Edward didn’t care, either, another low rumble sounding in his chest as his arms came around her again, pulling her tight to him for another few minutes.
When they broke apart again, she said softly, “I’ve been waiting for this Michaelmas for twenty-one years, Mr. Harris. I should warnyouthat I’ve no intention of letting you leave.”
“Thank God,” he replied, his hands cradling her face just as they had years ago. “Do you think you can love me again, Hetty Bates?”
“Not again,” she said. “Still.”
He set his brow to hers and closed his eyes, whispering a thanks to the heavens. It was impossible to believe that the night had taken such a turn—that her life had taken such a turn. All that time, and finally, finally, this. This man she’d longed for. This future she’d packed away like spun glass, fragile and unsteady.
When they parted, she cast a glance toward the ballroom, where Jane and Frank danced past, bathed in golden light, well and happy and in love.
Jane.
“Edward,” she said softly, loving the way he watched her, hanging on her words. As though everything she said had weight and power and import. “You must meet Jane.”
“Mrs. Churchill?” he replied, a tease in his voice. “I have—she introduced us not an hour ago.”
“Yes,” she said. “But you must be properly introduced.”
And though he did not understand—though no one could, in that moment—he nodded without hesitation, and something burst in Hetty’s chest. Something like hope. Like happiness.
The future.
They returned to the ballroom, all of Highbury watching, each person assembled eager to begin long days of discussion as to the scandal that had transpired between Miss Bates and Baron Courtenay in the darkness—it must have been a scandal,mustn’t it, for the couple to arrive so breathless and bright-eyed and joyful.
But to Hetty, it did not feel like a scandal. It felt like a triumph.
For that evening, not one person in Highbury thought Hetty Bates dull. In truth, no one ever thought her dull, ever again.
