Epilogue
Cat wandered through the front hall of Ashdown Abbey. Sunlight streamed through high mullioned windows to create a diamond patchwork over the marble floor. A footman passed, and she drew him aside. “Have you seen his lordship?”
“He was down at the stables earlier, checking on the mare.”
“Oh, is she foaling?” Chagrined, Cat thought she might have slept late and missed the event.
“Not yet, milady, but ’tis not long.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at the man sent him on his way. He whistled lightly as he crossed the hall to pass beneath one of the hundred stone archways of Abbey—an act Wycomb would never have allowed but that Cat found heartening.
Not bothering with a pelisse or shawl for such a warm spring day, Cat made her way across the rear of the Abbey to the stables. The building was dim despite the open window, humid, and smelled of horse and sweat and leather. Stepping through shafts of sunlight along the corridor of stalls, Cat found the foaling mare in one of the larger spaces. The horse was round and fat and happy, munching on a feed bag and flicking her tail at buzzing flies.
Two apples were lined up outside the door, and Cat knew Jones had been there, though the stall was empty of people. The mare had been ill in the fall and winter, and he had treated her with red apples to encourage her to eat. Cat rubbed her gleaming, well-curried coat.
“Good morning, my dear,” Cat murmured, running her palm over the mare’s swollen side. The mare barely noticed and with a smile, Cat left her.
Stepping out into the sunshine again, she walked once more to the towering house and stood in its shadow. From there she could see lawns rolling away, the edge of the formal gardens. In the distance, shimmering along the tree line, was a folly some long ago ancestor had built. Beyond that, beyond what she could see clearly, were golden wheat fields and thatched tenant’s cottages.
All of it belonged to her, and now Jones.
She set her hand on her stomach, flat beneath pale blue muslin. Someday, perhaps, all of Ashdown Abbey might belong their children.
Moving back into the house through the terrace doors, she found Mr. Sparks striding through toward his office, worn account ledgers tucked under his arm.
“Good afternoon, my lady.” Bright green eyes twinkled at her from beneath his spectacles as he adjusted the ledgers to sketch a slight bow.
“Hello, Mr. Sparks.” Cat grinned as she noticed the spring in his step—it had been there since they had returned to Italy the year before. “Have you seen Jones?”
“He just returned from inspecting the planting in the north fields. I believe he is in the estate room.”
“The big one, or the other?”
“The other,” he said, pushing up his glasses with a forefinger.
“I should have guessed. Thank you.” Her heart soared and she found herself smiling. Jones always seemed to be in that little room occupied by generations of her ancestors. “Will you be joining us for dinner this evening?”
“I don’t believe so.” He patted the ledgers in his hand, the tanned skin nearly the same shade as the aged leather. “Your husband indicated you both would like to discuss assisting the blacksmith in the village to expand his forge. I must study the accounts.”
“Yes, the blacksmith has been assisting the neighboring village since their smithy burned. We’ve been thinking to combine the shops and avoid future fires.” She smiled at the man who had seen her through her father’s death. “Your expertise would be most appreciated, however.”
“Ah.” Green eyes lit beneath the spectacles. “I shall most certainly attend.”
“We shall see you then.” She found that another smile flitted over her lips as she watched Mr. Sparks walk to his own office as if a bubble of satisfaction propelled his steps.
So much had changed.
Cat finally found Jones in the tiny room the Ashdowns had toiled in for generations. He was in his shirtsleeves, fine linen shifting as he reached for a sheaf of papers, and appeared to accept the towering bookshelves around him as ordinary rather than a mountain of history on his back. Piled beside the scarred desk was the waistcoat, cravat, and coat he’d donned that morning—she imagined he’d removed it as soon as he was out of eyesight of the Abbey, then carried it back lest he be caught.
“Hello,” she murmured, heart soaring as he looked up and smiled at her. He smiled so often now, she barely recognized him as her serious Jones. “I invited Mr. Sparks to dine with us.”
“Excellent.” Jones ran his hands through the hair he’d continued to keep long, as she’d discovered she preferred it that way. There was so much more there to take hold of. “I’m looking over the yields from last fall to be certain the new granaries will be able to hold enough to last the winter.”
“Jones?”
“Mm.” He’d looked back to the documents, running blunt fingers down a column of numbers. He fit easily into her father’s chair, she noticed, though she had found the seat comfortable of late.
“The physician said we are to have a babe later this year.” Cat found that the joy in her could not be hidden in her words. “In the fall.”
Jones stilled, then looked up at her with deep brown eyes blurred by shock. “A babe? We’re having a babe? You and me?”
“Yes.” She laughed aloud as he pushed back the chair and leapt across the tiny room toward her. Strong arms enveloped her, wide shoulders just there for her to lean on.
“You are well?” Jones cupped her cheeks, pressed his lips to hers with such reverence she wanted to weep. “The babe is well?” he whispered.
“Both of us are well, as far as we know.” Cat slipped into that space between his torso and arm. Satisfied, she smiled to herself. His body and hers had somehow shaped themselves so that she fit perfectly there.
“I love you.” His arm around her tightened—not roughly, but with the subtle protection she had discovered meant he was moved.
Cat smiled to herself. He was easy to understand, her Jones, once you knew him. He was all that was responsible, strong, silent, unyielding—except for the heart of him.
The heart of Jones was filled with nothing but love.
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