It was what she wanted, of course.More than anything.But a small part of her still couldn’t believe that she could be chosen.That he would choose her.That anyone would.
“Scarlett,” he returned.“I could never marry another.You must know it.”
She was aware that, yes, she had started crying.Because she realized that this scene was truly unfolding.It was really happening to her.
“I want you.No one else,” he said, taking her in his arms.“And I would give anything to have you, Scarlett.”
She was aware, of course, that they had none of the details worked out.She had no idea where they would live or how they would manage their lives.She would be giving up all she ever knew—her comfortable home, her life in London, all that had until a few weeks ago been familiar and dear.It was not, strictly speaking, a practical match, and she had never been one to be impractical.
But when she looked at him, she could not think of practicalities.
She could not even think of herself as a plain, plump, hopelessly on-the-shelf lady of eight-and-twenty.
No, instead, all she could see when she saw him was the man whom she desperately loved.And who just might love her in return.
“Yes,” she said simply.“I’ll marry you.”
That was all he needed.He kissed her in the middle of the road.In the middle of a Somerset summer.In the middle of the giant muddle they had made in finding their way to one another.
And what else could she do?
She had no choice—or, rather, she had only one she could live with making.
Hehadchosen her, after all, but she saw now that wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t enough to be chosen.
She had wasted too much of her life waiting for that.
No, she had to choose too.She had to choose for herself.
She had to walk toward the life, the man, the love that she wanted and seize it.
So she did it.
She kissed him back.
Epilogue
Almost one year later
Summer had comeagain to Somerset, which delighted Mrs.Scarlett Brown.The winter had been very dreary, and although she and Malcolm had spent a good portion of it in London, that hadn’t been enough to blot out the long succession of gray days.
And today itself was a special day, indeed.One year ago, she had met Malcolm.
He had spent the entire day over at Parkhorne overseeing the cutting of hay, but he was just coming back through the gate now.She had finished writing a letter to Tilly, checking in on her and the new babe, and inquiring when she might next expect them in Somerset.
She also had spent the morning looking over some of the improvements she thought Malcolm might make to a thresher.He had been struggling with jams on the machines over at Parkhorne, and she had an idea for a little tweak that might help matters.
She had never imagined that she could enjoy life in the country so much.Of course, she needed to go to London at least quarterly, but that was easy enough.They had no shortage of people and events drawing them thither—in fact, between her sister and Malcolm’s sister, they could be away from home constantly if they so chose.
But they didnotso choose.Scarlett found that the retirement of country life, punctuated by lively bouts of urban living, was exceedingly pleasant to her.And that being alone with her husband was often much preferable to having to share him with others.
It helped, of course, that her husband had bought Cresswell.She had never thought she would have her own establishment, with her own gardens and drawing rooms.Perhaps that was why she took so much pride in the place.
Or perhaps it was because she just loved Malcolm so much.
He came through the door then.“Good God,” he said.“I thought I’d never get back to you.”
