A Governess Should Never… Wager a Duke (The Governess Chronicles #4.5)

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

“Adieu. Be good, be lovely on earth.”

Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

S ome said that winter was a harsh season of barren skies, bare fields and eerie stillness but Charlotte could not agree.

All was merely at rest.

Watchful rooks perched peacefully on the devoid branches and the far fields merely slumbered beneath their blanket of white.

The view from this bench tucked into the fellside was endless: of mountains weaving in slopes and slumps, the lakes stamped with the reflected clouds, Ambleside nestled below, and to the fore, the ducal manor house with its stern slate roof and gardens painted in festive snow.

And from where a jovial hubbub and plumes of smoke also rose – neither devoid nor at slumber.

Charlotte’s nose twitched at the luscious scents of roasted hog, chestnuts and hot festive spiced bread.

For to celebrate Christmas this year, she and Marcus had decided to host a Midwinter Fair – not solely to commemorate Saint Thomas’ Day with the giving of alms for the worst of winter to come but also their nigh one year of marriage.

One year of laughter and devotion. One year of learning and loving.

Tugging her red cloak tight, Charlotte unfolded and re-read the note upon her lap and smiled.

The bench on Scarcliffe, hour of eleven?

In the past year, Marcus’ ducal responsibilities and his many business interests had continued to keep him as busy as a squirrel in autumn, and her own duties as duchess had been plentiful indeed.

On many a morn, she had awoken at first light to find merely her husband’s imprint upon the pillow and the scent of leather.

But then, sometime in the day, she had begun to find notes…

The waterfall, noon?

In the rose garden, a half after one?

And they would meet, come rain or shine, and shed their obligations for a half hour or so. They would walk the fells together or admire the scenery or simply recall that life was fleet and that friends, love and nature should be treasured.

She heard his boots first – tramping the snow along the path – and twisted on the bench. His head was lowered and… Was he muttering about pigs?

“Marcus?”

Those hazel eyes, bright and clear, flicked up, lips curving. “You’re early, my love.”

“I delegated,” she replied rather smugly. “Dinah is selling gingerbread, the Cadwaladers are making the punch and Uncle Marmaduke is in charge of the puppet show.”

For so many guests had joined them to celebrate – her friends, Amelia and Hugh Cadwalader from London, were staying a sennight. Lord Woodford, the gentleman Marcus had duelled with all those years ago but who’d then given Marcus so much guidance, was lodging nearby and the young Mr Slater had become a regular visitor to them.

“I delegated also.” And with a hearty gust of cold-white breath, he sat upon the bench, his hand covering hers. “Although Luke knows more than me about roasting hogs anyhow.”

“But you are the host. And it is your hog.”

“Not anymore. ’Tis for everyone. Three hogs in fact.” His smile broadened. “And you were correct. Fred and Kitty have returned for Christmas. They’ve opened a bakery with the money, you know, in Saltfleet on the coast of Lincolnshire.”

“The sea air must be of benefit then as Fred looks much for the better.”

“As do you, my love. How are you feeling? Has the sickness abated?”

Charlotte’s lips twitched: she’d told Marcus the joyous news of a babe-to-be only last month and he now asked after her welfare at least a hundred times a day, filling her with such contentment and care.

“Yes, it has. And I quite fancy some roast hog. In fact the whole hog.”

His hand clenched hers, and for some moments, they were silent, just watching the bustling scene far below, duties dissipating for a brief while.

From the manor grounds, laughter and shouts of the Midwinter Fair twined and echoed up the valley sides: vendors bearing hot apples and stall owners hawking their winter wares: pickles, jams and salted goods that would keep through the long months to come. A patch of snow by the rose garden had been flattened to play bowls while children laid out hopscotch squares with charcoal from the fires. Somewhere, a fiddler struck up a wassail tune.

A contented sigh left Charlotte.

Who would have thought a year ago, at her interview for the governess position, that she would become a duchess – certainly it couldn’t happen very often to a governess.

She turned her head to find Marcus watching her instead of the fair, his eyes glowing with gladness.

“So tell me once more, my duchess,” he murmured, “ why should I employ you as governess?”

She laughed as their thoughts had obviously been akin.

“Because we were meant to be. Because it was Christmas when the unimaginable can become real. Because it couldn’t have been any other way.”

“A perfect answer.”

And Marcus kissed her.

Not a breath of chill wind disturbed the lovers, the clouds motionless as though bolted to the heavens, while the snow-laden fields and fells continued to slumber in rest, cosseting all who inhabited this land – love’s dreamers and doubters, the troubled and the jubilant, the young and the old, the past, present and future – in peace and joy at Christmastide.

The End