“Say that again,” she breathed.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” She swallowed. “The part where you said you loved me.”
“Love.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair. “There is no love here without you. I don’t have a son without you, do you understand? Do you think Nathaniel would love his father if you hadn’t taught him about love? If you hadn’t taught both of us?”
“You love me,” she whispered and touched his cheek. Her fingertips glistened when she brought her hand away.
He was crying, he realized.
“Yes, yes, yes. I love you.” He lifted his head toward the sky and shouted, “I love Henrietta Hartwell!”
She laughed. “And I love Oliver Hartwell.”
He brought his eyes to hers. “You do?”
“So much.”
“You . . .” he faltered. “You’re so important. More than important. It’s not enough . . . I have to tell you. I was wrong. You see, I thought you were my lodestar.”
She tilted her head. “Lodestar?”
“A lodestar is . . . it’s a heavenly body used for navigation. And I thought you were the thing by which I would steer the rest of my life. But I was wrong. You’re not.”
“I’m not?”
“No. You’re all the stars, Henrietta. You’re the sky, the sun, the moon, the ocean, the boat, the whole damn thing. You’re everything. Everything.”
In the pink-golden dawn, the kiss his wife gave back to him was everything, too.
It was her lust, her love, her life. It was her joy.
It was Henrietta, his everything.
First Epilogue
January. 1820.
Aknock on the bedchamber door made Henrietta break off from kissing Oliver despite his protests, his hands trailing over her body as she rose from the bed. The bedchamber was quite warm because Oliver had built up the fire in preparation for their intimacy, but for modesty’s sake Henrietta tied a dressing gown over her chemise before opening the door to the hallway. A tearful Nathaniel stood there, shivering.
“What’s wrong, darling? Did you have a bad dream?” She leaned over and picked him up. He had gotten so much taller and heavier, but she was glad he still let her hold him this way.
“Yes. Can I sleep with you?” Nathaniel must have seen Oliver in her bed over her shoulder. “Did Papa have a bad dream, too?”
She half-laughed. “Something like that.” She turned and walked back to the bed, carrying Nathaniel. She didn’t know how Oliver would feel about the interruption, so she made a funny face at him over Nathaniel’s head.
Oh, no. Oliver had managed to pull his shirt back on, but he was frowning and looked so severe.
Still, she slid Nathaniel into the bed next to his father and followed the boy quickly under the warm covers.
Oliver laid his large hand on Nathaniel’s chest. “What was this bad dream about? Do I need to go thrash some dragons up in the nursery?”
Of course, Oliver’s frown had been for the bad dream, not for Nathaniel coming into her bed for comfort. She was always a molten puddle of adoration for her husband, but, if possible, she melted a little more.
“No,” Nathaniel said seriously. “My bad dreams don’t have dragons.”
Oliver propped himself up on an elbow. “What do they have?”
