EPILOGUE
Christmas, Eighteen Months Later
MARCASTLE WAS DECORATED for the season, with mistletoe and holly and boughs of fir all over the enormous house. Christmas was still several days hence, but the guests were already gathered. Callie and Brom had arrived two days earlier, as had Irene and Gideon. Constance and Dominic had driven in the night before, carrying with them a fresh snow. The dowager duchess was installed in her usual room in the south tower, well away from the nursery wing. Francesca’s parents, the Earl and Countess of Selbrooke, were not far from her, as was Great-Aunt Odelia. Eighty-one years old though she might be, she was not about to miss as momentous an event as this. It had been thirty-nine long years since the last christening of the future Duke of Rochford.
For it was this that had brought all the visitors, not Christmas Day, though of course everyone planned to remain for that celebration, also. At three months of age, Matthew Sinclair Dominic Lilles, the fifth Marquess of Ashlocke, on whose shoulders the mantle of Duke of Rochford would one day fall, was being christened. The vicar of St. Swithin’s, the same man who had married the baby’s parents a year and a half earlier, would preside over the ritual, along with the local vicar, who regarded the younger man with some jealousy and was careful to guard his rights as the priest attached to St. Edward the Confessor Church, the Lilles family’s home church for generations past.
It was an event unlike any that had been seen in recent memory at Marcastle. The duke and duchess’s wedding celebration had been denied to the locals, and as a consequence, everyone was determined to make these two weeks a very special time. There were balls and teas and all sorts of indoor amusements planned, as well as outdoor activities to suit the weather, including skating on the small pond, which had fortunately frozen hard just before the snow and was likely to remain so.
The servants had spent weeks preparing the house, repairing, cleaning and decorating with a vengeance. The duchess, after only a year and a half, was well-loved by all, and they were determined to do her proud. Goods had been ordered from as far away as London, as well as from Norwich and Cambridge. Cook had been busy night and day, whipping her charges along remorselessly, and extra servants had been hired on to help cook, clean and serve.
The subject of all this festivity, a cherubic infant with soft black curls and pink cheeks, was sound asleep in his bed, unaware of the fate that awaited him in less than an hour. Just down the hall from him, the nursery rang with shrieks and giggles as sixteen-month-old Ivy FitzAlan darted around the nursery table, stopping to peer around the corner at her pursuing father. Dominic, Lord Leighton, showed little signs of catching her, preferring to stop his crawling on hands and knees and pop out around the leg of the table to cry “Boo!” This, of course, set off another shriek and more giggles as Ivy toddled off once again.
Her mother, Constance, barely showing in her second pregnancy, sat placidly watching the chase as she talked to Irene, who sat beside her on the sofa. A year-old boy, his hair a riot of golden curls, stood at Irene’s knee, his hand fisted in her skirt to maintain his wobbling stance, and watched Ivy and Dominic, letting out occasional shrieks of glee.
The two women had not met until last Christmas at Redfields, when all the families had gathered there and at Dancy Park for the festive season. They had quickly become friends, however, and had continued their friendship through a voluminous correspondence. Still, even letters could not contain everything, and there was still a good deal of news to catch up on.
Much of it would have to be repeated, of course, to Callie when she returned. She was in her bedroom, nursing her own five-month-old son, Grayson, while Brom and Gideon were ensconced in the library downstairs, doubtless conducting one of their many discussions of business, a subject that would keep them occupied for hours if one of their wives did not pull them out of the place to attend the christening.
“Almost time, love,” Constance pointed out to Dominic. “Best let Nurse put Ivy to bed for her nap.” She refrained from adding that the game Dom had been playing with their daughter would make that task rather more difficult than usual.
“I know. I know. I have to change for the ceremony.” Francesca’s brother stood up, grabbing his daughter and swinging her high in the air, then kissing her stomach noisily before turning her over to the patiently waiting nurse. “It’s not every day a man becomes a godfather.”
Irene, too, handed her own Philip over to his nurse after a final loving nuzzle of his sweet-smelling, chubby neck. She linked arms with Constance as they strolled out of the room, followed by Dominic.
“You know, I never thought I wanted to be a mother,” Irene said. “Now I can barely stand to leave him. He’s almost walking now. It’s as if his life is just rushing by me.”
Constance nodded her agreement. “I know. It seems only yesterday that Ivy was the size of Grayson.” She sighed. “Poor child. I don’t know what she is to do—growing up with all these boys. She’ll doubtless be wild as a March hare—or maybe just a terrible flirt.”
Irene laughed. “I am sure she will be as calm and lovely as her mother.”
The three of them paused to glance in the door of the room where Matthew lay sleeping. At the foot of his bed stood his parents, both gazing down lovingly at the child.
Outside the room, the other three glanced at each other and smiled the knowing smile of fellow parents, then walked off down the hall.
Francesca linked her hand through Sinclair’s and leaned her head against his arm, releasing a happy sigh. “I still cannot believe it. Every time I look at him, he seems like such a miracle.”
The duke bent to kiss his wife’s sun-bright hair. “He is a miracle.”
Francesca smiled. “Yes, and perhaps there will be others.”
Rochford suppressed a groan. “Hopefully not too soon.”
Francesca’s pregnancy had been nine months of worry for him, and much as he loved his son, he was not looking forward to a repeat of the experience. He curled his arm around her, pulling her close to his side.
“Happy?” he murmured, bending his dark head to her golden one.
“Utterly so,” she agreed. “I never thought I would have a child, and now to have one so healthy and beautiful and perfect…” She went up on tiptoes to kiss Sinclair’s lips. “And to love my husband so, as well.”
“After eighteen whole months of marriage, too,” he jibed. “Now that is a miracle.”
“No. No miracle at all,” she replied, all seriousness now. “For I will love my husband the rest of my life. I think that is why I was able to conceive, you know—it took love.”
“If that is what it takes, then, God help us, we shall have an enormous brood.”
The duke kissed his wife again, more lingeringly this time. At last he straightened with a regretful sigh. “We have to go now. We cannot be late, or we may have the two vicars dueling over the baptismal font.”
Francesca chuckled. “We may have that before it’s all over, anyway.” She turned to look once more at her baby. “It seems a pity to wake him up.”
“We’ll manage.” Rochford scooped him up, wrapping the blanket tightly around him, and the baby merely squirmed for moment, then nestled against him, sound asleep.
With the sleeping baby securely in the crook of the duke’s arm and Francesca’s hand looped through his other, the three of them swept out of the room to join their families in a celebration of the future.