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“The church burned to the ground many years ago,” the old man said, his voice reedy. “Records all burned. Gone.”
“But tell them what a sly fellow you were, Father Paul,” Aunt Lucia urged. “Tell them.”
“I kept copies of all church records,” Father Paul explained. “It’s a practice I’ve followed from my first parish in Whitford Downs. Not so difficult. Shemingsbury Cross was a small shire.” He reached inside his black frock and produced a faded, torn piece of paper. “I have here a letter of marriage signed in April of the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ten by a Miss Sophie Barkley, yeoman’s daughter, and a Lord Edward Thixton, Viscount of Hastings.”
The old man offered the piece of paper, but Sapphire’s hands were trembling so hard that she couldn’t take it from him. Blake took the paper and studied it for a moment, then he turned to Sapphire, looking down at her as if no one else were there. He took her gloved hand in his and went down on one knee.
Sapphire fought tears of happiness.
“Will you forgive me, Lady Wessex, for ever doubting you for a moment?” he asked.
Sapphire threw her arms around Blake, suffocating him in a cloud of blue wedding silk. “Come, Lord Wessex, we have three hundred guests and a coach and eight that we mustn’t keep waiting.”
31
“Armand, are you awake, mon chèr?” Tarasai asked, sitting down on the edge of his bed. When he didn’t answer, she took her son, sleeping in the crook of her arm, and laid him on the bed beside his father. Then she slowly leaned over to turn up the oil lamp beside the bed.
It was the middle of the night and Tarasai had risen to feed the baby. As always, she came to check on Armand before going back to sleep. He had had a day full of excitement between the arrival of the letter announcing Sapphire’s marriage to the American, telling of the church records that had been found verifying his stepdaughter’s legitimacy, and the subsequent arrival of Armand’s barrister, whom he’d demanded be brought to his bedside at once. Tarasai had tried to argue that whatever business he had
with the barrister could wait until the following day when he had rested, but Armand would not hear of it. The barrister had remained locked up in the bedchamber with Armand for hours and later Armand had seemed more tired than usual when she had said good-night.
“Mon amour?”
The baby made little sucking sounds in his sleep.
“Armand?” Tarasai’s heart fluttered inside her chest as she leaned over him, drawing the lamp closer with her hand.
He lay flat on his back, the sheet pulled neatly to his chest, his black hair now peppered with white. His eyes were closed, his lips parted slightly, and even before Tarasai checked for his breath on her cheek, she knew she would not feel it.
“Non,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes as she took his cool hand in hers and brought it to her lips. “Non, Armand. Not yet.”
Tears ran down her cheeks as she rested her head on his chest. Tonight, when she had been helping him prepare for bed, he had seemed so happy. The relief that his Sapphire was safe and loved was plain on his face. He had held their son in his arms and kissed his little fingers, making a fuss about what a strong man he would grow to be and what an excellent planter he would make.
Tarasai had paid little attention to his nonsensical talk, shushing him and insisting he hand over the baby and get into bed. He had seemed so much stronger than in the weeks past. How could he have just lain down and died?
The baby began to fuss and Tarasai sat up, reaching for her son and bringing him to her breast. She pushed aside the thin fabric of her nightgown and the baby nuzzled and latched.
“My Armand,” she murmured, gazing down on his handsome face. “I did not even tell you that I loved you.”
But Tarasai knew he knew. “Au revoir, mon amour,” she whispered, smiling down at him through her tears. “Au revoir and thank you, my Armand. Thank you for my son.”
Epilogue
Sapphire sat on the edge of the bed rereading the letter Aunt Lucia had sent her from London. There was also one for Sapphire to forward to Angelique as soon as she learned where out West she and Henry were.
Armand was dead. Her beloved Armand. And because Sapphire was now wealthier than he was, as the wife of American millionaire Blake Thixton, he had left his plantations to his son. Armand had a son!
“I’m very sorry,” Blake said, rising from the chair at his desk in the corner of their bedchamber. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
She shook her head, wiping her tears as she rose from the bed. “No, but thank you. We knew this was coming. It was why he sent us away in the first place, you know. I’m just sad that I didn’t have a chance to see him one last time.” She folded the letter and placed it on the desk, taking care not to bump into the basket where her new puppy—a wedding gift from Blake—lay sleeping.
After they returned from London, Blake had offered to return to Carrington Farms and retrieve Stowe, but she had declined, knowing after all this time that he was now more Red’s dog than hers. And now she had a new pup to love.
Blake pulled Sapphire into his arms, kissing the top of her head. She hadn’t cut her hair in months and it had grown quite a bit, and tonight she wore it long, down her back the way he liked it. “I don’t like to see you sad.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “I still have my memories and I still have him here.” She rested her hand on her left breast.
“Here?” he asked, leaning over to kiss her breast through the thin fabric of her sleeping gown.
