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The late summer sun cast a golden haze over the estate, bathing the gently sloping hills in soft amber light. A breeze danced through the walled gardens of Morton Hall, stirring the lavender and roses that lined the stone pathways.
The scent of honeysuckle mingled with fresh-cut grass, and in the distance, children’s laughter echoed faintly over the lawns.
Marie stood at the edge of the orchard, her hand resting gently upon the gentle curve of her stomach, watching a pair of little girls run barefoot through the grass. Their curls—one dark as night, the other a sun-dappled chestnut—bounced with every gleeful step.
“Amélie! You mustn’t climb the tree in your slippers!” Marie called, her tone affectionate but firm.
The older child, paused mid-ascent on a low apple branch and grinned cheekily down at her mother. “I wasn’t climbing, Mama. I was only… inspecting.”
Marie rolled her eyes with a soft laugh. “I see. And what, may I ask, were you inspecting?”
Amélie glanced at her younger sister before replying with all the solemnity a five-year-old could muster, “The apple. It looked suspicious.”
At that moment, Jacob’s voice rang out from behind them. “Was it plotting something again? Apples do have a reputation for mischief.”
Marie turned to see her husband approaching from the stable path, his riding jacket slung over one shoulder, a smudge of dirt on one cheek that made him look younger than his thirty years. He smiled as he reached her side, and his eyes dropped instinctively to the swell beneath her hand.
“All is well?” he asked softly, his hand brushing hers.
She nodded. “Very well. He’s been quiet all morning. I think he’s as content as I am.”
“He?” Jacob’s brows lifted, mischief glinting in his eyes. “So it’s settled, then? The next Viscount of Morton is on his way?”
Marie shrugged lightly, her eyes dancing. “Or perhaps a third daughter to terrorize you.”
Jacob chuckled, bending to press a kiss to her temple. “I shall prepare myself for either fate.”
From the orchard, the girls called out again, this time joined by the figure of Sylvie, still resolutely French after all these years, though just as English in her scolding as any proper housekeeper. She held a bonnet in one hand and a doll in the other, waving them both at the children as if summoning them by spell.
“They’ve been playing spies all morning,” Jacob explained, slipping an arm around Marie’s waist. “They suspect the gooseberries of treason now.”
Marie sighed with exaggerated patience. “Then we shall have to interrogate the jam jars before tea.”
They stood quietly for a moment, watching their daughters—Amélie, quick-witted and bold, and little Clara, just three but already with a stubborn streak to rival her namesake’s.
“Can you believe,” Marie murmured, “how far we’ve come from that dreadful summer in London?”
Jacob looked down at her. “I can. I think, perhaps, it was the best mistake we ever made.”
“Pretending to be in love?” she teased.
He kissed her again. “Falling in love.”
Later that afternoon, the drawing room at Morton Hall hummed with gentle conversation and the occasional chime of porcelain as teacups were lifted and set back into their saucers. The large windows stood open to the gardens, letting in a breeze that carried the scent of wild thyme and the distant trills of birdsong.
Clara Morton, now married and resplendent in a soft lavender gown, sat beside her husband, Mr. Charles Ashby, a barrister of fine reputation and—though it had once seemed unlikely—a warm and gentle manner. He was quietly engaging Edward Stanhope in a discussion about estate boundaries while Margaret, Countess of Morton, poured tea with calm efficiency.
“It is still strange to me,” Clara said with a small laugh, looking over at Marie who was arranging a plate of honeyed cakes, “to see our families gathered like this without a hint of scandal or whispering.”
Marie smiled gently, remembering all too well how far they had come. “Strange, perhaps, but not unwelcome.”
“I suppose we owe you both an apology,” Clara added more quietly, “for the way we behaved at the beginning. Eloise and I… well, we were unkind.”
Marie hesitated only briefly before replying, her tone gracious. “It’s all behind us now. Truly, Clara, I had no expectations that things would be easy. You were protecting your brother, in your own way.”
Clara blushed but smiled in return. “I still say you managed him far better than I ever could.”
Across the room, Eloise Sinclair, now recently married herself and visiting from her husband’s estate in Sussex, glanced over with a rueful expression. “I must admit,” she said, joining the conversation, “I misjudged you terribly. I thought you would ruin Jacob. Instead, you’ve made him quite tolerable.”
Jacob, overhearing, arched an eyebrow from the hearth. “High praise indeed, Miss Sinclair.”
“Mrs. Wilbraham,” she corrected with a smirk. “And don’t let it go to your head.”
A ripple of laughter passed through the room, even from Edward, who had at last put aside his papers. He looked older than he had those years ago in London, but far happier. His marriage to the Countess had proven stable and affectionate—if not wildly romantic—and he had developed a fondness for morning walks and late-afternoon chess that gave him great contentment.
Marie caught her father’s eye across the room, and he nodded at her with a soft smile. Whatever tumult had once existed between them had long since been healed, and their bond now was stronger for it.
“I think,” Margaret said, refilling a cup, “that we are living proof that nothing is ever quite as simple as the rules of society pretend it to be.”
Jacob raised his glass. “To second chances.”
“And misjudged daughters,” Edward added with good humour.
“And to love,” Charles said quietly, smiling at his wife.
A comfortable silence settled over them all for a brief moment, the sort that only comes when wounds have healed and peace has taken root. Outside, the children shrieked with delight as they chased a hoop across the lawn, Sylvie trailing behind them with mock severity.
It was a perfect afternoon—sun-drenched, peaceful, and filled with the sound of contented laughter.
And in the hearts of all those gathered, there was a quiet understanding that life, for all its twists and turns, had brought them exactly where they were meant to be.
The following day dawned bright and clear, with the sort of golden light that promised a good harvest. Marie stood at the edge of the orchard, a parasol in one hand and her other resting gently on the small swell of her belly. At five months along, her condition was becoming increasingly obvious, though Jacob insisted she had never looked lovelier.
She shaded her eyes to watch him across the field. Jacob had taken it upon himself to inspect the repairs on the west stone wall, though his efforts were somewhat hindered by the persistent tugging of Amélie, at his coat-tails.
“Papa,” Amélie declared, “you said I could see the lambs.”
“You shall,” Jacob replied with a chuckle, scooping her up with ease. “But first, you must promise not to pick any more daisies for Lady Catherine’s bonnet. I daresay the poor goat was not pleased.”
Marie smiled to herself. She had never imagined that domestic life could be quite so full—so filled with joy, so brimming with small, perfect moments.
“I believe I warned you he would become a doting father,” came a voice behind her.
She turned to find Sylvie, now retired from formal service but still very much a part of their household, carrying a small basket of herbs from the garden. Though a little grayer now, her posture was just as straight and her opinions just as firm.
“You did,” Marie said with a warm laugh. “Though I thought you were exaggerating.”
Sylvie sniffed. “Men like your husband fall harder than most, once they give in.”
Marie glanced back toward Jacob, who was now letting Amélie pat a lamb under the careful watch of the shepherd boy. Her heart ached with a fullness she could hardly describe. He had become everything she had never dared hope for—a loving husband, a playful father, and a man who loved her with the quiet steadiness of a tide that would never recede.
“I have been meaning to ask,” Sylvie said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “have you chosen godparents for the new baby?”
Marie nodded. “Margaret, of course, and Edward will stand again. But I was also thinking of asking Clara and Charles. I believe it would mean a great deal to them.”
Sylvie gave a satisfied nod. “Good. It will heal what remains of the old tension. And Clara has become quite the fond sister-in-law, hasn’t she?”
“She has,” Marie agreed. “More than I ever expected. She even wrote to me from London last month with news of another niece or nephew on the way. And she insists that this one will have my nose.”
“Well, your nose is a vast improvement on theirs,” Sylvie sniffed. “So I consider that a blessing.”
Marie laughed again and reached to pluck a ripe apple from the tree beside her. “I never thought I would be this happy,” she said softly.
Sylvie paused and looked at her fondly. “Nor did I, mademoiselle. But love has a way of transforming even the most unlikely circumstances.”
Marie looked out over the fields, her eyes misting just slightly. “Yes,” she whispered, “it truly does.”
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon when the last of the guests took their leave from the candlelit drawing room, offering well wishes and lingering farewells. The christening of little Thomas Edward Morton—named in honour of both grandfathers—had brought family and friends from across the country. The chapel had been filled with music, laughter, and the gentle murmur of blessings.
Now, with the house finally quiet, Jacob and Marie stood at the nursery door, watching the fire cast soft, flickering shadows across the sleeping forms of their children.
Amélie and Clara had insisted on wearing flowers in her hair all day and had spent most of the afternoon holding court with her cousins and friends in the garden, declaring herself Queen of the Rose Arbor. Thomas slept peacefully in the cradle beside her, his tiny fingers curled around the edge of a knitted blanket that Sylvie had made for him.
Marie leaned her head against Jacob’s shoulder. “I almost cannot believe this is our life.”
Jacob kissed her temple. “I still wake up sometimes thinking I must be dreaming.”
They stood in silence for a few moments, letting the hush of the nursery sink into their bones. It was a sacred kind of stillness—the sort that only comes at the end of a full day, when everyone is safe and loved and home.
“Do you ever think of that night in London?” she asked softly.
He chuckled. “Which one? The one where you nearly fled from the Countess’s parlour without so much as a bonnet?”
Marie smiled. “Yes. And all the ones after. The deception. The fear. The uncertainty. It seems so far away now.”
Jacob turned her gently so he could look into her face. “It was a tangle, to be sure. But I would go through it again a thousand times if it led me back to you.”
Her eyes shimmered with tears. “You say the most outrageous things.”
“They’re all true,” he murmured. “And you know it.”
They walked together down the corridor, passing portraits of long-gone Mortons and newly hung family paintings. Jacob paused before one—an oil portrait done only a few months prior, capturing Marie in a dusky blue gown with Thomas on her lap and Amélie and Clara at her feet. The artist had somehow managed to capture the softness in her eyes, the grace in her hands, and the quiet confidence that now seemed to radiate from her effortlessly.
Jacob studied it for a moment. “You know, if I had seen this all those years ago—seen what was ahead—I think I would have fallen in love with you that very day.”
Marie laughed lightly, linking her arm with his. “And yet, you had to be dragged to the truth like a stubborn mule.”
He grinned. “The best mules require patience and excellent training. Fortunately, you had both.”
They returned to the drawing room, where a few embers still glowed in the hearth. Margaret and Edward sat together on the settee near the fire, Edward holding a copy of the Times but not reading it. Margaret looked up as they entered and smiled.
“All quiet upstairs?” she asked.
“Yes,” Marie said. “For now.”
“Enjoy it,” Edward added dryly. “You’ll be chasing them about in the morning soon enough.”
Marie sat beside them while Jacob poured a small glass of port for each of them. The four of them sat in comfortable silence, the kind that only comes when family has been tested and mended.
“I received a letter from Eloise last week,” Margaret said suddenly. “She and Mr. Wilbraham are quite settled in Sussex. She wrote to say she had been quite wrong about you, Marie.”
Marie raised her brows. “Did she now?”
“She did. In her own way, of course. There was a great deal of veiled apology and talk of ‘surprising turns of fate,’ but it was there.”
Jacob gave a satisfied smile. “The ton has long since accepted Marie. There is hardly a family in London who hasn’t sent a card or paid a call.”
“Yes,” Marie said, her tone light, “though I think it was the rumours of my aristocratic French roots that finally tipped the scales.”
Jacob reached over to take her hand. “They missed the point entirely. It was never about your name, your lineage, or your dowry.”
“What was it about, then?” she teased.
Jacob leaned closer. “It was always about the girl who dared to defy expectation. The girl who was braver than I ever was. And who taught me that love is not a matter of rank or reason, but of courage.”
Marie’s heart swelled. In the end, that was the truth. Love had demanded more courage than either of them had ever anticipated—but it had also brought them more joy than they could have dreamed.
The fire crackled softly as the evening wore on. The room filled with quiet laughter and the flicker of candlelight. Outside, spring stirred in the hedgerows, the stars blinked above, and in the cradle upstairs, the next generation slept peacefully.
And in that quiet, perfect moment, all was exactly as it should be.
OFFER: A BRAND NEW SERIES AND 2 FREEBIES FOR YOU!
Grab my new series, "Love and Yearning in the Ton ", and get 2 FREE novels as a gift! Have a look here!
Hello there, my dear readers. I hope you enjoyed the book and this Extended Epilogue! I will be waiting for your comments. Thank you! 🙂
Very good and I enjoyed it.
Thank you so much for your kind words and support, dear Catherine! So glad you enjoyed the story!