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“—choice to you, sir.”

Rafe had only caught the tail of the wiry director’s speech, so focused had he been on the boy. Barnard’s eyes turned to the front of the room.

Please. He had not realized until now just how fervently he hoped the lad would say yes.

“What say you, sir?” The elder director’s jowl drooped farther when he glanced at Rafe and Sophie and their perfectly bedraggled, clutching state. “Do you wish to remain an In-Pensioner, or make a family with these two?”

Barnard was quiet. Sophie’s nails had gotten quite long—they bit into Rafe’s bicep—but the boy turned to face them, and even before he revealed the little marble in his right palm, before a crooked, bashful smile broke over his face, Rafe knew.

“I should like that, I believe.”

Epilogue

Eight weeks later

Sussex, England

The gossamer-thin curtains swirled in the cottage’s open window, tickling Sophie’s cheek and luring her into wakefulness. The noise was coming from outside the house for once: Barnard’s yelps of glee, Chenoweth’s burly laughter, the stomp of a horse and—

Wait.

Sophie sat up in bed, clutching the ginger-scented sheet against her chest. Summer held England in her palm. Warm sunlight dappled the back garden and pasture. A profusion of roses bloomed on the cottage’s stone walls, pink and lush and thorny enough to pick at the windswept curtain. Sophie carefully disentangled the white cotton fabric and leant forward.

Yes, she had heard Rafe’s paintbrush gently striking canvas. The sound had become something of a lullaby in recent weeks. Every night when he came to bed, they undressed each other, tasted each other, learned and relearned the art of giving pleasure. And once they were sated, pulses slackening, he went to his easel in the corner of the bedroom.

For the first few weeks, Rafe hadn’t been ready to show her his creations. But they were divine—she was biased, for he was her husband and his favorite subject her own resting features, but his talent superseded mere opinion. He blended color and layered detail in a way that only an observant, caring soul could, and he grew more proficient by the day. And now, he had finally gained the courage to paint outside, in front of others.

The scene framed by the window pricked at her drowsy eyes. Chenoweth had hitched Nelson up to a little cart, the same one that Sophie and Edmund had enjoyed in childhood. Barnard held the ribbons in his right hand, his face glowing with laughter as he drove Chenoweth around the pasture. Margaret and Anne sat by the garden, a small table and tea tray between them, talking. Rafe’s easel and paints were off to the side, his canvas facing away from everyone but himself, and his brow furrowed as he applied a pale orange shade to his depiction of his mother’s hair.

Sophie wanted to capture this moment, too. The only stronger impulse was the desire to join them.

She rose from the bed and slipped on her new dressing robe—yellow silk brocade with little blue flowers. It was one last frivolity, perhaps. Rafe’s wedding gift to her in lieu of a ring.

Smiling, she hurried toward the door, but yelped a curse when her toe stubbed on something. She looked guiltily back at the open window.

It was a stack of schoolbooks. God, no wonder she’d overslept. She’d been up too late last night, picking out lesson ideas for Mr. and Mrs. Darney down at the schoolhouse. They had more students than hours in a day, and assisting them had become a bright spot in Sophie’s weeks.

She bent to gather the stack of books, but found there was nowhere to put them. The little writing desk was littered with Barnard’s recent lettering practice. The dressing table with one leg shorter than the others was chaos, bottles of linseed oil and face powder and paintbrushes and toothbrushes all intermingling.

It’s time.

She had no excuses left. She had been avoiding Edmund’s room since the minute they arrived at this cottage.

It had been easy to ignore, at first. Even with the Malloys traveling down from London to help them put the cottage back into use, they had faced a gargantuan task of dust and disuse. Rafe’s mother had needed extra time to recover from the long journey and regain her appetite. Barnard had battled fits of frustration when he tried to help the men move furniture, and found himself unable, with only his right arm. But now …

Sophie went out into the narrow corridor and stood before Edmund’s door. Her fingers hovered just shy of the latch, trembling. If she went in, she would acknowledge this space, this memorial of sorts, was here. And then she’d be forced to disassemble it. Let life enter behind her and render it unrecognizable from when Edmund had been here.

“No,” she mumbled, shaking her head. There would be other times! Everyone else was outside in the sun, enjoying the day. She wanted to be with them, not here in the shadows by herself.

She made it as far as the sitting room before stopping again.

Everyone’s patience had been unerring. No one, not even Rafe, asked what was behind Edmund’s door. When Barnard’s curiosity got the better of him, and he tried to look through the keyhole, Rafe would come tussle the boy’s hair. Each time, Rafe told him the same thing. “That room’s not quite ready yet, lad.”

Everyone knew it was she who wasn’t ready.

Her gaze fell on Barnard’s cot in the corner of the sitting room. He slept here, because he didn’t have a room to himself.

This was ludicrous. Sophie turned back, chin held high, and returned to Edmund’s door. It opened with a pop. A wave of feeling swept through her, from scalp to toe.