“Agnes,” he said now, bending his head closer to her ear so that she would hear clearly above the babble of voices and the lovely pealing of the bells, “will you come with me?”
She knew where without having to ask. And she was glad of it. He had one more thing to do. She nodded and took his arm.
There was no vault for the family Arnott, Viscounts of Ponsonby, and their families for more than two centuries back. But there was a separate area of the churchyard, well tended and set off from the rest by low and neatly clipped box hedges. The newest grave with its white marble headstone stood just a few feet inside the gate.
David Arnott, Viscount Ponsonby, it read, together with the dates of his birth and death and a rather flowery inscription informing the world of his blameless existence and instructing angels to carry him up to the throne of heaven, where he would be welcomed with open arms. A marble angel, wings spread and trumpet held to its lips, stood atop the headstone.
“He wanted something simple and to the point,” Flavian said. “Poor David. He used to shudder and laugh at the sorts of things people put on gravestones. Our grandfather, whom we remembered as a foul-tempered old tyrant, is written of as though he had been a saint.”
But he spoke fondly and with a slight smile on his face, Agnes noticed—and without a trace of a stammer.
“A graveyard ought to be a place of horrors,” he said. “It is not, though, is it? It is peaceful here. I am glad he is here.”
His grip on her hand had tightened, and she saw, when she stole another glance at him, that his eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“I did love him,” he said.
“Of course you did,” she said. “And of course he knew it. And he loved you in return.”
He leaned down and set a palm flat on the grave before straightening up.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Do you believe in an afterlife, Agnes?”
“I do,” she told him.
“Then be happy, David,” he said.
They had walked to church, even though it was all of two miles. They began the walk home after waving farewell to a few villagers who lingered. Agnes raised her parasol to shelter her face from the brightness of the sun.
“I am so glad we came here,” she said. “Will we go back to town now that Easter is over and the Season will begin?”
“Maybe later,” he said. “Maybe not. Do we have to decide now?”
“No,” she said.
“Those were very civil letters I had from your father and your brother yesterday,” he said. “Shall we invite them to visit us during the summer? And your sister too? Perhaps we can have the garden party while they are all here.”
“I would like that,” she said. “And I think I willwriteto my mother. I may never go to see her. Indeed, I doubt I ever will. But I think I will write. Ought I, do you think?”
“There is nothing yououghtto do,” he said. “But write to her if it is what you wish to do. She will be pleased. So, I think, will you.”
He stopped walking when they came to the top of the rise before the descent into the bowl of the inner park about the house. She heard him inhale deeply and exhale on a sigh.
“This isnothappily-ever-after, is it?” he asked her.
“No,” she said, “but there are moments that feel like it.”
“This moment?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Have I told you that I love you?” he asked her. “Deuce take it, Agnes, but they are the hardest words in the English language for a man to say. I havenotsaid them. I would have noticed if I had.”
“No,” she agreed, laughing, “you have not.”
And her heart yearned to hear just those three simple words strung together into the loveliest phrase ever uttered.If, that was, the speaker was the right man.
He turned to her, took her parasol and tossed it unceremoniously to the grass beside the path, grasped both her hands, and brought them to his chest, where he held them with his own. His green eyes, unprotected by any hooding of eyelids, gazed into hers.
