Epilogue

Twenty-nine years later

Ignoring the jolt of pain that pulsed in her knee, Charlotte rose to her feet. Standing at the end of the long table in the Rockhaven House dining room, her guests grew silent under her expectant gaze.

Accepting a lit spill from the butler, she solemnly set the flame to the two candles before her, watching with satisfaction as the wicks burst to orange and amber life. With the odor of beeswax filling the air, she waved her hands over the candles, drawing the scented smoke toward her. Once. Twice. Three times before she covered her eyes with her hands.

“Barukh ata Adonai, Eloheinu, Melekh,” she sang, her voice strong, “Ha’olam…”

As the last notes of the blessing carried away into the night, she dropped her hands and smiled at her daughter, Sarah, who now stood beside her. With pride threatening to burst her heart open, she observed as Sarah gave the Kiddush for the wine, and then her sister, Rachel, gave the Motzei over the challah.

When they had returned to their seats, the Friday night Shabbat meal commenced. A historic vote for Jewish relief approached, and Finlay had invited several key lords and MPs to join them for their customary family meal. Charlotte had only been too happy to welcome the men and their wives to the table, reasoning that which was known was not frightening. The Rockhaven House staff had gone above and beyond preparing the feast, and she looked about the room with satisfaction.

Even now, laughter echoed about them, guests chatting animatedly as they sipped chicken and matzo ball soup, sliced into roasted chicken, and savored a delicious stew-like dish called Cholent, which was Finlay’s personal favorite. She smiled and dipped her head when Benjamin Disraeli raised his glass of wine in salute to her.

All manner of topics, including the fight for Jewish emancipation, were discussed at length. Her gaze landed on Rachel, who quietly explained to the gentleman sitting next to her, Lord John Russell, the meaning behind the blessings that opened the meal.

Catching the eye of her sister by marriage, she smiled as Alethea sheepishly accepted a second helping of chocolate babka, smacking her ducal husband’s hand when he attempted to steal a bite. Charlotte had quickly learned one of the many benefits of her marriage to Finlay was Alethea. The duchess had not only become her sister, but a dear and trusted friend. Along with Flora, who sat across the table and playfully exchanged banter with her brother, the now Duke of Kilmorow, under the amused gaze of her besotted husband, Charlotte had finally come to know the deep bonds of friendship.

When her attention turned to her son, Noah Roderick Swinton, Viscount Firthwell, she paused. He’d won a Parliamentary seat two years prior after campaigning for various reforms, including Jewish relief, and she knew he was nervous about the upcoming vote. She listened as he passionately described to two older conservative MPs what the vote meant to him and his future children. With his golden-red hair and handsome aristocratic features, he was cast in the image of his father. But his spirit was a replica of hers. He felt deeply, loved fully, and only spoke when he had something worth saying. Such a moment demanded his voice, and the fervor and grace in which he laid out his argument made fondness boil over in her chest. She discreetly wiped a tear from her cheek.

Feeling his gaze like a caress against her skin, Charlotte looked to her husband. The years had been kind to him, his hair now an elegant ash gold, smile lines bracketing his mouth, and a vigor to his step a younger man would envy. But it was his charismatic green eyes that continued to draw her, continued to ground her when their world ebbed and changed about them. As they did now.

Finlay’s smile was tender. As always, it sent a spark of awareness down her spine, but time and intimacy had deepened her response to it. Charlotte returned it with all the love that filled her being, for throughout their marriage, again and again, he showed that her trust in him was never misplaced. The evening represented how Finlay had not forgotten his promise. When he had asked her to marry him more than a quarter of a century before, he’d vowed to fight for Jewish emancipation, and he had. He’d supported a bill not long after he won the Weobley seat, only to see it defeated. He championed the effort again a few years later, and then a year after that, and several more times, each ending in failure.

This attempt, however, felt different. Perhaps because their son had joined the cause for reform, and his precious voice had refueled Finlay’s resolve. Had reminded him of what the fight was for. It was one small step toward equality, and as long they continued to push forward, the cause was never really defeated.

She doubted the other men at the table understood what this moment meant to her. How her worries for her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren would lessen if she knew their acceptance in society was assured, not because of their noble connections but because of the freedom afforded them at birth.

To many of the lords and MPs, the upcoming vote was just another reform, but Finlay knew the importance, and she pressed her fingertips to her lips and extended them to him. Gratitude and love flowed through her, and, once again, she offered thanks that he had interrupted her solitude that evening so long ago in the garden and brought her out of her dark world of fear and mourning and welcomed her to a blessing-filled life.

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