Extended Epilogue

Five years later

The storm arrived without warning.

Catherine stood at the window of the newly-renovated blue drawing room, one hand pressed flat against the glass in wonder, as the sky turned from pewter to charcoal in the space of a heartbeat. Rain came sideways, battering the windows in great sheets, and thunder rolled across the grounds like artillery fire.

Behind her, Caerleon hummed with chaos.

The good kind, fortunately.

The kind that involved shrieking children and adult laughter and the particular brand of mayhem that only happened when Jeremy Everdon had been drinking since noon.

“Thomas, if you run into my wife one more time, I shall have to challenge you to a duel!”

“He’s three, Jeremy,” Isabella gasped.

“Old enough to learn about consequences!”

Isabella’s laugh rang out, bright and unrepentant, followed by the patter of small feet fleeing down the corridor and Jeremy’s theatrical groan of defeat.

Catherine smiled. Caerleon had not known such warmth in generations. Perhaps ever.

“Mama!”

Catherine turned as her daughter flew into the room, all wild dark curls and pudgy limbs, and caught her just before she collided with a side table. “Gently, my love.”

“But the storm!” Lily’s eyes were huge, delighted rather than frightened. She had her father’s eyes. His reckless enthusiasm for things that would terrify sensible people. “It’s so loud. Can we watch from the attic? Papa says you can see for miles from up there and I want to see the lightning and—”

“Your father,” Catherine said, smoothing wild dark curls back from her daughter’s flushed face, “has clearly been telling you taradiddles again.”

“But—he says when he was little, he and Uncle Aaron used to watch storms from the roof!”

“I’m certain he’s embellishing.”

“What’s embllishig?”

“It’s when you say more than you should.” Catherine kissed her daughter’s forehead and gave her a gentle push toward the door. “Go find Aunt Meredith, sweetheart. And do try not to knock anyone over.”

Lily bolted.

Catherine took a breath, steadied herself, and went to find her husband before he filled their daughter’s head with any more dangerous ideas.

She found him in the small parlor that overlooked the east garden, their infant son cradled against his shoulder. Gideon was pacing. One hand rubbed slow, careful circles on the baby’s back while he murmured something too low to hear. The boy was whimpering, face red and blotchy, one small fist tangled in his father’s shirt.

He looked up as she entered, and something in his expression shifted. Softened.

“He’s teething,” Gideon said quietly. “Won’t settle.”

Catherine crossed to him, laid her palm against the baby’s warm back. “Give him to me. You should be with your brother. It’s your birthday.”

“Our birthday.” A wry edge crept into his voice. “And I’d rather be here.”

“Liar.”

His mouth twitched. “Perhaps a small embellishment.”

She took the baby, who immediately began rooting at her shoulder, and Gideon’s hand lingered briefly at her waist before he stepped back. Even after four years, after two children, after countless nights spent wrapped around each other, the awareness between them was a living thing. A current that ran beneath every glance and touch.

“Go,” she whispered. “I will join you shortly.”

He hesitated, then bent to press a kiss to her temple. “Don’t take too long. I’ve no interest in celebrating without you.”

“Flatterer.”

“Honest man.” His hand came up, cupped her cheek, and his thumb brushed across her lower lip with enough intent that her breath caught. His eyes were dark. Knowing. “I’ll be waiting.”

Then he was gone, boots retreating quietly on the carpet, and Catherine stood in the empty parlor with her son in her arms. The rain was coming down in sheets now, thunder rolling in from the west like cannon fire.

She thought of another storm. Another birthday. A house that had once felt like a tomb.

How far we have come.

***

By the time she returned to the drawing room, the baby drowsing against her chest, the gathering had achieved the comfortable disorder of family who knew each other too well to bother with pretense.

Jeremy had claimed the best chair near the fire and sprawled in it like a deposed king, one leg slung over the arm. Isabella perched beside him, heavily pregnant and glowing with it, one hand resting on the swell of her belly while she laughed at something Meredith was saying. Aaron sat on the settee with Meredith tucked against his side, their son asleep in her lap, his small face peaceful in a way that made Catherine’s chest ache.

And Gideon, as brooding as ever, stood by the window with a glass of brandy in hand, staring out at the storm.

Catherine settled the baby into his cradle near the hearth—he’d sleep now, at least for an hour—and crossed to her husband’s side. His arm came around her waist immediately. Pulled her close.

“Wretched weather for a birthday,” Jeremy shuddered, swirling his wine. “Though I suppose it’s fitting. Weren’t the two of you born in a storm?”

“So our mother used to say,” Aaron replied, his voice going quiet.

A silence fell. Brief, but weighted.

Catherine felt Gideon’s arm tighten fractionally at her waist, as it so often did when the subject of his mother came up. She looked up at him, but his face had gone carefully blank, his gaze fixed on the rain-lashed glass.

“Well!” Isabella chirped brightly. “At least we’re all safe and dry inside. And Jeremy brought enough wine to drown a battalion, so we shan’t be running out anytime soon.”

“Bless you, my darling,” Jeremy chuckled fervently, raising his glass in salute.

The moment passed. Conversation resumed. But Catherine felt the shift, the unspoken thing that had brushed too close to the surface and been hastily shoved back down between the brothers. She looked across the room and found Aaron watching his brother with something fragile and uncertain written across his face.

“Papa!”

Lily appeared at her father’s elbow, tugging on his sleeve with the imperious determination of a three-year-old who knew exactly how to get what she wanted. “Can we play hide and seek? Please? You said you used to play it when you were little and I want to play and Thomas wants to play and—”

Gideon looked down at his daughter, and Catherine saw the remnants of something dark cross his face before he smoothed it away.

He smiled gently.

“I’m not certain that’s wise in this weather, sweetheart.”

“But you said you and Uncle Aaron used to play it all the time!”

“We did.” Aaron’s voice softened. “Your father was very good at it.”

Their eyes met. Held. For a beat too long.

“Go and play with your daughter,” Catherine urged gently. “I’ll watch over the baby.”

“All right,” Gideon conceded with a sigh at last. “But we stay on this floor. No wandering off.”

Lily shrieked her delight. Grabbed Thomas by the hand—the boy had been roused by the noise—and dragged him toward the door, already plotting strategy with the ruthless efficiency of her father no doubt.

Catherine hung back, watching. Something lingered in the air. Something thick and unspoken. She didn’t like the careful way Gideon and Aaron were avoiding each other’s eyes.

The game began. Laughter and stomping feet filled the corridors. Catherine drifted after them, remaining in the vicinity of their little child in case he roused from sleeping; not hiding, simply watching. She found Jeremy wedged behind a velvet curtain, looking absurd. Found Meredith counting at the top of the main stairs with exaggerated slowness, while Isabella covered her two children’s eyes after promising it would make them invisible.

But she did not find Gideon.

Or Aaron.

Or Thomas.

Several minutes passed. The laughter began to fade. Meredith’s voice rose, calling for the little boy. Once. Twice. The third time, her voice cracked.

Nothing.

“Tommy!” Meredith cried out with fear now. “Tommy, answer me!”

Everybody began searching at once. Catherine’s feet carried her without thought. Down the hallway. Past the library. Toward the older wing of the house where the servants’ stairs led down to—

No.

She stopped at the top of the narrow stairwell, oddly nostalgic, her hand gripping the bannister hard enough to hurt.

Below, she could hear it.

A child crying.

And beneath that, a man’s voice. Low. Shaking.

She gathered her skirts and descended quickly. The servants’ stair was narrow and dark, the walls pressing close. It was an antiquity of Caerleon, scarcely even used by the staff these days. At the bottom, a door stood ajar.

She pushed it open.

Gideon knelt on the stone floor just inside, Thomas clutched tight against his chest. The boy was sobbing into Gideon’s shoulder, hiccupping and terrified. And Gideon—

Gideon’s face was the color of old parchment. She had never seen him like this before. His eyes were open but unseeing, his chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow. Catherine recognized it immediately. Panic. The past bleeding into the present, dragging him under…

She was moving before she thought, dropping to her knees beside them.

“Gideon.” Her hands found his face, framed it, forced him to look at her. “Darling. I’m here. You’re safe. The boy is safe.”

His eyes focused slowly. Found hers.

“…Catherine?”

“Yes.” She kept her voice steady, calm. “You found him. He is frightened but unharmed. You did well.”

“I couldn’t—the door—I couldn’t move—”

“I know.” She stroked his face, his hair. “I know. But you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Aaron appeared in the doorway, white-faced, and took in the scene with a single glance—his son, his brother, the cellar—and something broke across his expression.

“Thomas!” he exclaimed shakily, crossing to them at once and gathering the boy into his arms. “Thank God. Thank God.”

The child clung to his father, still crying. Aaron held him tight, murmuring reassurances, but his eyes were on Gideon.

“You found him,” Aaron said quietly.

Gideon managed a single, stiff nod. His breathing was still too uneven.

Aaron hesitated. “I’m—I’m sorry. I should have been watching him more closely.”

“It was an accident,” Catherine said firmly. “Children wander. No one is to blame.”

But Gideon was staring at the stone walls, the narrow space, and Catherine saw his hands begin to shake. She rose, pulled him to his feet, and Aaron stepped back to give them room.

“Come,” she said gently. “Let’s go upstairs.”

They climbed the servants’ stair in silence. Aaron carried his son. Gideon leaned heavily on Catherine’s arm. By the time they reached the hallway, Meredith had appeared, and she swept Thomas into her arms with a sob of relief that echoed off the walls.

The others hovered nearby. Jeremy, pale. Isabella, wide-eyed. Lily stood apart, frightened by the sudden shift in the adults around her.

“Everyone is safe,” Catherine announced. “The boy simply lost his way. All is well.”

But it was not well. She could feel it in the way Gideon’s body was rigid beneath her touch. In the way Aaron was watching his brother with something close to anguish.

“Perhaps,” Meredith said carefully, “we should all take a moment to settle.”

“Yes,” Catherine agreed. “The drawing room. I will have tea brought.”

She guided Gideon back to the blue drawing room, settled him in a chair by the fire. His hands were still trembling. She knelt before him, took them in hers.

“Tell me what you need,” she said quietly.

“I don’t know.”

“Then tell me what you’re feeling.”

His eyes lifted to hers. “When I was eleven, my father would lock me in that cellar. For hours. And all I could think, when I found the boy down there in the dark, was that I had become him. That I had—”

“No!” Her voice was fierce now. “You went down there to save Thomas. You held him and kept him safe. That is nothing like what your father did.”

“But I froze. If you hadn’t come—”

“But I did come.” She squeezed his hands. “And you aren’t alone. You will never be alone again.”

The others slowly filtered back into the room. Meredith had taken Thomas upstairs to lie down. Aaron returned without them, closing the door with deliberate care. He stood for a moment, looking at Gideon, then crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a drink with shaking hands.

The silence stretched like a wire pulled taut.

“I need to tell you something,” Aaron said at last.

Gideon looked up.

“About the day Mother died.”

Catherine felt Gideon go still beneath her hands.

“Aaron,” she began, but he shook his head.

“No. It’s been too long. He needs to know.”

Jeremy and Isabella exchanged glances. Jeremy cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should—”

“Stay,” Aaron said. “Please. You are family. And I am tired of secrets.”

He took a breath.

“I know you’ve always resented me for being there when she died. For hearing her last words. I know you have. And I let you, because I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought Father had taken you out that day. Fishing. Riding. I thought you were his favorite.”

Gideon’s face had gone very still.

“We weren’t fishing,” he said quietly.  

“I know that now. But I didn’t know it then. I was eight and envious and I thought you’d been chosen over me, as always.”

“He locked me in the gamekeeper’s cottage,” Gideon muttered. His voice was flat. Empty. “In the cellar beneath it. For breaking his watch.”

Aaron’s face went white as snow.

“What watch?” he whispered.

“His gold pocket watch. The one with the encrusted wheel plate.”

The silence that fell was absolute.

“That… that was me,” Aaron whispered. “I broke it. I never told him. I was too afraid—”

Gideon stood abruptly. Catherine rose with him, her hand on his arm.

“You let me take the punishment!” he growled, his voice shaking now with fury. “You let him lock me away while our mother was dying and you said nothing?”

“I didn’t know he was punishing you! I thought—”

“You thought nothing! You were a coward!”

“I was a child!” Aaron’s voice rose to match his brother’s. “I was eight and terrified of him, and yes, I was a coward, I have always been a coward, but I didn’t know—”

“I missed her last words because of you!”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Aaron’s face crumpled.

“That’s… that’s what I needed to tell you. There were no last words.”

Gideon went very still.

“What?”

“She was already gone when I got to her. Dead. Alone.” Aaron’s voice broke. “I found her first that afternoon, and I—I made them up. The last words I told you she said. All of it. I lied because I was so angry that you and Father had left without me, and I wanted you to hurt the way I was hurting, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Gideon stared at him. Catherine watched the color drain from his face, watched him sway slightly on his feet. She moved to his side, slipped her arm around his waist, and this time he did not pull away.

“She died alone…” Gideon whispered.

“Yes.”

“Because of him—”

“Yes.”

“And we have both been carrying this. For nearly three decades.”

Aaron nodded, his face wet with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Gideon looked at his brother. Then at Catherine. Then back at Aaron.

“We were children,” he breathed at last. “Both of us. We were children, and he made us into weapons against each other.”

“I should have told you sooner. I should have—”

“Yes. You should have.” Gideon’s voice was rough as gravel. “But I understand why you didn’t.”

Aaron took a shaking breath. “Can you forgive me?”

“I am trying.”

“That’s enough.”

They stood facing each other, trembling, and Catherine saw decades of pain and misunderstanding hanging between them like a veil about to tear.

Then Gideon crossed the space between them and pulled his brother into an embrace.

Aaron made a broken sound and clung to him, and they stood like that for a long moment while the storm raged outside and the rest of the room looked on in silence.

When they finally pulled apart, both were wiping at their eyes.

“Well,” Jeremy said unsteadily. “That was—”

“Don’t,” Gideon said, but there was no heat in it.

Jeremy subsided, nodding once in understanding.

Catherine stepped forward. “I think,” she said quietly, “that we could all use some air. The storm is easing.”

It was true. The rain had slowed to a steady patter, and through the windows, she could see the clouds beginning to break apart.

But no one moved.

Isabella cleared her throat. “There is… one more thing,” she began. “Mr. McKay arrived while you were all searching for Thomas. He is in the kitchen, drying off.”

“Mr. McKay?” Gideon frowned. “Why—”

“He went to York. To your father’s summer house. He said you’d asked him to look for something.”

Understanding dawned in Aaron’s face. “The journals.”

“Yes,” Isabella nodded. “He found them. He has them with him.”

The brothers looked at each other.

“We agreed,” Aaron said slowly, “that we would read them together when they were found.”

“We did.”

“Do you still want to?”

Gideon was quiet for a long moment. Then he shook his head.

“No,” he muttered. “No, I don’t think I do.”

“Neither do I.”

Catherine watched as they came to the same wordless conclusion. Gideon crossed to the hearth, and Aaron followed. When McKay was brought in, dripping and apologetic, clutching a leather-bound journal, they took it from him with quiet thanks.

And then, without opening it, they consigned it to the flames.

The pages curled and blackened. Smoke rose. And as the last of their father’s words turned to ash, Catherine saw both brothers let out a breath, as though they had been holding it for thirty years.

***

Much later, after the guests had retired and the children had been put to bed, Catherine found Gideon in their chamber. He stood by the window, watching the last of the storm clouds scatter across the moon.

She crossed to him silently, slipped her arms around his waist from behind, and felt the tension leave his body as he melted into her touch.

“Are you well?” she asked quietly.

“I am.” He turned in her arms, his hands coming up to frame her face with a tenderness that still, after everything, made her chest ache. “I didn’t think I would be. But I am.”

“You freed yourself today. Both of you.”

“We freed each other.” His thumb brushed across her cheekbone. “With your help.”

She scoffed teasingly. “I did very little.”

“You did enough.” He kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth. “You brought light into this house. Into my life. I was half-dead before I met you, Kitty. I didn’t even know it.”

“And now?”

“Now? Now I’m wholly alive.”

She smiled, rising on her toes to kiss him properly. He responded at once, his arms tightening around her, pulling her flush against him. The kiss deepened, slow and thorough, and by the time they broke apart, they were both breathing hard.

“The children,” she murmured.

“Are asleep.”

“The guests—”

“Are in their own chambers.”

She laughed against his mouth. “Then we are alone.”

“Entirely.” His voice had gone dark. Promising.

His hands found the fastenings of her gown, and soon the fabric whispered to the floor. They stood bare before each other in the firelight, and for a long moment neither moved. Simply looked.

Four years of marriage had not diminished the hunger between them. If anything, it had deepened it into something richer. Something that went beyond mere desire into a territory Catherine had long stopped seeking the right words for.

He drew her to him, and she came willingly, eagerly, her body fitting against his as though they had been carved from the same stone and only now made whole. His mouth found hers, and the kiss was slow and thorough and achingly familiar. She knew the taste of him, the weight of his hands on her waist, the sound he made low in his throat when she touched him just so.

They made love by the firelight with the deliberate tenderness of those who knew they had all the time in the world. No urgency. No desperation. Only the quiet certainty of belonging, and the profound intimacy of being fully seen and fully known.

When it was over, they lay together in the tangled sheets, breathing in unison, her head against his chest where she could hear the steady rhythm of his heart.

“Happy birthday,” she whispered.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath her ear. “It’s been rather eventful.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “Not a moment of it.”

They lay in comfortable silence for a while. Then she felt him shift, reaching for something.

“I have been thinking,” he said quietly, “about names.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “For the baby?”

“Yes. We cannot keep calling him ‘the baby’ forever.”

She smiled. “What were you thinking?”

“Not my father’s name.” His voice was firm. “I will not pass that burden to my son.”

“I would not ask you to.”              

“So… what do you think of William?”

Catherine went very still. “William?”

“Your father’s name.” His hand came up to cup her face, his eyes searching hers. “I liked him. He was good to me, when I knew him as a boy. Before everything went wrong.”

Her throat tightened. “You… you knew him?”

“I had to do some searching, but yes, he came to Caerleon once or twice. He had a kind face. I remember that.” Gideon’s thumb brushed across her cheekbone. “He would be honored, I think. To have his grandson carry his name.”

“He would.” Her voice came out rough. She cleared her throat. “William Tarnley. Our son.”

“William Tarnley, then. Our son.”

“Our son,” he agreed, and pulled her closer.

She settled against him, her head finding that perfect hollow between his shoulder and his chest, and listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Outside, the last of the storm had passed. The moon shone clear and bright through the window, painting their chamber in silver light.

And in the quiet of that moment, surrounded by the family they’d built and the love they’d fought for, Catherine felt something she’d never expected to find in the once sombre halls of Caerleon Manor she remembered from childhood.

Not just happiness.

Not just contentment.

But peace.

Home.

The End.