Epilogue
Life was grand at Fromesweir, the name Tom and Henrietta had settled upon for the estate, owing to the fact that the stream running through the grounds resulted from a weir located on the nearby River Frome.
On a warm summer’s day, a bit more than a year after the Warricks had officially gifted their estate to Tom, Edward, along with Tom and their sister, Caroline, and her husband, George, gathered together to celebrate the family’s unexpected good fortune.
They set out a picnic on the now properly drained east lawn.
Caroline’s young son crawled about, earning the instant adoration of his aunts and uncles.
Henrietta held her infant son in her arms, a look of utter contentment on her face.
Edward leaned against the trunk of a tree, watching his extended family.
Worry and uncertainty had gripped them for too many years.
Caroline had only narrowly avoided a loveless arranged marriage for the sake of the family finances.
He and Tom had resigned themselves years earlier to never marrying, never having families of their own.
Now, here they all were: happy, loved, with families and futures.
He looked up at the sound of footsteps. Agatha. His Agatha. Lovely, beautiful, kindhearted Agatha.
“Forgive my tardiness,” she said with theatrical regret. “I could not find my lavender shawl.”
That had become a jest between them ever since Mrs. Warrick’s legendary lecture about the importance of lavender.
Edward hopped to his feet to help her sit. The time for her confinement was quickly approaching, and getting up and down had proven increasingly difficult of late. He saw her comfortably settled, then took his place directly beside her.
“How are you feeling?” Henrietta asked her.
“Ready for this child to make his appearance,” was Agatha’s wearied response.
“His?” Caroline replied. “You believe the baby will be a boy, then?”
Agatha nodded. “But Edward is convinced the child is a girl.”
“Not convinced so much as hopeful,” Edward answered. Upon first learning they were to be parents, his mind had filled with the image of a dark-haired little girl with her mother’s wit and easy smile.
Agatha leaned into his embrace, her hands resting on her rounded middle, his arms tucked gently around her. Caroline and George played with their little one. Tom cooed over the infant in his wife’s arms.
“Do you know, love,” Agatha said, “I believe I shall write a letter to my father telling him how very wrong he was.”
“About what in particular?”
“He insisted I did not emerge from that horrid house party victorious a year ago. He was wrong.”
“He was, indeed.”
They had found each other at the Battle Royal the Warricks had hosted. They had fallen in love. And, in the end, they had found their happiness.
They had not been chosen as the heirs, but they had, in the end, claimed the greatest prize of all: love.