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Five years later
Tristan
“Where in heaven’s name is Violet?” The dowager duchess walked into the hall with her elegant navy ball gown swirling around her and a dark lily tucked into her graying tresses. “The party is already in full swing, and the lady of the house is still absent.”
Tristan hid a smile. Violet had grown into her role as duchess with a certain knack for running the house that nobody had expected, but timeliness was still lost on her, even five years and two children later.
“Have you checked the nursery?” He could hear strains of music coming from the ballroom. “She likes to kiss the children goodnight before coming down for things like this.”
“I did, and though the nursemaid says she was there before suppertime to feed the baby, she has since disappeared again.” Tristan’s mother raised her eyebrow. “Her mother and father are here, recently arrived, and I cannot remember what room she put them up in.”
“They shan’t be going to their room before the dance, surely,” Tristan protested.
“No, but their servants would like to make sure their belongings are safely installed.” The dowager duchess sighed. “The problem with your dear wife being such a capable little lass is that I’ve grown lax in my old age. I don’t have to worry about household details anymore, and I simply don’t pay attention to changes—then, when I actually am needed, I’m no use!”
Tristan pulled her into a cheerful hug. “Violet trusts you, Mama. Just put her parents in the room that makes the most sense to you, and she will be happy with the result, I assure you.”
“I suppose I could ask the servants if she requested fires laid in particular rooms,” the dowager duchess sighed before bustling off again.
Tristan listened for a long moment to the happy sounds of a quartet playing a cheerful reel and the guests chattering in the room nearby. He knew the place would be full not only of local neighbors and villagers, but also of the tenants that worked their lands and their families. Bedford had come to life again, and it brought everyone around into that circle of mirth and warmth.
For now, the merriment would have to wait.
Tristan climbed the stairs to the second floor and turned into the west wing, where his family’s personal quarters were situated. He walked past his own bedchamber to the nursery and knocked gently on the door. The nursemaid opened, holding a finger to her lips and beckoning him inside.
“Their mother has already been to see them,” the maid said with a smile, “and little Amelia drifted off to sleep. Be quiet so as not to wake her.”
Tristan scanned the room, finding the baby in the cradle, but not his little son. “Tris?”
The nursemaid nodded sagely to the curtains covering the window seat, and Tristan walked over, pulling aside the curtain to peek in at his four-year-old son. Little Tris had his mother’s red hair and his father’s swarthy skin. He sat with his knees curled up under his chin and his gaze fixed on the lawn outside, where the shadows of people dancing in the ballroom below twirled and swirled around like the grass was their own marble floor.
“Psst.” Tristan sat down beside his namesake.
“You’d best close the tent, Papa,” the boy said, turning wide eyes to his father. “The m’skeeters’ll get in.”
“Mosquitos?” Tristan hid a smile and soberly closed the curtain behind him. “Out of curiosity, where are we camping at present?”
“The jungles of Africa,” Tris answered, grinning. He slid a book over to his father, who took it and read aloud the caption under a lush charcoal drawing.
“The jungles of Africa are rich with wildlife. One might even find gorillas lurking in the trees if one gets a chance.” He set the book down. “Has your nurse been reading this to you?”
“No, Mama has.” Tris grinned. “Nurse thinks it gets me too excited for bed.”
“And does it?” Tristan tweaked his son’s nose. “Because you are up and looking at the moon instead of curled in your covers.”
The little boy, who was often amusingly sober for his young age, nodded sagely. “It does, sometimes, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m tired from all the running and the playing. It’s very hard work.”
“Indeed.” Tristan nodded, refusing to indulge in a smile. “Very hard work.”
He helped his son out of the African jungle tent and into his bed, tucking him in and kissing him on the nose. Before he left, Tris said sleepily, “Why was Mama wearing your trousers?”
Tristan paused, frowning at the nursemaid, who lowered her eyes to the ground at once. “When she was here just now?”
The girl hid a smile. “About an hour and a half ago, now. She was dressed a little unconventionally, as you know. I was mostly surprised because of the dance, and you being away in town running your errands, but I didn’t ask why.”
Tristan thought he had an idea. He left the children with the nurse and hurried into the hall, walking first to their bedchamber and knocking, even though he was fairly certain he would find it empty, as it was. Then he took the stairs at a soft jog, curling into the servants’ staircase before a passing guest could flag his attention.
In the kitchen downstairs, he pulled aside the nearest footman and asked after the mistress of the house.
“I haven’t seen her for more than an hour,” the man said with a shrug. “She was down here asking for hot water and towels …”
His suspicions confirmed, Tristan left the kitchens through the back door and fairly sprinted across the dark lawn to the warm light of the stables. He pushed open the heavy oak doors and walked briskly down the hay-strewn center of the barn until he reached the temporary pens at the far end. There, lit by an oil lamp, he found his bride of five years kneeling beside their estate manager, Gregory, a kind older gentleman with a graying beard, presently helping a mother sheep give birth to the second of two lambs.
Violet was intent on the project at hand, holding out a clean towel to catch the baby, her auburn braid over one shoulder, curls falling loose around her face. She was, as their son had so aptly pointed out, dressed in trousers and a loose blouse. She had never looked so beautiful, and for a moment, Tristan indulged in just looking at her without interrupting … but then he cleared his throat.
She raised her head quickly, gray eyes alight with delight and interest.
“Oh, Tristan.” She smiled but kept her voice soft. “Do come in. Gregory told me that the sheep were beginning to lamb, and I just couldn’t miss the first birth. Do you see? The first is healthy—”
She was cut off suddenly by the baying of the ewe, who gave one more lurch and then brought forth her little lamb into the light of the lamp. Violet caught the baby and began rubbing it off at once. When the head lifted slightly, she set the lamb down by the mother and stepped back, letting the ewe lick the two healthy lambs gently to bring the necessary blood flow.
Gregory wiped off his hands and shrugged up at his employer. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I told her she didn’t need to be present—not with the dance at hand—but she was insistent. She’s never seen the like, or so I’m told, and wanted to help.”
Violet’s eyes were rapturous. “Who would want to be dancing a reel when they could be holding a newborn lamb?” She laughed. “And besides, it is a sign of all the health and blessing the estate has felt lately. The ideas we’ve been putting into practice are working.”
She was right, of course. As Tristan looked at the two lambs in the curl of their mother’s body, he thought of all the changes the estate had seen in the last few years. Gregory had proved to be an asset in every way, working closely with Violet and Tristan to set to right all the inefficiencies of the previous management. He was very open with the books, showing Tristan—and, more often, Violet—whenever there were problems with the ledgers, and he was willing to implement new ideas.
Sometimes, the ideas failed. But the scales were tipping largely in the other direction. The managed pasture grazing had given them healthier land and healthier animals. The orchards were bringing in sizable sums. The outbuildings were finally mended and fit for the animals they sheltered. These two little lambs were just a sign of the prosperity that the tenants and village had experienced because of the estate, and Tristan could not deny it.
He nodded at Gregory, “Can you take it from here?”
The man grinned. “Absolutely. I have some boys from town coming in to help me through the night. It will be an exhausting few weeks, but lambing always is. The result is well worth it.”
Tristan turned to his beautiful wife, raising an eyebrow. “And you, my love. Shall we bring you to the dance dressed thusly?”
She rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t very well kneel in the hay in my skirts now, could I? They’re very constricting.”
She leaned affectionately against him, allowing him to lead her out of the barn and across the dark lawn to the servants’ entrance. He helped her upstairs to their bedchamber and, when she attempted to ring for a servant, stilled her hand.
“Do you remember,” he said softly, pouring a basin full of water for her, “the time in London that we snuck in through the servants’ entrance together?”
“After climbing the garden fence,” she said, undoing her overshirt and tossing it on the floor. “And the tree, if I recall.”
“Yes, I was rather impressed with how you managed the tree,” he said, stepping aside so she could splash cool water on her face. “But I was more impressed by the way you made me feel when I undid your dress …”
He let his fingers linger on her back, and she met his gaze in the mirror. “Yes,” she said softly, “I do remember that, quite clearly in fact.”
She dried off her face and slipped behind the screen, dressing as she spoke. “I am not sorry I saw those lambs, dear, but I am rather chagrined if I put your mother out. Is she all right?”
“A little flustered because your parents arrived, and she was unsure where to put them,” Tristan began.
Violet stuck her head out from behind the screen. “Really? I hardly thought to tell her. I should have said—whatever rooms the fires have been laid out in …”
“… yes, that’s what she guessed.” Tristan grinned. “It’s all handled, really. Everyone is having a lovely time downstairs. I think the servants are a little taken aback by the caliber of people in our home, but it is good for them to serve delicacies to farmers. I’m convinced of it.”
“As am I.” Violet emerged from behind the screen in a luscious emerald dress with the back still unbuttoned. “May you?”
“With pleasure.” He tied up the dress, as he often did now, and fastened the little buttons at the top with ease. Then he sat back on the edge of the bed and watched as his beautiful wife did up her own hair with long gold pins and a gold ribbon. It was a little harder without a maid, he was sure, but to watch Violet, you wouldn’t have guessed. She seemed at ease in this space—dressing herself and talking to her husband about the day’s events.
“When we go downstairs,” he said with a grin, “you have to ask Mrs. Smith about the school. I never thought it would work, but your idea to include literature and arts at the elementary level has been most successful, if you hear her tell it.”
“Mrs. Smith!” Violet’s eyes shone. “I confess it is difficult to account for such a thing—she was the foremost voice against arts in schooling, saying it distracted the kids from the lessons that matter to children in places like this.”
“I think she was influenced, in part, by the results of your painting course,” he said a little laugh. “Her daughter painted a most flattering picture of her as Aphrodite and, while not historically accurate, it did have the benefit of warming her mood toward the arts in general.”
“Yes, I saw that!” Violet hid a giggle. “Mrs. Smith never looked better than she did emerging from that conch shell wrapped in white linen.”
The two dissolved into giggles, but then Violet gathered herself and put in two gold earrings before standing to be surveyed by her husband. “Will I do?” she asked archly.
“Always, my love.” Tristan came and gathered her into his arms, giving her a sweet kiss before offering her his elbow to walk downstairs. As he did so, his eyes fell on a letter on her dressing table. He recognized the handwriting at once. “Ah. You had news from Mabel today?”
“Indeed.” Violet turned and smiled at Tristan with the secret merriment of someone who had unspoken news. “Mabel writes of many things. She says she is excited to host us in London in a few weeks—”
“Of course …”
“—and that there is a new gallery in town she would like to show me. Something very avant-garde if she is to be believed.”
“Does she call it avant-garde, or Lord Thirsk?” Tristan arched an eyebrow. Lord Thirsk, while a gentle, kind, and handsome man, was not one for trying new things.
“She does!” Violet exclaimed with a giggle of her own. “So I’m very excited. If it were Lord Thirsk promoting it, I would, of course, be concerned. That poor gentleman would say the Sistine Chapel was ‘avant-garde’, I’m sure.”
“Anything else? How are Mabel’s children?” He could see she was still holding something back.
“It’s not Mabel’s children you should be asking about,” Violet said slowly. “Mabel tells me she was out at a play last week and came upon your dear sister, with Lord Philip, discussing secret news. They did not realize they were being overheard, but you know how direct Mabel can be. She pressed them on the matter, and Cecily confessed … she is expecting! You will be an uncle by Christmas.”
Tristan grinned. “While I’m sure Cecily would not be fond of me discovering the news this way, I’m excited about the news, nonetheless.”
Violet picked up the letter and pointed to a line in the center. Cecily sends you her love and tells me she will write with more details later if I will break the news now to save her the trouble during this busy time.
Tristan shrugged. “I stand corrected.”
“Do you see?” Violet asked. “All is well with our world, after all. Even in the little moons that circle our own universe.”
The two walked downstairs and into the glittering ballroom hung with lights and boughs of roses. The room seemed fairly packed, and servants moved to and fro amid the partygoers, dispensing small cups of punch and little delicacies. The crowd was as varied as Tristan had hoped. He caught sight of Violet’s parents, dressed elegantly and sitting in wing-backed chairs in one of the alcoves, talking earnestly with the group of older women who served as propitious gossips in the town.
When he looked to the other end of the room, he saw a few farmers’ youths laughing lightly back and forth with one of the merchant men who had set up shop recently in the village. And there, dancing a waltz on the ballroom floor, was the doctor’s daughter and one of the tenant farmer’s boys.
Everyone seemed to have the festive spirit, and it did Tristan’s heart good to see it. Before they could join in the dancing, however, Mrs. Grayson burst into view with her best Sunday dress tied up in ribbons and her hair curled around her beaming face.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying to Violet. And then, turning to Tristan, “And Your Grace as well, I’m sure. I was meaning to speak with you about the pigs that you dropped off at my place a fortnight past.”
Tristan saw an elegant viscount who had stepped forward to join the conversation receding quickly into the crowd again and hid a smile.
“Yes?” he asked. “What of them?”
“They’re doing well enough, but I’m concerned about their nutrition. I’ve never had a pig that was anything but willing to eat scrap, but these seem picky for some reason.” She bit her lip. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, here in such a fine environment. It’s just hard for me to leave my little-uns, and I know I won’t have cause to see you again for a time.”
“You are right to come to us,” Violet said kindly. “We will tell Gregory at once, and he will come out as soon as he can to tend to the matter. He is rather occupied with lambing at present, but he will make time, I’m sure of it.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” The woman was clearly relieved. “I’ll never forget the time you brought me a basket after I had my new child—you had recently arrived, and we had no expectation of seeing you at all, my dear.” She raised her eyebrows. “But you didn’t just bring me a basket. You came with the duke himself and had tea. It warmed my heart, even if it did give me fits to serve you shortbread that was underbaked.”
“I don’t remember it being underbaked,” Violet protested kindly.
“It was, but that is of no matter.” Mrs. Grayson grinned. “I have always wanted to know, though. That day, when you walked away from my house, you both left the cart you came with and took off over the land instead, walking fast, even though it was quite a way home, and there was rain on the horizon.”
Tristan felt a bubble of mirth growing in his chest as she spoke. “I have a vague memory of that day, yes.”
“What was it you wanted to know?” Violet asked, a hidden smile toying with her lips as well.
“Well, I was just worried if you met with anything disagreeable on your return; if you got caught up in that rainstorm,” she said, wrinkling her head with worry.
“We certainly did get caught up in the rainstorm if memory serves,” Violet said, “but I would also posit that it was not entirely disagreeable. What do you think, dear duke?”
Tristan held his wife’s gaze. That moment in the rain, by the wall, had a poignant place in their love story—a place they both treasured and respected. “If memory serves,” he answered slowly, “that rainstorm was responsible for a treasure we uncovered that day. I will be eternally grateful to the downpour.”
Violet smiled as though the ballroom and all its occupants had disappeared. She had eyes only for him. “As will I.”
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 my dears, I hope you enjoyed the book and the Extended Epilogue! I will be waiting for your comments here. Thank you 🙂