“Northwich is a gentleman. He will do as he promised. I trust him implicitly.”
She knew Adrian was right. It was just difficult to watch her friend in such a state, to know she was hurting. Still, she went into her husband’s embrace. “I feel so sorry for the pain she is feeling.”
“She needed to know,” Adrian said, pressing a kiss to her crown. “If what Northwich suspects is true and there was another man involved in Shaw’s crooked dealings, he must face justice for his crimes. Whatever comes of Northwich’s further investigations, all we can do is hope that your friend is not adversely affected, and that if there are other innocent men who have been imprisoned or otherwise harmed because of the actions of Shaw, they will be found and exonerated.”
A sob shuddered through her. “You were fortunate to have a friend in the duke.”
“I was. I shall forever be indebted to him. But I am even more fortunate to have your love.” He tipped up her chin, then kissed away her tears. “We have done everything we could today. The rest is out of our hands.”
She rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his, needing to kiss him, to reassure herself he was safe. He was safe, he was hers, and she was never letting him go.
Still sniffling, she ended the kiss, gazing up at his beautiful, handsome face. “You are right, my love. I have faith that Northwich will do what is right, and that Pippa will come to understand. I believe in the promise of rainbows.”
And love. And hope. And happiness and more. So much more…
“I love you, Tilly mine. Come.” He stepped away, took her hand in his once more. “Let us go home to our sweet lad.”
Fingers laced, they took their leave of Northwich’s drawing room together.
Epilogue
No man or woman, regardless of the crimes he may or may not have committed, should be so egregiously treated. Confinements in cells, dietary punishments, and forced labor are all abhorrent means of attempting to reform the imprisoned. The true reform we must seek is that of the prisons themselves, not of the prisoners.
~letter from Mr. Adrian Hastings to theLondon Times
Araucous thunderstorm had finally given way to beautiful, clear skies. The summer sun was hot, kissing Tilly’s face with its golden cheer, warming her, and no doubt causing the freckles her husband loved so well to multiply.
Seated safely in her lap, Robby clapped his hands excitedly, then pointed toward a pair of ducks swimming on the surface of the lake. “Duck! Ducks go quack, quack.”
“Yes, my darling,” she said. “Ducks do love to say quack.”
At the opposite end of the boat, Adrian was grinning at them, hatless as she was, looking utterly at home with the rays glinting off his gold-brown hair. So very handsome in nothing but shirtsleeves and country tweed, the sleeves folded back to put his strong forearms on display. As always, her heart gave a pang when she looked at him. He was so beloved.
Each day she spent as his wife was one she refused to take for granted. Their happiness, their love, their son…sometimes, she felt as if it was too pure, too perfect, too wondrous to be real.
“How many ducks do we see, lad?” he asked their son. “Show Mama what we have been working upon when we take our walks about the park together.”
“One!” Robby exclaimed. “Two!”
“You have been teaching him to count?” she asked, her heart brimming.
He had proven to be a wonderful father, just as she had always known he would be. For a moment, she recalled that long-ago train ride from Derbyshire to London, all the uncertainties that had filled her. Of how he had reassured her she would be a good mother.
They had not known what tremendous obstacles they would face. They’d had no inkling they would be torn apart, almost broken. But together, they were strong. Their love had prevailed.
“We have been doing a bit of counting, have we not, lad?” Adrian asked Robby.
“Yes,” Robby agreed, before pointing a pudgy finger across the lake. “Two ducks.” Then he patted Tilly’s burgeoning belly, impossible to cloak, even beneath the forgiving folds of her dress. “One baby.”
She laughed. “Yes, one brother or one sister for our darling Robby. Which shall it be?”
“A sister, I hope,” Adrian said. “One with her mother’s golden curls and beautiful green eyes.”
They shared a besotted smile. The urge, which she had been tamping down for the last few weeks as their second child grew within her, uncertain of how to proceed, returned.
“If we should be blessed with a daughter,” she began, deciding to blurt it at last and gauge his reaction, “I was wondering what you might think of naming her after your mother.”
They had taken a day to visit the grave of his mother, along with the small grave where his first wife and son were buried together. Both had been a short train ride’s distance from Coddington Hall. Together, they had lain bouquets upon the stones.
