Epilogue
Eight years later
Two sets of legs dangled from the old oak tree at Haverly. The first belonged to James. This did not concern Nick. James was tall for his age and going through an awkward gangly stage, but he was strong and cautious. The second pair, however, seemed to be swathed in a white cotton dress, and this concerned Nick a great deal.
For the legs must belong to Diana, firstborn daughter of Nathaniel and Alice. She was forever getting into scrapes and, more often than not, towing James along with her.
The legs disappeared. Nick groaned.
“She won’t break his ankle, Nick.” Nathaniel stood next to him, hands on his hips and head tilted back as he gazed up at the tree. “Not on purpose, at any rate.”
Nick looked at his brother sideways. “At least you admit where the fault would lie.”
“She is her mother’s daughter, in all ways except her appearance.” It was true. Diana was the spitting image of her father.
“How fortunate, then, that you have one of each.” Nick nodded to where Nathaniel’s second daughter, Lucy, sat curled on her grandfather’s lap, her dark head resting on his shoulder. Unlike Diana, she looked exactly like Alice, and therefore Adelaide.
Nate narrowed his eyes. “Don’t think I didn’t see you sneaking Lucy an extra tart, Nick. You will spoil her.”
“I can’t help it. She seems so much like Adelaide to me, and I have no daughters of my own. One can’t spoil sons, you know. There’s no fun in it.”
It was a strange twist of fate, he often thought, that Nate had only daughters, and Nick had only sons. Perhaps it would not always be so—they had time yet. But Nick did not worry for the future, and he knew his brother did not, either. If James inherited Nick’s fortune, and his second son, Philip, became Wintham, both men would take care of their cousins and see that they wanted for nothing.
They were all family, after all.
Freesia waddled by, glaring. “I hate you both.”
Nick and Nathaniel exchanged grins. In a much more amusing twist of fate, Freesia had been blessed with twin boys, now aged four years, and was again increasing to such extremes that the whole family suspected she was in the same predicament once more.
“I hate you both” had become Freesia’s standard greeting.
Nick turned to look over his shoulder. “Your wife requires a footstool.”
He needn’t have bothered. Her husband was already running into the house to find a stool—and anything else Freesia required.
Upon his return with the stool, he was accompanied by Alice and two maids carrying trays of cups, saucers, and a teapot. Nick’s mother brought up the rear along with Adelaide, who carried a tray of sandwiches.
Nick moved forward, his eyes on his wife, just in time to hear his mother say, “The day is too lovely to waste indoors, so we thought we would have our tea out here. Adelaide, darling girl, why did you not let the maid carry the tray? For heaven’s sake.”
“I have it,” he said quietly. He lifted the tray from her arms, and she smiled up at him.
“Thank you, darling,” she murmured.
As ever, the words sent a frisson of pleasure down his spine. It was not hard to make her happy, yet he was proud to say he excelled at it. Happiness was not guaranteed in life, as they both had learned years ago. But he would do his damnedest.
“Tell me a story,” Lucy demanded from Wintham’s lap as they all sat down to enjoy their tea.
“Shall I tell you of King Harthaknut? His castle is quite close to here,” Nate said, smiling at his daughter.
“Please don’t,” Lucy said sincerely. “And not one of your stories, either, Uncle Nick. They are too frightening, even when you leave out all the interesting bits. I want to hear…” She pursed her small lips. “Tell me about the hole that Aunt Adelaide dug to trap Uncle Nick, but she caught Papa instead and Mama had to rescue him.”
Alice laughed. “Again, dearest? You have heard the tale a dozen times, at least.”
“But I love it, Mama. It’s so funny, and it has to do with all of you, even though you didn’t know it yet.”
Wintham laughed and then coughed. They all turned to look at him. He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
No doubt he was. His heart still beat out of order, but it carried on just the same. Perhaps he would outlive them all.
Feeling his father’s gaze on him, Nick raised his brows in question. Wintham’s lips moved silently in answer. Forty-three. Nick grinned.
Forty-three times they had gathered thus, exactly as Wintham had once foretold so many years ago. Forty-three times they had sat under this oak tree with the children wreaking havoc and the grown-ups drinking their tea. They had talked of the weather and London gossip; they had laughed and argued.
Wintham had marked every time.
Nick did not. He did not count the thousands of joyful days, the kisses, the laughter, nor the annoyances and heart pricks. They all blended together into a long and happy life.
But every night, as he slid into bed next to Adelaide, he thanked God his wife was so very, very wicked.
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