Mary sat on the bench in front of her cottage and inhaled deeply. Her sight wasn't what it had once been, and unfortunately, the spectacles Caleb had bought her a few years ago no longer seemed to help. But she could still enjoy the vibrant scents from her garden: the climbing roses flanking the front door, peonies bordering the path toward the gate, a hint of honeysuckle carried on the breeze along with lavender, mint, and thyme.

She heard the cottage door open and close, then the slow, careful tread of Caleb's feet as he came toward her. “I brought your shawl,” he said and placed the soft cashmere around her shoulders. Lowering himself to the bench beside her, he took her hand in his and leaned in to kiss her wrinkled cheek.

“Can you believe it has been forty years since you knocked on the door at Clearview?” She settled her head against his shoulder and drew in his scent. It was still the same after all this time. Bergamot, sandalwood, and pine.

“Feels like yesterday, my darling.” He smoothed his callused thumb across her hand.

“Like the blink of an eye,” she whispered as the afternoon sun cast a ray of warmth upon her face.

“We did well though, I think. My life could not have been better, Mary.”

“Nor mine, Caleb.”

They'd had their five children just as they'd planned. Amanda, Richard, William, Susan and Wendy. And they had provided Caleb and Mary with eighteen lovely grandchildren.

Amanda, who'd taken over the running of the orphanage ten years earlier with her husband, loved the children she cared for as much as Mary loved Peter, Eliot, Penelope, Daphne and Beatrice.

Richard, who had no more desire to inherit a title than his father once did, had been encouraged by Caleb and Mary to find a balance between responsibility toward the title and whatever made him happy. So he'd studied medicine and opened a clinic, which was how he'd met his wife, who'd applied to be his assistant.

William had followed in his father's footsteps and to everyone's surprise, so had Wendy. Of course there were many who disapproved when a woman showed up to fix their roof, but her attention to detail and her masonry capabilities rarely went unnoticed and usually resulted in earning respect.

And then there was Susan, the only one of their children who'd married a nobleman, because as she'd once said, someone had to take after Mary.

As for Peter and Eliot, they'd opened a fish shop together and visited Caleb and Mary weekly with supplies. Penelope, who'd married a French sea captain, was often away traveling the world, while Daphne became a governess and ended up marrying her employer, whose brother fell in love with Beatrice the moment he met her. Beatrice and her husband, Geoffrey, spent most of their time in London where he was a rather successful barrister.

“You are still as beautiful as the day I met you,” Caleb said. He squeezed Mary's hand for added assurance.

“And you still make my knees go weak.”

He chuckled lightly. “You always did like a man with capable hands.”

She snorted. “I liked you. There is a difference.”

“Quite so,” he murmured with contentment. He no longer climbed onto roofs, but he hadn't stopped making other less strenuous repairs, both at the cottage and at the manor.

“I love you,” she said as daylight dimmed to a softer evening hue.

“As I love you,” he told her sincerely. Shifting, he tipped up her chin and pressed a tender kiss to her lips.

Who knew how many years they had left, but at least they had lived the lives of their choosing. Heedless of gossip and censure, they'd both been thoroughly happy, not only because they'd had each other, but because they knew there was more to life than amassing a fortune. There was sitting on a bench in the evening sun with the person they loved, and nothing in the world would ever make more sense to either than that.