Peter reappeared, drawn by the commotion, and offered stiff congratulations that couldn’t quite hide his pleasure. Mary hugged Cressida hard enough to knock the air from her lungs, whispering her fierce excitement about becoming an aunt.
“I find this whole scene rather maudlin,” Peter said.
“Your day will come, eventually,” Cressida told him.
“God help me.”
Lord and Lady Bardwell approached more slowly, uncertainty visible in their careful steps.
“A grandchild.” Lord Bardwell’s voice carried genuine wonder. “Congratulations, my dear.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
Lady Bardwell reached for Cressida’s hand, then hesitated. “May I?”
Six months ago, her mother would have simply taken her hand. Now, she waited, acknowledging she’d forfeited the right to intimacy.
Cressida nodded.
Lady Bardwell embraced her gently, her perfume familiar despite everything else that had changed. When she pulled back, tears streaked through the powder on her face. “I’m so pleased for you.”
“Are you well? You’re not usually so emotional.”
“This feels different. Important.” Lady Bardwell touched Cressida’s cheek. “You look happy. That’s what matters most.”
“Mama—”
“I know we’ve made terrible mistakes.” Her voice dropped. “Saying so doesn’t undo the harm. But I see it now, how badly we failed you.”
Cressida’s throat tightened. “You’re trying. That helps.”
“It’s not enough, is it?” Her mother managed a watery smile. “But perhaps it’s a beginning. Perhaps this child will give us a chance to do better.”
“Perhaps.”
Her father stepped forward, uncomfortable but determined. “We’d like to be part of the child’s life. If you’ll permit it. Not as we were with you—” He stopped, his jaw working. “We’d like to do right by this grandchild. And by you.”
Theodore’s hand found the small of her back, warm and steady.
“We’d like that too,” she said. “But there will be conditions.”
“Whatever you require.”
“No criticisms. No judgment about how we raise our child. And if you ever speak to them the way you spoke to me?—”
“We won’t.” Lady Bardwell’s voice turned fierce. “I swear it, Cressida.”
It wasn’t forgiveness, exactly. But it was space for possibility, given time and effort.
The afternoon dissolved into celebration. John insisted on a toast. Harriet and Cressida retreated to a bench beneath the oak, planning nurseries and how their children would know each other from birth.
Theodore found Cressida as the sun descended toward the horizon, the garden bathed in golden light. He sat beside her, his hand finding hers automatically.
“Your aunt is redesigning the nursery,” she told him. “She has strong opinions about wallpaper.”
“Naturally.”
“And Grandmama’s compiling a reading list for infants.”
