Extended Epilogue
Five years later
“Papa, must we stay perfectly still?”
The small voice piped up from the velvet settee where Harriet sat with their daughter perched on her lap. Little Charlotte—or Lottie, as she insisted on being called—squirmed against her mother’s arms, her dark curls bouncing with each fidget. Harriet smiled, brushing a curl from Lottie’s cheek. These moments, chaotic though they often were, filled a place in her heart she hadn’t known was empty until Lottie was born.
“For the hundredth time, yes,” Jeremy replied from behind his easel, though his tone held more amusement than frustration. “Unless you wish to be immortalized as a particularly energetic blur.”
“What’s ‘mortalized mean?” Lottie asked, twisting to look up at Harriet.
“It means Papa is going to paint us so beautifully that everyone will remember us forever,” Harriet explained, gently turning her daughter’s face back toward Jeremy.
“But my nose itches,” Lottie whined, scrunching up said nose dramatically.
Jeremy peered around the canvas, paintbrush poised. “Your nose has been itching for the past twenty minutes, little minx. Along with your ear, your elbow, and I believe at one point, your left toe.”
“It’s my right toe now,” Lottie announced solemnly.
Harriet bit back a laugh. “Darling, if you can sit still for just five more minutes, Papa will let you see the painting.”
“You said that five minutes ago,” Lottie pointed out with the devastating logic of a four-year-old.
“Did I? How curious. I don’t recall,” Harriet said innocently, though she caught Jeremy’s eye and saw him fighting a smile.
“Mama’s turned forgetful in her old age,” Jeremy said to Lottie in a stage whisper. “Happens to all of us eventually. Why, just yesterday I forgot where I’d left my—”
“You’re not old, Papa,” Lottie interrupted. “Mr. Atkins is old. He has wrinkles like a raisin.”
“Charlotte!” Harriet admonished, though her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
At that precise moment, the door opened to admit Atkins, who carried a silver tea tray. His eyebrow climbed toward his receding hairline as he caught the tail end of Lottie’s observation.
“Indeed, Lady Charlotte,” he intoned with perfect gravity, though Harriet caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “One does tend to acquire a certain… prunelike quality with the passage of time. Though I daresay some of us wear our raisins with more dignity than others.”
Lottie giggled, bouncing again on her mother’s lap. “You’re not wrinkly, Mr. Atkins. Only a little bit around the eyes!”
“How reassuring,” the butler replied drily, setting the tray on the side table with practiced ease.
Before anyone could respond, the sound of wheels on gravel and horses’ hooves echoed from the drive. Lottie’s entire body went rigid with excitement before she erupted from Harriet’s lap like a jack-in-the-box.
“Aunt Jane! Aunt Jane is here!” she shrieked, her small feet already carrying her toward the door at alarming speed.
“Lady Charlotte—” Atkins moved with surprising swiftness for a man of his years, catching the child gently by the shoulders just as her foot caught on the edge of the Turkish carpet. She wobbled precariously before he steadied her. “Perhaps we might attempt a more dignified entrance? One that does not involve testing whether young ladies bounce?”
Lottie looked up at him with wide eyes, then grinned mischievously. “You moved very fast, Mr. Atkins. Not old at all.”
The door burst open before Atkins could properly announce the visitor, and Jane swept in with all the drama of her younger years, though her movements were notably more careful now. Her silk traveling dress couldn’t quite disguise the gentle swell of her belly—the long-awaited blessing that had finally come after five years of marriage and quiet disappointment.
“Don’t you dare scold me for not waiting to be announced,” Jane declared, already opening her arms for Lottie, who had wriggled free from Atkins’ gentle restraint. “Philip wanted to delay another hour—can you imagine? He’s leaving for Edinburgh tomorrow and was fussing over the carriage springs, of all things. I told him if he inspected them one more time, I’d take a hack instead.”
“Aunt Jane, are you getting fat?” Lottie asked, patting Jane’s rounded middle.
“Charlotte!” Harriet gasped, mortified.
Jane snorted, kneeling carefully to Lottie’s level. “Not fat, darling. There’s a baby growing in here. Your little cousin.”
“Like Mrs. White’s cat had kittens in her belly?” Lottie’s eyes went round with wonder.
“Rather like that, yes,” Jane agreed, shooting Harriet an amused look as she straightened with slightly less grace than she’d descended. “Though hopefully with less scratching involved when they arrive.”
Meanwhile, Jeremy turned to the butler. “So, what was it, Atkins?”
“Ah, Your Grace,” Atkins interjected smoothly, producing a folded paper from his pocket. “The document you requested arrived this morning. I thought you might wish to see it.” He paused delicately. “It concerns the Winchester Opera House.”
Jeremy took the paper, his fingers stilling on the wax seal. The room seemed to hold its breath as he unfolded it and scanned the contents. Behind them, Lottie was regaling Jane with a detailed account of her new pony’s dietary preferences, complete with dramatic gestures that sent Jane into peals of laughter.
“The sale went through, then,” Jeremy said quietly, his voice perfectly neutral. “To Henri de Rouvroy.”
Harriet moved closer, her hand finding his arm. “Are you quite all right?”
For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face—not regret exactly, but perhaps a ghost of the ambition that had once consumed him. Then he folded the paper with deliberate care and smiled at her, genuine warmth replacing whatever shadow had momentarily passed.
“Completely,” he said, and she could tell he meant it. “After all, I rather think I got the better end of the bargain, don’t you?”
She’d once worried that giving up the pursuit of acclaim would leave Jeremy restless. But looking at him now—relaxed, present—she felt nothing but certainty.
“Besides,” she added softly, “Henri commissioned three of your paintings for the main foyer. The Winchester Opera House will have Penhaligon art from the present Duke after all.”
Jeremy’s smile deepened at that, but before he could respond—
“Papa, can Aunt Jane see your painting now?” Lottie called out, abandoning her pony tale mid-sentence.
“Is everything ready for our escape to the coast?” Jane asked, settling into a chair with visible relief. “Philip made me promise to ask about the arrangements three times. The man becomes positively militant about schedules when travel is involved, especially as of late.”
“The hampers are packed, the carriages arranged,” Harriet assured her. “We leave in three hours. We’ll stop at the church first, to visit Grandmama.”
A brief silence fell at the mention of Agnes, who had passed peacefully in her sleep the previous winter. Lottie, too young to fully understand, simply nodded solemnly—she knew visiting Grandmama’s special place meant bringing flowers.
“Three hours?” came a booming voice from the doorway, breaking the moment. “Good God, Hattie, I thought we’d agreed on this afternoon!”
Ralph strode in, looking more animated than he had in months, his usually serious demeanor replaced by something almost boyish. The instant Lottie spotted him, she abandoned Jane entirely and launched herself at her uncle with a squeal of delight.
“Uncle Ralph! Did you bring me something?”
“Would I forget my favorite niece?” He scooped her up effortlessly, producing a small carved wooden horse from his pocket. “The craftsman in the village made this specially. See? It looks just like your pony.”
“It does!” Lottie exclaimed, clutching the toy. “Thank you, Uncle Ralph!”
“You’ve been busy with preparations, I hear,” Jeremy remarked with a grin, noting the ink stains on Ralph’s fingers.
“I may have written to the hotel three times,” Ralph admitted, looking slightly sheepish. “And to the coaching inn. And perhaps sent a messenger ahead to ensure the private beach access was still arranged. We leave in three hours, after all—I wanted everything perfect.”
“Three hours?” Jane groaned. “Philip will have my head. He was certain we had until evening.”
“Where did I put that list?” Harriet suddenly muttered, patting her pockets and glancing around the room. “The one with the children’s things? I was certain I left it here this morning.”
“The blue paper?” Jeremy asked. “I might have seen it upstairs when I was gathering my painting supplies.”
“Would you help me look, dear?” She caught his eye meaningfully, and something unspoken passed between them. “…I’d feel better knowing everything is accounted for before we leave.”
Jeremy immediately set down his paintbrush, wiping his hands on a cloth and grinning. “Of course! Ralph, perhaps you could show Jane and Lottie the new carriage arrangements? I know you’ve reorganized them twice since yesterday.”
“No, Jeremy, please don’t—” Jane began, mouth agape, only to be interrupted by Ralph’s overly zealous laugh. “Oh dear…” she resigned to her fate.
As Ralph launched into an enthusiastic explanation of optimal seating for coastal travel—for the seventh time since the plans had been first set the last week—Harriet slipped her hand into Jeremy’s and drew him toward the door. They managed to escape into the hallway just as Lottie began demanding to know if there would be room for her wooden horse to have its own seat.
Harriet stifled a laugh as the voices faded behind them. There’d been a time when slipping away like this would’ve felt bold. Now it was simply theirs—an unspoken rhythm in the chaos of family life.
The moment they reached the privacy of their chambers, Jeremy pressed her against the closed door, his mouth finding hers with an urgency that spoke of days of restraint. She gasped against his lips, already breathless, her back arching as her body remembered how badly she’d missed the feel of him. He kissed like a man starved—devouring, impatient, thorough—and Harriet met him with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer.
“God, I’ve missed this,” he murmured against her lips. “Three days of your brother sleeping in the next room. I thought I’d go mad.”
“You could have simply been quieter,” she whispered back, nipping at his lower lip.
“With the sounds you make?”
“The sounds I make?” She pulled back just enough to look at him incredulously. “It is you who—”
His hands were already under her skirts, dragging them upward in impatient handfuls, palming her thighs like he owned them.
Harriet moaned deeply, trailing off as her head tipped back and thudded softly against the wood. Heat pulsed between her legs, sharp and immediate. “We don’t have long,” she breathed, but even as she said it, she was already hiking her hem higher. “They’ll—ah—they’ll notice we’re gone.”
“Let them,” he growled, his mouth trailing down her neck, teeth grazing the curve of her collarbone. “I’m tired of stealing moments in our house.” His hands found her waist next, lifting her slightly and pressing her more firmly against the door.
“Our house,” she repeated, savoring the word. She gasped as his mouth found that spot just below her ear that always made her knees weak.
“Mmm, ours,” he agreed, his teeth grazing her neck. His hands slid lower as his fingers traced the silk of her stockings. “I’ve been thinking about this all morning. Watching you in that dress, the sunlight catching your hair…”
“Yes?” she breathed, arching against him as his hand found bare skin above her garter.
“How much I wanted to lock that door and have you right there on the carpet,” he finished, his voice rough. “Forget the painting entirely.”
Harriet made a sound that was half laugh, half moan. “Scandalous.”
“You love it.” He lifted her suddenly and carried her to their bed.
He set her down on the edge of the bed, kneeling between her parted knees, his hands sliding up her thighs with deliberate slowness. “Do you think we can make time alone during the trip?”
“Oh, stop talking!” she laughed, pulling him up for a fierce kiss, her legs wrapping around his waist.
The next few minutes were a blur of heated touches and half-stifled sounds, clothes pushed aside rather than removed, urgent and necessary. When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Harriet’s hair was thoroughly disheveled, and Jeremy’s shirt was untucked and twisted.
“Your cravat is utterly ruined,” she exhaled in a fit of laughter, trying to smooth it with shaking fingers.
“Worth it,” he breathed heavily, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “Perhaps next we could ruin your—”
“Mama! Papa!” Lottie’s voice carried clearly from the bottom of the stairs. “Uncle Ralph says we’re going to be late!”
They looked at each other and burst into breathless laughter.
“How long were we—?” Harriet began, glancing at the clock on the mantle.
“Half an hour, at least,” Jeremy admitted before offering her his hand as he drew back, looking slightly sheepish. “We got rather carried away, I think.”
“Half an hour!” She accepted his hand and scrambled to fix her hair. “They’ll all know exactly what we’ve been doing!”
“Let them,” he chuckled, though he was hastily retucking his shirt. “We are married, after all.”
Five minutes later, they descended the stairs with as much dignity as they could muster. Ralph took one look at them—Harriet’s slightly flushed cheeks, Jeremy’s hastily retied cravat—and rolled his eyes.
“Found the list, did you?” he asked dryly. “Must have been terribly well hidden to take thirty minutes.”
“The carriages are ready,” he continued pointedly, ignoring Harriet’s blush. “And Lottie’s been asking where her swimming costume is.”
“In the blue trunk,” Harriet said smoothly, though she could feel Jane’s knowing gaze on her. “Shall we?”
The party made their way outside, where two carriages stood ready on the gravel drive. The summer morning had turned glorious, with a soft breeze carrying the scent of roses from the garden. Lottie immediately broke free and ran toward the lead carriage, her wooden horse clutched in one hand.
“I want to sit by the window!” she announced, attempting to climb in before Ralph caught her and lifted her properly.
“Ladies first, little monkey,” he said, helping Jane up the steps with considerably more care. “And that means your mother and aunt, not you.”
Jeremy paused beside the second carriage, where the luggage was being secured. He caught Harriet’s hand, drawing her close for a moment.
As they settled into their seats, Lottie immediately scrambled onto Jeremy’s lap, pressing her nose against the window. Ralph and Jane were laughing about something in the opposite seat, and sunlight streamed through the windows, casting everything in gold.
The carriages rolled forward, and twenty minutes later, they stopped at the small churchyard in Danbury. Lottie carried the wildflowers she’d picked that morning, placing them carefully at the base of Agnes’s headstone while the adults stood quietly behind her.
“For Great-Grandmama,” she said solemnly, then turned to tug on her father’s coattails. “She can see the sea from heaven, can’t she, Papa?”
Jeremy glanced at Harriet, then lowered down to smooth his daughter’s curls with a wistful smile. Harriet felt a mixture of butterflies and bliss as she regarded the two people she now cherished most in this world.
“I’m certain she can, darling. And she’s watching us have our adventure.”
When they climbed back into the carriage and set off again toward the coast, the mood had shifted to something lighter yet richer, touched by memory but not weighed down by it. Lottie chattered about shells and sandcastles, Jane and Ralph debated the merits of sea-bathing, and Jeremy’s hand found Harriet’s, as it always did, squeezing gently. The road stretched ahead, winding toward the promise of salt air and sunshine, carrying them forward into whatever came next—together, always together, in the life they’d chosen and the love they’d fought for.