Epilogue
Several years later…
Robert was out stretching his legs as he walked with ease through the bustling town of Lyme.
On their return to her hometown, Abigail and he had settled on the idea that he was gifted an inheritance provided he took on the surname of ‘Davenport.’ He was now addressed as Mr. Davenport.
His captaincy might one day come up, but by and large, he was primarily addressed as Abigail Fossey’s husband, and to that Robert was more than happy to answer to.
He, they all said, was bizarre. Robert was realizing that one, he didn’t care for their opinion, and two, being odd was not that bad, not when you were as happy as he was.
Abigail and he had set up ‘Davenport and Fossey’ on their return to Lyme.
With their sea lizard skull in pride of place.
Although eventually Abigail relented and agreed to send it to the British Museum.
Their store displayed and sold the wonders of the ancient world to the tourists and visitors who stopped by to marvel at what Abigail had unearthed.
Their shop had created quite a stir, especially when for a year they had the sea creature—measuring all of ten feet long as an attraction, before it was sold to a prestigious London museum.
The press had even arrived to see and describe in detail to their readers the sea creature Abigail and he had found in the slide all those years ago.
It had taken much skill and hard work on Abigail’s part, and many hours carefully cleaning and setting the creature up before it lay before them as whole as it had been centuries back.
They were a little more settled, and aside from the occasional visit to Dublin to see his parents or London to inspect some of the more recent finds by other geological scholars, they chiefly remained in Lyme Regis.
As Abigail remarked, there could be no better place to find the treasures of the ancient world than the Dorset coastline.
Today, Robert held his cane in one hand.
With the other, he carried a package made up of some delicious sandwiches for lunch.
On the bridge of his nose rested a pair of glasses, which he now wore daily.
He was especially looking forward to the thick cut ham on rye bread, and the Dorset cake he had bought from the bakers, the Hodge’s.
Next to him trotted his little daughter, Mary-Anne.
She was four and a half years old, with her mother’s dark hair, but with Robert’s blue eyes, a very pointed chin that was entirely her own, and was as ever a fountain of curiosity and questions.
Currently her round pink cheeks were stained with a red smear of berry juice.
“I want another strawberry.” She fixed him with a look of sheer stubbornness that reminded him forcibly of her mother’s vehemence when Abigail had gotten an idea into her head.
Mary-Anne had been gifted a berry from Hodge’s, a generous gesture by the baker. But now she thought these fruits were readily available.
“You finished your treat,” Robert said.
Nothing had taught him greater patience than having a child, especially as it was he who spent the greater amount of time with Mary-Anne, since Abigail had to work on the coastline searching for her next great ancient find.
Who would have imagined the change that had occurred within him, that the role of embracing domesticity could have come so naturally?
This was his new dream, a better one than he had ever considered before.
It certainly was a change from his previous employment, he thought wryly.
There was a lot less danger, and far less chance of being hit by bullets or shrapnel, yet the delight in seeing his daughter blossom and learn was just as rewarding as his previous role of spy.
Robert looked down at Mary-Anne, lowering himself as he placed his cane under his arm so that he might take her chubby hand in his own.
With a small sigh he realized that her fingers were still a little damp from the strawberry, and now so would his.
Any fastidiousness had to be cast aside in favor of the practicalities of being a father.
“Can we not buy more?” Mary-Anne persisted.
“No. Not right now. You heard Mr. Hodge. They were the very first of the season. You were very lucky to even get one.”
“Grandmother will have some. She always has the nicest things.”
On that score, Robert had no doubt. Mrs. Fossey had grown no more practical in the intervening years as his mother-in-law.
If anything, age had made Mrs. Fossey even more indulgent and prone to extravagance.
For instance, she still insisted on her yearly visit to Bath.
There had even been talk of going to Brighton as well, which Mrs. Fossey insisted would be vastly beneficial for her health.
Although, Robert had been pleased to note that Judith had said this was an expense too far.
Mrs. Fossey’s saving grace was that as a grandmother she excelled.
She utterly adored her granddaughter, and certainly if she had any sweet treats in the house, she would most definitely give these over to Mary-Anne.
It was one of the many reasons that Mary-Anne loved going to her grandmother’s, the other being the fat feline presence of Milton, who liked nothing more than sitting in Mary-Anne’s lap and refusing to move.
“We are going to see your grandmother now,” he added coaxingly.
“Good,” Mary-Anne said. He noticed there was a slight increase in his daughter’s footfall, no doubt she was busy plotting something that Mrs. Fossey would be happy to agree to, that Abigail and he might have refused to countenance.
“Have you got with you the ribbon Mother helped you pick out?” Robert asked.
“Yes,” Mary-Anne said. “I have it.” She patted her pocket, “Milton will look nice.”
Whether the cat would be so agreeable to be tied up with a scarlet bow, Robert had his doubts, but it was then that they turned the corner of the street and Mrs. Fossey’s home came into view.
“My darling girl,” came the rich indulgent cry from Mrs. Fossey as she made her way into the hallway and waved at Mary-Anne, who dashed away from Robert, to hug her grandmother.
“Oh, you are covered in pulp and fruit,” she sighed dramatically.
Mrs. Fossey glanced up at Robert. “I will expect you both for dinner I presume.”
“Thank you, yes,” Robert called his daughter. “Goodbye, Mary-Anne.”
With a wave, Mary-Anne dismissed him, she was already giggling at her grandmother’s attempts to clean her up.
Robert pivoted around and headed away, back through the town and toward his wife.
Abigail had slipped from their bed at dawn with a hasty kiss, and a murmured goodbye and he heartily wished to see her again.
Their little ivy-covered cottage was not the same without her, but he knew where she would be.
The streets were filling up, the milling bodies of townsfolk who he knew, and tourists who he didn’t, walked past as Robert made his way toward his wife.
“My love,” Robert entered the shop, and greeted Abigail.
She sat at one end of the room, pouring over the accounts before looking up at his salutation and smiling at him. Her wearing his specially bought pair of spectacles let him see the way her lips curved up in such a way—a moment that belonged to just them.
Jumping energetically to her feet, Abigail hurried over toward him, waving a piece of paper in her hand.
Her movements, the flash of her bright eyes and the unmistakable passion that sizzled through her, made his Abigail a sight that Robert would never tire of.
It helped that they were in such close proximity day by day.
Some couples might have grown to resent the hours they spent together, but Robert doubted he ever would.
With Abigail, there was always something different to be discussed.
Kisses to be given. Comfort to be exchanged.
A meeting of minds that he would never have imagined possible, but was now so grateful to be part of.
“Such news, such news,” she said.
“Quite,” Robert said, as he deposited his parcels on the bench. And offered to take the letter. “Mary-Anne is happily at your mother’s. With great plans to annoy the cat.”
“Poor Milton, Mary-Anne does order him about,” Abigail remarked with a wry smile at her daughter’s antics. “I hope my mother…”
“Do not fret, some women like yourself are excellent mothers, others must confide themselves to only being exemplarily grandmothers,” Robert said.
It was a constant worry for Abigail that her mother might influence Mary-Anne negatively, but so far neither of them could fault Mrs. Fossey for her care of Mary-Anne.
“Come I am sure you have not eaten, let us have some lunch,” Robert suggested mildly.
“No, no,” Abigail said, “this letter…you must read it.”
Teasing her with such a practical idea of food when it was obvious all she wanted to do was make mention of whoever had written to her.
Whilst the scholars in London had not reacted to Abigail’s discoveries, or increasing fame, or the numerous papers she wrote, they did not treat her with the respect she so clearly deserved, the same could not be said of the international crowd.
It seemed as if this was from yet another impressive foreign interest.
Abigail pressed the envelope into his hands, whilst Robert transferred his parcel to the nearby and walked to a window to better see what was written in the missive. All the while Abigail hurried behind him, her breath quick and excited.
“It is in French,” Robert said, having only glanced through the first page without taking in the actual contents.
“Hardly surprising when you consider who it is from,” Abigail snatched the page from his limp hand and turned it over.
“Monsieur Georges Cuvier himself.” Abigail’s voice took on such a tone of excitement, that were they not happily married, and Robert had not known of the greater scholar Cuvier already, he might have been jealous.
“What does the Frenchman want?” Robert asked.
He could read the letter, but by the time he had, he suspected Abigail might explode with excitement.
There had been some correspondence previously from overseas.
Addressed to Abigail. Seeking her viewpoint on the occasional article.
Some letters had caused her distress too, as some of the scientists did not believe her.
Yet surely it would be contained in this missive, not based on how excited Abigail was.
“It is an invitation to Paris.” Her dark eyes welled with emotion, as she gazed up at him. “They wish to see me. He says we do agree on everything but that they want to hear from me. My theories. My work. Me.”
She was not the only one who felt moved.
Who was delighted. Although given her achievements, Robert only felt that this honor was overdue.
He reached out a hand and took her fingers in his own, drawing her close.
Hugging her tightly. Kissing her lips most tenderly.
“This, my love, is precisely what you deserve.”
Abigail looked up at him, a tremulous smile gracing her arresting face, as if she could not quite believe it was happening. But Robert had no doubt in her genius, nor in his decision to choose love over duty with his Abigail.
THE END.