.”
“Then he takes after someone else entirely.” Rosalind shifted the baby slightly, making room for Charlotte to peer at her new cousin. “Charlotte, this is Thomas. He is your cousin.”
Charlotte studied the baby with the same serious intensity she brought to all new experiences. “He is very small.”
“All babies are small at first. You were small once too.”
“I do not remember being small.” Charlotte reached out one careful finger to touch the baby’s hand. Thomas’s tiny fingers curled reflexively around hers, and Charlotte’s eyes went wide. “He is holding my hand!”
“He likes you already,” Rosalind said.
“Of course he does.” Charlotte’s voice carried absolute confidence. “Everyone likes me. Papa says I am irresistible.”
Helena exchanged a glance with her sister, both of them suppressing smiles. Edmund had indeed said this, repeatedly, and Charlotte had absorbed the compliment as simple fact rather than parental bias.
“Where is Edmund?” Rosalind asked. “I expected him to accompany you.”
“He is downstairs with Will and Catherine. Your daughter has decided that Uncle Edmund is the most entertaining person in the world, and she refuses to let him out of her sight.”
“She has good taste.” Rosalind’s smile softened. “He is wonderful with children. I remember being surprised by that, when Charlotte was born. He had always seemed so reserved, but he is so different with her.”
“He is different with children,” Helena agreed. “With our children especially. It is as though all the walls he built come down, and he is simply the Edmund I gave my heart to.”
“The Edmund who counts your smiles in a journal?”
“He still does that, you know.” Helena felt heat rise to her cheeks. “Five years of matrimony, and he still keeps that journal. He showed it to me on our anniversary last month. He has recorded over four thousand smiles.”
“Four thousand.” Rosalind shook her head in wonder. “That man is hopelessly besotted.”
“As am I.” Helena touched her sister’s hand. “We are both fortunate, Roz. More fortunate than we ever dared to hope.”
“We are.” Rosalind’s eyes glistened with the tears Charlotte had noticed earlier. “When I think of where we started from.”
“Don’t.” Helena’s voice was gentle but firm.
“We survived it. We have done far more than simply withstand our trials; we have prospered beyond measure. And now look at us, Mrs Hartley, with a beautiful daughter and a new son. Duchess of Westmere, with two children of my own and a husband who adores me. Mama comfortable and happy in the Dower house. Everything we fought for, everything we sacrificed, it was worth it.”
“It was always going to be worth it.” Rosalind squeezed her hand. “Because we had each other. Because we refused to give up. Because you, Helena, walked into an impossible situation and made it beautiful.”
“I did not do it alone.”
“No. But you took the first step. You always took the first step.” Rosalind’s voice was thick with emotion. “I have never properly thanked you for that. For all the years you carried us, protected us, and gave up everything for us.”
“You have thanked me. Every day, in a thousand small ways.” Helena bent to kiss her sister’s forehead. “And I did not give up anything, Roz. I gained everything. Everything that matters.”
Charlotte tugged at her mother’s hand. “Mama, may I hold the baby?”
“Not yet, darling. Perhaps when he is a little bigger.”
“Welcome to the family, Thomas,” she said solemnly. “I shall teach you everything when you are bigger. I know many things.”
Helena gathered her daughter and said her goodbyes, leaving Rosalind to rest with her new son. In the corridor, she paused to collect herself, to let the emotions of the moment settle before she faced the rest of the household.
Five years had passed since she stood in her father’s study in Somerset, surrendering to a single moment of grief. Five years since Edmund arrived with an incredible offer, transforming a union of mere convenience into a passion that overturned every truth she knew.
In those five years, her world had altered entirely. The quiet vicarage was now a memory, revisited only to honour her father’s memory. Plentiful fortune had replaced her scanty funds, and frantic pleas for work had given way to an enviable social correspondence.
Yet her core remained intact: a deepening devotion to Edmund, an unshakable affection for her family, and a quiet resolve to prove worthy of her joy.
Though no longer the guarded woman who wielded a sharp tongue at local assemblies, Helena remained as firm as ever, only now, she did not have to face the world alone.
Edmund found her in the garden an hour later.
Thornwood House had extensive grounds, not as grand as Westmere, but beautiful in their own right, and Helena had wandered through them while Charlotte played with her cousin Catherine under the watchful eye of their nursemaids.
The autumn afternoon was warm, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the last roses of the season.
“There you are.” Edmund’s voice came from behind her, and she turned to find him approaching along the gravel path. “I have been looking everywhere.”
“I needed a moment.” She accepted his embrace, leaning into the familiar warmth of his arms. “Rosalind’s delivery brought back memories.”
“Of Charlotte’s birth?”
“Of all of it.” Helena pulled back to look at him. “Of the fear and the hope and the overwhelming realisation that we had created something together. Something real.”
Edmund’s expression softened. “I remember. I remember holding Charlotte for the first time and thinking that I did not deserve this. That I had done nothing in my life to earn such happiness.”
“You earned it.” Helena touched his face. “Every day, in every way, you earn it.”
“As do you.” He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm.
“I am wonder, do you remember when you said that I would be publishing my horticultural findings one day?”
“And was I wrong?”