“Best.”
They all laughed, and Lottie leant into Jasper, purely because she wished to.
Below deck, their trunks were packed for every possible destination, and several impossible ones, should they become bored enough to invent them. Penelope had brought eleven gowns, twelve books, a much-underlined copy of Wollstonecraft, and a collection of dangerous little pamphlets she insisted were educational. Perhaps, if you are very fortunate, this author may one day be prevailed upon to relate Miss Penelope Deverell’s own tale in the New World; but for now, let us leave her there, sharpening her opinions upon the unsuspecting Atlantic.
We shall end, as we must, with Lottie Deverell.
She stood at the edge of the world with her husband behind her, the wind in her hair, and the salt upon her lips.
Six years earlier, she had thought marriage the most dangerous wager a woman could make, and she had not been wrong.
Marriage, in the wrong hands, certainly could be a cage, a terrible bargain, a silencing for women and a slow, pretty surrender in white satin and pearls. A respectable little death, applauded by relatives and sanctioned by law.
Indeed, Lottie had wagered her name, her future, her liberty, and her heart upon Jasper Deverell, and somehow—against every reasonable expectation, and certainly against the gloomy predictions of several relations—she had won.
It was not that she had been tamed, nor that her husband had been conquered. Rather, in their hands, marriage had become the finest wager either of them had ever made. They had gone on as they had begun: quarrelling, laughing, daring, fleeing, returning, and meeting one another always as equals.
So yes, dear reader, Lottie Tolliver had become Mrs Jasper Deverell, but if anyone supposed that made her smaller, quieter, softer, or more easily managed, then they had understood neither marriage, nor wagers, nor Lottie Tolliver at all.
She had won—which was fortunate, for she had always been a very poor loser—but better still, Jasper had won with her.
Epilogue
Would any Tolliver tale be complete without a prologue to the next? Certainly not!
Several weeks after Lottie’s wedding, Miss Marianne Tolliver could be found in the London breakfast room arranging correspondence into neat piles while Lord Tolliver, now recovered enough to be troublesome but not enough to be trusted with stairs, reclined upon a sofa by the fire. Lady Tolliver was seated nearby with her embroidery.
Mr Simms entered with the morning post. “Letters, my lady.”
Lady Tolliver reached for them eagerly, for letters were the safest sort of excitement permitted in the house at present. She sorted through them, before stopping. “Oh,” she said.
Mari looked up. “What is it, Mama?”
“It is from Hetty.”
That was enough to command the room.
Hetty, the eldest daughter, who was sensible only when compared with Lottie, had gone into the country some weeks earlier to await her confinement at the Langley estate, wherethere was air, quiet, competent servants, and, according to Theo, fewer Tollivers. Mari had considered this last point unkind, though not inaccurate.
Lady Tolliver broke the seal, read the first line, and made a sound that caused Lord Tolliver to sit bolt upright.
“What?” he demanded. “Is she well? Is the child well? Is Langley dead?”
Mama pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, my goodness.”
Mari rose at once. “Mama.”
Lady Tolliver only held out the letter, which Mari quickly snatched.
“My dearest Mama,” Mari read aloud, for her father’s sake. “Pray do not shriek, for it shall upset Papa. Besides, I have already done enough shrieking for the whole household. I have done it. By which, I mean I have presented Theo with a child, though not, unfortunately, with an heir. Rather, I have produced two children.
“Yes, Mama, two. They are both girls, and I love them dreadfully already. Theo went quite white and said, ‘Good God, there are two of them,’ before fainting.”
Lord Tolliver burst into a laugh, then clutched his chest when Mari glared at him.
Lady Tolliver was looking up at the ceiling, eyes shining. “Twins.”
Mari continued reading. “I am well, though very tired. I have cried twice today for reasons that seemed quite compelling at the time and now escape me entirely. You may visit, of course, though not all at once, and not if Papa means to expire from excitement upon my carpet. Mama, you may come first, provided you promise not to weep into the cradle. Mari may come whenever she likes. Nell may come only without Clara, and Lottie may come only if Jasper can be trusted not to encourageTheo in dramatic suffering. Please tell everyone that I am happier than I have any right to be.
