"And I'm trying so hard to believe what we said in the Lake District that we would stop trying, stop waiting, just live, but now there are signs, and I can't pretend I don't see them."
"You don't have to pretend."
"But what if it's nothing? What if we hope and hope and it's nothing again?"
"Then we'll grieve. And we'll move forward." Sebastian pressed his forehead to hers. "Together. The way we always have."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple. Nothing about this has ever been simple. But we've survived it before, and we'll survive it again." He kissed her gently. "Whatever happens, Harriet. I love you. That's the only thing I know for certain."
She clung to him, tears streaming down her face, hope and fear tangled so tightly in her chest that she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
"I love you too," she whispered. "More than I can say."
They stood there, holding each other, as the afternoon light faded around them.
And somewhere in the distance, a nightingale began to sing.
EPILOGUE
Two Years Later
The sound that woke Sebastian was not, as he had grown accustomed to, crying.
It was laughter.
He opened his eyes to find the bed beside him empty, the sheets still warm where Harriet had been. Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and golden, and from somewhere down the corridor came the unmistakable sound of his wife's voice, bright with amusement, followed by a shriek of infant delight.
He lay there for a moment, letting the sounds wash over him. Four years of matrimony. Two years since that terrifying, hopeful moment when Harriet had told him she might be with child. Eighteen months since their daughter had entered the world, red-faced and furious, with lungs that could shake the rafters.
Eleanor Rose Vane. Named for no one in particular, Harriet had insisted on that. "She'll be her own person," she had said, exhausted and radiant in the aftermath of birth. "She doesn't need to carry anyone else's legacy."
Sebastian had agreed, too overwhelmed to argue, too busy staring at the tiny creature in his arms to form coherent sentences. A daughter. They had a daughter. After everything, the years of waiting, the grief, the resignation, the hard-won peace…they had a daughter.
He still couldn't quite believe it.
Another shriek of laughter echoed down the corridor, and Sebastian smiled despite himself. Eleanor had inherited her mother's temperament: fierce, opinionated, and utterly impossible to ignore. At eighteen months, she had alreadydeveloped a personality that dominated every room she entered. She had Harriet's dark hair and Sebastian's grey eyes, and a smile that could melt the hardest heart.
She also had, as the household had discovered, a profound aversion to sleep.
Sebastian rose, pulled on a dressing gown, and followed the sounds of chaos to the nursery.
He found Harriet on the floor, still in her nightgown, Eleanor perched on her lap. They were surrounded by wooden blocks, most of which Eleanor had apparently thrown across the room with great enthusiasm. The nursemaid, poor Mrs. Patterson, was attempting to restore order while trying not to laugh.
"Good morning," Sebastian said from the doorway.
Harriet looked up, her hair escaping from its braid, her face flushed with exertion. She looked exhausted. She looked beautiful. She looked like everything he had ever wanted.
"Your daughter," she said, with great emphasis on the possessive, "decided that four o'clock was an appropriate time to begin the day."
"My daughter? I seem to recall she wasourdaughter yesterday."
"That was before she threw her porridge at Mrs. Patterson's head."
Sebastian looked at the nursemaid, who did indeed have something suspicious in her hair. "My apologies, Mrs. Patterson."
"No need, my lord. Miss Eleanor has excellent aim. I consider it a sign of intelligence."
