They sat together in the quiet, watching the twins pluck handfuls of dandelions from the grass and arrange them in a lopsided bouquet.
Nancy let her head rest on Oscar’s shoulder. "Peter would be proud of you.”
“I truly hope he is.” He turned to her. “None of this would have been possible without you. You are everything I want, Nancy. I hope you know that."
She did.
A shout from the far end of the garden interrupted them. Henry, now covered in snow, ran toward them, waving a stick. "There’s a fish beneath the ice in the pond!" he cried. "Come see!"
Nancy laughed, struggled to her feet, and took Oscar’s arm for support. They ambled after the twins, slow and content.
This was her family. This was her life. And she intended to live every minute of it.
“Aunt Nancy, Clara is tossing a pea at me!”
The cry rose above the clamor of the Christmas table, where Henry sat as the perfect target for his twin’s artillery. Green ammunition rolled across the expanse of linen, followed by Clara’s war-whoop and the collapse of a crystal goblet.
It was the eve of Christmas, and Nancy could not stop grinning. So much so that she did not care that the children were tossing peas at each other.
“Clara,” Moira said without looking up from her goose, “if you pelt your brother again, you shall spend New Year’s Day sorting peas from pebbles in the scullery.” She spooned gravy with the calm of a woman who had refereed a thousand such skirmishes.
“I am defending myself,” Clara objected, but she lowered her fork and set her hands in her lap, angelic in all but the wild gleam in her eyes.
From the head of the table, Oscar arched a brow. “Henry, retaliate only if victory is assured. Otherwise, appeal to the Duchess.” He looked over at Nancy, who sat at the other end, his lips twitching. “You are the supreme court, after all.”
Nancy regarded the battlefield, considered for one judicial moment, then pronounced: “No further hostilities until after pudding. The penalty for infraction is a month’s worth of arithmetic.”
Henry grinned at Clara, the glee of enforced peace far sweeter than any victory.
The children’s table was arrayed beside the adult gathering, close enough for supervision, far enough for plausible deniability. At the main table, their entire family and friends were present.
“If I had known Christmas at Scarfield would entail so much theatrics,” her father chuckled, “I would have equipped myself accordingly.”
“Darling, if you had any sense, you’d have brought a shield years ago,” Moira replied. “Nancy was lobbing stewed fruit at visiting clergy by the age of six.”
“That was an accident,” Nancy said. “And the vicar had it coming.”
“It’s true,” Moira agreed. “He tried to exorcise her after she recited all of Macbeth at supper.”
A wave of laughter traveled the length of the table. Hester and Thomas, parents themselves, nearly lost control of their wineglasses.
“I beg you,” Hester gasped, dabbing her eyes, “tell me you were also banished from grammar classes.”
“She never had grammar classes,” Oscar supplied. “She terrified three tutors into early retirement.”
Hester regarded Nancy with open adoration. “How are we not all in thrall to you, Duchess?”
“We are,” Fiona said, her smile soft as she raised her wineglass.
Next to her, Isaac shook his head. “Children have softened us.”
Fiona elbowed him gently. “Admit it, darling, you enjoy the disorder.”
Isaac relented with a smile. “Somewhat.”
A small laugh came from Nancy’s right, and she turned to see Lavinia concealing her amusement with a sip of wine. “I suppose I shall enjoy my peace while I still have it,” she murmured.
“Oh, you must,” Nancy agreed.
