Epilogue

 

 

Northumberland, England, April 1835

 

THE GARDENS AT WAITHE Hall were in full bloom. Spring had bludgeoned Northumberland, flowers and blossoms rioting aggressively across the dales to bob gently in the warm breeze.

Tossing the cricket ball from hand to hand, Charlotte scowled at her cousin. “Holly, you are not paying attention.”

Holly started. “What?” Then, clearly remembering her manners and they would more than likely be forced to be ladies when they grew up, amended, “Pardon?”

Charlotte brandished the ball. “I could have thrown this at your head and you would have been none the wiser until you were laid flat on the ground, unconscious.”

“If you had laid me out, unconscious, I would still be none the wiser.”

Holding the ball in one hand, Charlotte crossed her arms and scowled. “That’s neither here nor there.”

Holly made no reply, instead smirking horribly and generally being wholly disagreeable. She completely ignored the fact she had been disagreeable in turn.

Folding her arms, Charlotte’s other cousin rolled her eyes. “Holly never pays attention,” Davina announced.

“Oh, you are here, Davina? I could have sworn you were a tree. You’re certainly rooted to the spot like one,” Holly said snidely.

Davina stuck out her tongue.

Their families had gathered at Waithe Hall to celebrate her, Davina and Holly’s birthdays. They would turn thirteen within days of each other, and their families always used it as an excuse to spend time at the ancestral seat of the Earl of Roxwaithe, Holly’s father and her and Davina’s uncle. Her grandparents were in attendance at Bentley Close, along with her aunts and uncles and cousins from her mother’s side. They made the short walk to Waithe Hall most days, but tomorrow was the birthday party and all would be in attendance, along with the friends she, Davina and Holly had invited.

For now, they were occupying themselves with a rousing game of cricket. They’d found the cricket bat, stumps and ball amongst other playthings in the nursery and so far, Charlotte had smashed the ball for six and come within a hairsbreadth of shattering a window pane. Not to be outdone, Holly had come perilously close to having to fish the ball from the lake when a particularly impressive turn at the crease had seen her pile on three fours and two sixes in an innings. She’d been overenthusiastic on her last whack, the ball careening wildly over silly mid-on toward the water’s edge. Luckily, a bunch of reeds stopped the ball in ankle-deep water and it was easily retrieved. Davina had elected to field and had spent the game standing in one spot, arms crossed and examining her nails.

Currently, they were happily sledging each other as Charlotte stepped up to the crease opposite Holly to bowl.

“You couldn’t hit this ball if you tried,” Charlotte called, tossing said ball from one hand to another.

“I will hit the ball and, what’s more, I will smash another six,” Holly boasted.

Gaze glued to her nails, Davina snorted

Charlotte smirked. “I should like to see you try.”

“I shall try as hard as Aunt Alexandra tried to find the Sewell ghost last night.”

Charlotte drew in her breath. Her mother was a noted spiritual hunter and scholar, and no matter what Holly said, her mother was brilliant. “You take that back.”

Even Davina had glanced up, her eyes wide as she stared at their cousin.

“No,” Holly gloated.

Casting about for something equally heinous to say, she grasped something her brother had told her only yesterday. “Your father cried when my father returned,” she taunted.

Holly gasped. “He did not,” she said indignantly.

“He did. He was so happy Papa was not dead, he wept.”

“Now I know you’re fibbing. An earl does not weep,” Holly quoted, no doubt having heard her father say so on numerous occasions.

Stubbornly, Charlotte shook her head. “He did weep. And Uncle Stephen, too.”

“Uncle Stephen cries at the drop of a hat,” Holly dismissed.

“Don’t speak of my father that way,” Davina demanded.

Holly shot her an impatient look. “He does cry at the drop of a hat.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that!” Davina glared at her, and Holly’s breath exploded in a dismissive puff of air.

“Well, that day he cried because of my father,” Charlotte said. Everyone knew the story. Her father had been lost at sea, and everyone had thought him dead. Then, he’d returned to England, her mother had discovered him, told him he was a blockhead for hiding, and they’d all lived happily ever after. Well, apart from the fact where they’d burdened her with both older and younger brothers. Honestly, who has sons? One should have been quite enough, especially as after they’d had that one, they’d had the good sense to have her.

She looked over at their parents. Her mother stood with her father, their hands almost touching. They always stood so close, and they constantly touched one another. Every morning, her father would greet her mother at the breakfast table with a kiss, as if they hadn’t just left the same bedchamber. It was romantic, she supposed, and maybe one day she should like a husband with whom she could do the same, but she should never do so in front of their children. It really was completely unnecessary.

“Do you think they’ll kiss?” Davina said.

Charlotte made a rude noise. “Ugh, probably. They are forever doing that at home, I cannot think why they should not do it elsewhere.” She glanced at Holly slyly. “Much like the earl and the countess.”

Holly flushed. “Do not speak of my parents in that way.”

Davina laughed, and Charlotte grinned as she bowled the cricket ball at Holly.

They were in the midst of a rather invigorating innings of cricket when up the hill trudged her brother. James had found a branch from somewhere and employed it as a walking stick, stabbing it into the ground with every step. He wasn’t alone, though, and Charlotte got a strange catch in her chest as Nicholas met her gaze, his smile cheeky as he winked at her. Two years her senior, her brother’s best friend had always just been there. However, at some point over the summer, she had become intensely…aware of him, such she always knew when he had entered a room, and she stammered and acted like a bufflehead when he got near. For some reason, all had changed and now he made her breathless and tingly, and she would really rather it stop but, it seemed, it was only worsening with time. It was deuced annoying.

“You’ve gone red,” Davina remarked.

“What? No, I haven’t. You’re red,” she said.

Davina’s brows almost shot off her face, and the most horrible smirk lit Holly’s features.

Ducking her head, Charlotte ignored them both, ignored James as he approached, and she definitely ignored Nicholas.

“I think you like him,” Holly whispered loudly.

“Shush,” she hissed. He hadn’t heard, had he? Oh goodness, please let it be he hadn’t heard. Her mother often said she’d known her father was the one for her, that they’d been friends their entire lives and had not been apart, except for when her father was lost. Her mother had said she’d looked at him upon his return and just known.

Charlotte had a horrible feeling she’d experienced the same thing.

“Hello, Charlotte,” Nicholas called, and the grin on his face made it so she knew, she knew, he had heard.

She swallowed, knowing her cheeks were flaming red. “Hello, Nicholas.”

He stopped before her, a lunatic grin on his face.

“How are you today?” she said politely.

“I am well,” he said. “Charlotte?”

“Yes?” She just wanted to sink into the ground. Right now.

“I’m going to marry you one day.”

She gaped like a fish. “I...Sorry...What?”

He kissed her cheek. “One day,” he said, and she shivered.

And, one day, after she’d made him work for it because she had some self-respect, he did.