At the moment, they were waiting for Tristan to arrive from London. He had been held up by a vote in Parliament the day before—his political star was on a shining trajectory toward Prime Minister. Tristan had scheduled his private railway coach to leave earlier that morning, hopefully arriving before dinner.
In the meantime, Isolde relished the sounds of laughter and happiness filling the garden.
The game oftigwas in full force. At nine years of age, Bea was in her element, racing the boys and dancing around Malcolm’s enormous dog—the punnily named Geoffrey Pawcer, who was apparently a welp of Beowoof. Malcolm regularly christened his animals with literary names. Pawcer adored the chaos, barking and running alongside the children. Arthur, the elder of Allie and Ethan’s twins, was always two steps behind his cousin, shouting for Bea to wait up.
Naturally, not all of them were so energetic. If Isolde stepped back, she could see Clara, Arthur’s twin sister, and her own Hawthorn cuddled into the window seat of Thistle Muir’s front parlor, their matching dark heads bent over a book. Clara read while Hawthorn asked questions, his serious eyes studying his cousin’s face as he listened.
On the other side of the room, Viola, Malcolm’s wife, sat talking with Fox, Leah, and their only son, Jack, who at nineteen years old was just up from his studies at St Andrews University in Fife.
Abruptly, a cheering shout went up from the children on the lawn, their heads turning toward the gravel drive before the house.
A horse cantered round the bend, Tristan on its back.
Shrieks of joy immediately followed.
Thechildren tore down the drive en masse, shouts of “Papa!” and “Uncle Tristan!” and dog yips ringing through the air.
A grin on his face, Tristan dismounted just in time to catch Bea in his arms. Her younger brother and sister, Thomas and Agnes, soon followed. And then Allie and Ethan’s brood were upon him. Even Geoffry Pawcer leaped into the mix, licking Tristan’s face, tail wagging exuberantly.
Tristan winced, laughing ruefully before pushing the dog down.
Isolde smiled and turned to Allie with some remark about the chaos. But the words died on her tongue.
Allie wasgreiting, enormous tears dripping down to her chin.
“Allie?” Isolde asked, alarm rising in her chest.
“Ignore me.” Allie retrieved a handkerchief and wiped her nose. “I’m just overwhelmed by the beauty of . . . of everything. This moment.” She sniffed and waved her hand, indicating the garden as a whole. “I envisioned it, you know.”
“This moment?”
“Well, not this precisely. But I imagined a time when Tristan would arrive at Thistle Muir and all our children would race to greet him and bury him in the force of their happiness.” She pointed at her brother. “And look at him now!”
Tristan was indeed buried in joy. Agnes climbed on his back while Bea jabbered on about a hedgehog she and Arthur had trapped in a fishing basket the day before. Malcolm, bless him, had taken the reins of Tristan’s horse, leading the animal toward the barns behind the house.
Isolde and Allie stepped onto the gravel drive.
“Husband,” Isolde said as Tristan drew her into a tight embrace and kissed her soundly, Agnes giggling maniacally and clinging like a barnacle to his back.
Tristan turned to greet his sister and then paused, seeing her tears.
“Ah, Allie,” he said, holding her close. “It’s just like your dream all those years ago.”
“Yes!” Allie hiccupped. “How did you know?”
“I remember you telling me of your vision.” Tristan tapped his temple. “And also . . . twin sense.”
A burble of laughter broke through Allie’s tears.
“I knew it!” she crowed. “I knew you would admit it eventually!”
In reply, Tristan pressed a kiss to his twin’s forehead.
That evening, theywere all seated around a huge table in the garden, the dining room inside too small to hold such a crowd.
It was a glorious Scottish evening. Twilight lingered on the horizon, casting long shadows across the lawn. Dirty plates and half-full glasses dotted the tablecloth, a plate of biscuits sitting in the middle. No one seemed interested in calling for a servant to clear the mess.
Isolde rested her head on Tristan’s shoulder. He held a sleeping Agnes in his arms, her head tucked under his chin. Across from them, Allie rocked wee Felicity. Malcolm looped an arm around the back of his wife’s chair, causing Viola to turn her shoulders and lean into him. Beside them, Fox reached for Leah’s hand, lacing their fingers together.
