“But then you came here,” he said, his gaze moving between them. “And Maribel brought this garden back to life. Showed me that things can be healed. That spaces sealed in grief can be opened to light again.”
Oliver’s small hand found Thaddeus’s, curling into his palm with unconscious trust.
“This is your home now,” Thaddeus continued. “Not because duty requires it. But because I want you here. Because you belong here.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Because you are my family. Both of you.”
Oliver threw his arms around Thaddeus’s neck with the wholehearted abandon of a child who had finally found safety. And Thaddeus caught him, held him, his eyes squeezing shut against the force of emotion Maribel could see threatening to overwhelm him.
She stood watching them—this man and this boy, both broken by loss, both learning slowly how to heal—and felt tears slip down her cheeks unchecked.
When Thaddeus rose, Oliver still clinging to him, he turned to her. His free hand extended in question. In invitation.
Maribel took it and stepped into the shelter of his embrace.
They stood together in the garden she had restored, the three of them, while winter sunlight moved across the stone wall and roses bloomed in defiance of the season.
“Thank you,” Thaddeus said against her hair. “For seeing who I could be. For staying.”
Maribel pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “You did the work. I only showed you where to start.”
“Can we sit?” Oliver asked, already tugging them toward the bench. “Can we stay here?”
“Yes.” Thaddeus allowed himself to be pulled forward. “We can stay as long as you want.”
They settled on the stone bench—Oliver between them, chattering about fishing and horses and a dozen other topics with the unselfconscious ease of a child who felt safe. Thaddeus’s arm came around Maribel’s shoulders, tentative at first, then settling with quiet certainty when she leaned into him.
And Maribel, who had spent months guarding her heart against further damage, allowed herself to simply be present. To trustthat this—this fragile, imperfect, beautiful thing they were building—would hold.
Not because it was perfect.
But because they were all, finally, willing to try.
The garden settled around them, peaceful and alive. Proof that what had been broken could be made whole again.
EPILOGUE
“Walk with me.”
Maribel looked up from the book she’d been reading to Oliver. Her husband stood in the doorway, coat discarded somewhere, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows—the way he dressed now when working in the garden, despite the utter impropriety of a Duke doing as much. Soil still dusted his hands.
“Now?” She glanced toward the window. The afternoon had stretched into evening whilst they’d been occupied with tales of knights and dragons. “It’s nearly supper.”
“Now.” His grey eyes held hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “Please.”
Oliver twisted round to peer at Thaddeus. “Are you taking Mama to see the roses? The yellow ones bloomed this morning. I counted seventeen.”
“Something like that.” Thaddeus’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. “Can you spare her for a bit?”
“I suppose.” Oliver sighed with theatrical resignation. “But don’t let her get lost. She’s terrible with directions.”
“I am not terrible with directions. I merely took a wrong turn once?—”
“Seventeen times,” Thaddeus said.
“That is a gross exaggeration?—”
Thaddeus laughed, a twinkle in his eye. “Eighteen, if we count this morning when you wandered into the stables instead of the breakfast room.”
“The corridors all look the same in poor light.” She stood, abandoning the pretence of dignity. “And I found the breakfast room eventually.”
