Chapter 009 — Henry
Two Years Later
Christmas at Crosswood Hall was always grand, the sort of grand that announced itself before you even crossed the threshold. No expense was spared—ever—and this year was no different. Isabella was three now. She would not remember much of it, not the way I would, but that hardly mattered. I would tell her everything one day, every small detail, until she could see it through my eyes.
She sat on John’s lap in a crushed-velvet dress the color of deep forest green, blond ringlets bouncing each time she threw her head back to laugh. And she did laugh—loudly, without apology, the kind of uproarious delight that could make even a weary room feel bright again. John obliged her with ridiculous faces, contorting himself like a foolish actor on a stage, and she adored him for it. She always had.
It grew late, as such evenings did. With a glance toward the clock and the soft hush that follows a child’s second wind, I caught Mrs. Fernsby’s eye and gave a small nod. Time for bed. The men lifted their glasses in farewell, waving as Isabella was gathered up in capable arms. We were all of us wrapped around her tiny finger, and we knew it.
Downstairs, the servants’ party had begun. Extra hands had been hired for the season, and they deserved their revelry—a night of warmth and laughter that belonged entirely to them. I required only Percy at my side, and our guests upstairs: four of them this year. John and Phillip, Kenneth and Walter—six men in the drawing room, first names only and no formality. It suited us, and we had earned it.
Walter grinned as Mrs. Fernsby closed the door behind her. “She is charming, Henry.”
Percy’s smile spread wide, pride softening his features. “She rules Crosswood Hall.”
Phillip raised his glass. “Bravo. She’ll make an admirable mistress someday.”
“Hear, hear,” someone echoed, and I found myself clinking glasses with Phillip before I could stop the reflexive amusement that rose in my chest.
Percy narrowed his eyes at me in playful warning. “Not too soon.”
“You have much living yet to do,” he added, and when I met his gaze there was nothing uncertain there—only warmth, and the steady confidence of a man who had never made me doubt where I stood with him.
Kenneth, still boyish despite the quarter century that had passed, leaned forward with an almost conspiratorial brightness. “Oh, John—have you heard from the captain and Mrs. Wentworth?”
John’s smile turned shy. “Alas, no. She is expecting again, and they won’t travel north this year.”
Walter arched a brow. “Perhaps a son this time.”
Phillip pressed a hand to his heart in theatrical sincerity. “A healthy child, whatever the Lord chooses.”
We raised our glasses—every one of us—to that.
Later, when the house had quieted and only the faint pulse of distant music drifted up from belowstairs, I returned to my bedchamber. One candle burned on the table, its flame steady, the room softened by its small circle of light. Percy came to me without needing to be asked. When it was over and the world had settled again, he held on as if anchoring us both, his breath warm against my skin.
I blinked, surprised by the sudden sting behind my eyes. Tears—quiet, disobedient things. Percy noticed at once. He always did.
“Henry?” His thumb brushed beneath my eye, gentle as a blessing. “What is it, my dear?”
I sniffed and tried to laugh it off, but my voice caught anyway. “I did not know…”
“Did not know?” he prompted, patient.
“…that I could be so happy.”
His smile was almost beatific in the candlelight. “You make me just as happy.”
The pause that followed did not feel heavy; it felt lived-in, like a room you finally stop bracing yourself in. Then he shifted, the change deliberate, gifting me an easier place to stand. “Now,” he said lightly, “we must not spoil Isabella.”
I laughed, soft and genuine, grateful for the way he could guide the heart without making it feel handled. Mrs. Fernsby would be strict; the child would not run wild. Isabella had William’s stubbornness, Caroline’s joy—two spirits stitched into one small body. I would never regret their marriage. I would always mourn them, too. Some loves do not diminish; they simply learn to share space with grief.
Percy extinguished the candle and drew me close, as if darkness itself were only another curtain we could pull shut together. “Two years,” he murmured. “Feels like a lifetime.”
“We’ve known each other all our lives,” I reminded him.
He chuckled low. “I believe I have loved you that long.”
My leg no longer ached the way it once did. The absence of my arm had become something I could live with, not merely endure. There were losses that time could not return, but Percy had taught me that acceptance was not surrender. It was a kind of courage.
“I love you,” I said into the dark.
“Well, that’s good,” he replied, voice warm with mischief.
“Why?”
“Because I love you more.”
I smiled, safe in the blackness, safe in the certainty of him. “Rest well, my love,” I whispered. “Tomorrow is Christmas—for Isabella’s sake.”
And I did. Deep and restful, as though the house itself were holding us.
The two people I loved most lay by my side, and for the first time in longer than I cared to admit, the quiet did not feel like emptiness.
It felt like peace.