Epilogue
AFTER MUCH CONSULTATION with Duff, it was decided that Jamie and Daria would be married by week’s end. It seemed unwise to wait any longer, given their close proximity and their obvious desire to marry. They couldn’t keep their eyes from one another, their hands straying to each other at every opportunity.
“It’s indecent,” Aileen complained, but she was smiling when she said it.
As Duff predicted, there was quite a lot of opposition among the clan to the laird marrying an Englishwoman, much less the granddaughter of one who had shot him.
But there was also a surprising number of clansmen who were in favor of the marriage. Daria had found her way into the hearts of more than one Scotsman. She’d done it just as Lady Ashwood had done it, one person at a time. Most still called her the Ransom, but some called her friend as well.
Daria understood her precarious position. The clansmen might accept her in time, but the test would come in weeks and months and years ahead, and in how they would perceive her support of Jamie. She understood it would be a difficult road, but she felt quite strong with her hand in Jamie’s.
Jamie and Daria decided the first thing they must do was drain the bog, and the following spring, the ransom her parents paid was used to do precisely that. As many guessed, there was a lot of grousing about it. Not many of the Campbells were believers . . . until the first green shoots of grain began to grow there.
Jamie and Daria’s wedding was inherently Scottish, which meant that it hardly mattered that it had come with a special license in a few short days. It was a reason to celebrate, a reason to drink and dance, and Campbells came from miles around. Even a few Brodies saw fit to attend. Cormag Brodie, Isabella’s brother and Geordie’s nemesis, sent a sheep as a wedding gift, with a note thanking Jamie for not marrying his sister.
Three days of games and dancing marked the celebration of the laird’s marriage, and at the end of it, there was scarcely a Campbell who didn’t know how to waltz.
Days later, the Earl of Ashwood was handed to the British authorities at Nairn on a warrant for deception, thievery, and possibly even the murder of his wife. Shortly after his departure, Daria, her parents, Mamie, Charity, and Jamie set sail on Mackenzie’s ship for England.
Daria spent most of the time in her bunk as before, but this time she had her grandmother to tend to her. Jamie spent most of his time on deck, relishing the feel of being at sea. The Babcocks remained belowdecks, away from everyone, and Charity Scott and Mackenzie . . . well. No one knew precisely where they were, and no one was brave enough to inquire.
Charity had written to her brother to tell him what had happened and when she might be expected, so there were quite a lot of people waiting to give Daria a hero’s welcome when they arrived in Hadley Green. She was credited with having found the Earl of Ashwood, and while she swore to all assembled that she had not found him, they wouldn’t listen.
Just as Charity had guessed, Daria was quite sought after at supper parties and salon parties. Even some of the Quality came down from London to hear of her adventure. More than a few ladies were quite keen to meet Daria’s ruggedly handsome husband with the charming brogue. More than one remarked behind painted fan that they could not believe Daria Babcock had managed to land such a virile figure. More than one speculated that there were other dashing lairds tucked away in Scotland, and as it was quite in fashion now, perhaps it was worth a trip to have a look about.
But Daria’s improved social standing was, unsurprisingly, short-lived. Once word began to circulate that her parents had known the earl was alive and where he’d been, the invitations began to wane. What would become of her parents, no one could guess; their future looked uncertain.
There were, however, spots of very bright news in the midst of the latest Ashwood scandal. The current Earl of Ashwood, the bastard son of the disgraced earl, was confirmed by the Crown as the rightful earl. Charity and Captain Mackenzie were treated to a wedding befitting of royalty at Tiber Park. Charity’s daughter, Catherine, was thrilled. She’d long adored the handsome captain, and in fact aspired to be a sea captain herself one day.
Very soon after, Charity announced she would be adding to the crop of Hadley Green babies the following spring.
Mamie thrived in her return to England. Very happy to be home, she looked healthier each day. She dressed elegantly and delighted in the commission of new gowns. She hosted teas to tell her ordeal. Mamie was a fine storyteller, and her tale, embellished as necessary for the sake of drama, had her friends and acquaintances on the edges of their seats. She had been through quite a lot, but as she cheerfully said to Daria, she would do it all again for her darling granddaughter.
Jamie soon grew restless. Dundavie called to him, the business of the clan first in his mind. There was also the matter of the surgeon Mackenzie had pointed them to; Jamie very much wanted to be in Scotland when the gentleman called at Dundavie. They had great hope that Geordie’s voice would be restored, for many reasons, being spared his awful spelling just one of them.
There was one more spot of bright and happy news that Daria kept to herself, until her husband confronted her.
“I know what you’re hiding, lass,” he announced casually one morning as they shared breakfast in bed at Tiber Park.
“Hiding!” Daria exclaimed. “I am hiding nothing!” But she could feel the traitorous blush creeping into her cheeks.
“Aye, but you are,” Jamie said sternly, and rolled onto his side, his hand on her belly. “You’ve that look about you.”
“What look?”
He smiled. “The look of a fat cat who’s had all the milk, that’s what.”
“Ridiculous,” she said. “I don’t even care for milk.”
“I think you are carrying our child,” he said.
Daria looked into his hazel eyes and remembered the first time he’d opened them, how they had captured her and held her in thrall ever since. Forever. “Aye,” she said simply.
Her admission stunned her husband. Jamie’s eyes searched her face, then fell to her abdomen.
“Spring, I should think,” she said. “When the bog is drained.” She covered his hand with hers.
He lifted shining eyes to her. “Mary, Queen of Scots, woman, why have you not told me?”
“I wanted to tell you on Scottish soil. I wanted to tell you at Dundavie.”
He released a sigh of elation and buried his face against her, saying something in Gaelic. Daria didn’t know what he said, but she could see his happiness.
So there it was, then. The last debutante of Hadley Green had a purpose to her life: she was leaving England for a bright future in a small glen in Scotland. Her broken wings had been miraculously repaired. She would bear this man a child—a son, if Bethia was to be believed—followed by three more. She would raise her brood in that rustic castle in the middle of a spectacular vista of hills and forest.
Daria didn’t put much stock in second sight, but she would acknowledge that Bethia was right about one other thing: she would never leave Dundavie. She would make her nest there, she thought as Jamie covered her in kisses, whispering in Gaelic to her. She would feather it and tend it and keep it safe and warm for her brood, and she would love this man, who had been willing to surrender it all for her, until she drew her last breath. He was the love of her life, her purpose, her meaning.
Whoever would have believed that Daria Babcock would have found her heart’s true desire in the wilds of Scotland? She laughed and turned her attention to her husband.