"When did you become so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You were simply too busy arguing with me to notice."
"I was not arguing. I was engaging in spirited debate."
"Ah yes. Spirited debate. That's what we're calling it."
She swatted his arm, but she was smiling. "Read the book. Tell me what you think."
"I've already read the poems. Dozens of times."
"Read them in book form. It's different."
"Is it?"
"It feels different. More real." Harriet took the book from him and opened to a page near the middle. "This one. Read this one."
It was the poem she had shown him in the Lake District, two years ago. The one about loss and waiting and the empty space where hope used to be. But now, in the context of the fullcollection, it read differently. It was not just a poem about grief—it was a poem about survival. About coming through darkness and finding light on the other side.
"It's beautiful," Sebastian said, when he finished.
"You've said that before."
"It's still true." He looked up at her. "I'm proud of you, Harriet. More proud than I can say."
"Even though I published anonymously?"
"'By a Lady' isn't exactly anonymous. Everyone will know it's you within a fortnight."
"Will they?"
"Darling, you've been talking about poetry at dinner parties for years. You've quoted Wordsworth at three different earls. You once got into a shouting match with Lord Byron's cousin about the superiority of the Romantics." Sebastian smiled. "The ton is not stupid. They'll figure it out."
"I suppose I wasn't very subtle."
"You were magnificently obvious. It's one of the things I love about you."
Harriet took the book back, holding it against her chest like something precious. "I want to send a copy to my mother. And to Mrs. Thornton, she’s always been kind about my writing. And perhaps to that horrible critic who said women shouldn't attempt verse. I'd like him to choke on his own words."
"A noble goal."
"I thought so."
Eleanor's cry echoed from upstairs, signaling the end of her nap.
"Duty calls," Harriet said, but she was still smiling. "Will you come?"
"Always."
They went upstairs together, the book left on Sebastian's desk, its gold lettering catching the afternoon light. Later,Harriet would send copies to everyone she had ever met. Later, the reviews would come, mostly positive, a few scathing, all of them treating her work with the seriousness it deserved. Later, she would begin work on a second collection, this one about motherhood and love and the strange miracle of getting everything you ever wanted.
But for now, there was only this: a crying baby, a laughing wife, and a life so full of joy that Sebastian sometimes thought it might burst.
***
The letter from Lady Fordshire arrived on a Tuesday.
Harriet was in the garden, watching Eleanor toddle unsteadily across the grass while Sebastian hovered nearby, and ready to catch her if she fell. It was a perfect autumn afternoon, the trees beginning to turn gold and crimson, the air crisp with the promise of winter.
