"I have never believed anything more."
She pulled him into an embrace, holding him tightly, her face pressed against his chest. Sebastian held her back and let himself feel, for just a moment, the profound relief of having her here, away from London, away from pressure, away from everyone who was slowly breaking her heart.
"Let's unpack," she said eventually, pulling back. "And then I want to walk. I want to see everything."
"Whatever you want."
"That's a dangerous promise."
"I know. I make it anyway."
***
The days settled into a rhythm.
They woke late, ate simple breakfasts of bread and cheese and fruit, and then walked. They walked along the lake shore, through meadows dotted with wildflowers, up hills that offered views that stole Harriet's breath. They walked until their legs ached and the sun began to set, and then they returned to the cottage and sat by the fire, talking about everything and nothing.
It was, Harriet thought, the happiest she had been in a very long time.
On the fourth day, she began to write again.
It started slowly…just a line or two, scribbled in the margins of a book. But by the sixth day, she had filled an entire notebook with poems. They weren't happy poems. They were sad and raw and full of grief…grief for the children she hadn't had, for the expectations she couldn't meet, for the woman she had been before all of this began.
But writing them helped. Somehow, getting the feelings out of her head and onto paper made them more bearable.
She showed Sebastian one of the poems, hesitantly, expecting him to look concerned or sympathetic. Instead, he read it with that expression that still made her breath catch the one of intense concentration, of genuine appreciation.
"This is beautiful," he said, when he finished.
"It's sad."
"Sad things can be beautiful." He looked up at her. "You should publish these."
"No one publishes female poets."
"Some do.” He handed the notebook back.
"These deserve to be read, Harriet. They're too good to keep hidden."
She turned the idea over in her mind as the days passed. Publishing. Putting her grief and her hopes and her fears out into the world for strangers to read. It was terrifying. It was also, she was beginning to realise, something she wanted.
But not yet. For now, it was enough to write. To have Sebastian believe in her. To be here, in this quiet place, remembering who she was.
***
On the tenth night, they finally talked about it properly.
They were sitting by the fire, Harriet curled against his side, watching the flames dance. The cottage was quiet around them, the silence broken only by the crackling of the wood and the distant sound of wind through the trees.
"I need to tell you something," Sebastian said.
Harriet lifted her head. "That sounds ominous."
"It's not. Or I hope it's not." He took a breath, organizing his thoughts. This was something he had been wanting to say for months, but there had never been a right moment. Perhaps there would never be a right moment. Perhaps he simply had to say it anyway.
"I don't care about an heir," he said. "About the title, the estate, any of it. If we never have children, I will not love you any less. I will not resent you. I will not spend the rest of my life wishing things were different."
Harriet was quiet for a moment. "The title would go to your cousin."
