Epilogue

 

Scarlett Hall 1807, three months later

 

Eleanor Lambert experience both exultation and anguish on the same day. That morning, she had gone to the home of her eldest daughter, Isabel, to welcome her first grandchild, a girl named after her. It was a beautiful honor, and as she held the babe in her arms, Eleanor found great joy.

However, upon her return to Scarlett Hall, a letter awaited her informing her of the death of Lady Rachel Prescott. Eleanor had closed herself off in the study and wept for her friend, whom she would miss terribly. Rachel had a strength about her that Eleanor admired, and it had shown in her daughter as brightly as the sun.

Once she had cried as many tears as she could, she dried her eyes, took out a piece of parchment, and set about adding an entry to her journal, a letter to her late husband.

 

You have caused much destruction, Charles, and I fear that there are other acts of which I am unaware. In truth, they plague my sleep as I worry that, at any moment, our children will fall victim to unknown atrocities you have committed. However, I remain steadfast in my belief that my love for my children, and now my grandchildren, will erase the damage you have caused.

 

You sought to destroy Rachel for your own lustful means. Yet, in the end, she was victorious. Her child, your daughter, is beautiful and strong, and like many others in her position, she has dismissed you as a footnote in history. The truth is, you have no one to blame but yourself that you hold such insignificance. I tend to agree with her, and again, you alone are culpable.

 

Returning the quill, she stood and walked over to the window. Large snowflakes fell from the sky, bits of cotton wool fluttering to the already white-covered ground.

With a sigh, Eleanor made her way out of the office and down the hallway. As she neared the foyer, she nearly jumped out of her slippers when a loud wrap came to the door.

Who would be calling at this hour? she thought as she gathered her wrap around her. Calls this late were never good news.

A figure stood huddled in a dark tattered overcoat filled with holes and covered with snow. With a scarf wrapped around the person’s head, Eleanor could not make out who it was, or if the person was male or female.

“Yes?” Eleanor asked. “May I help you?” She looked past the figure and peered out into the night. No horse or carriage sat in the drive. “Who are you?”

The figure raised its head. “Aunt Eleanor?” she whispered.

Eleanor gasped upon seeing the face she had seen only once—at her childhood home of Parker Estate. “Amelia?” she asked her sister’s daughter. The girl had to be nearly eighteen now. “What are you doing here?”

“Mother sent me with a warning,” she said, her teeth chattering as she handed Eleanor a letter. “There is trouble coming. Great Trouble.