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Epilogue
Two months later
The newly, and hastily, wed Duke and Duchess of Thorndon arrived at Thornhill House on a day when the changing seasons agreed to strike a compromise: the air would stay crisp and cool, but the sun shone brightly and the sky was a brilliant turquoise blue.
“Finally, you’re here,” called Beatrice, rushing to greet them as they exited the carriage.
“We’re here,” Drew said.
“We’re home,” Mina said. “I never did receive a tour on my previous visit. I hear you have a nice bed. Crimson curtains. Beeswax candles to light your way in the dark.”
“You were too busy vanquishing foes.”
“And running away.”
Beatrice danced around them, her spectacles threatening to fly off her face. “I have so much to show you. The renovations are going well, although the most annoyingly smug carpenter has arrived to replace his father, who took a tumble off a ladder. He thinks he’s God’s gift to young ladies.”
Mina laughed. “I’m sure you set him straight on that count.”
“He makes so much noise hammering away at walls that I can’t concentrate on my writing,” Beatrice said.
She chattered on and Mina and Drew followed her to the front stairs, where the servants were lined up, waiting to meet their new duchess.
Mina walked down the row, greeting each servant by name and inquiring after children and ailments. Drew had briefed her on the long carriage ride. In between other amusements.
I’m a duchess, she thought, with a sense of bemusement. She’d never thought in a million years that this would happen to her.
“It’s all your fault,” she said to Drew as they entered the house.
“What is, my love?”
“The fact that I’m a duchess. I never wanted to be anything so grand.”
“Yes, but you’re a duchess who carries a flintlock pistol in her purse and never allows anyone to tell her what to do.”
“And you’re a duke who grows turnips, and has dirt under his nails. I could listen to you talk about turnips for days, you know,” Mina said. And she meant it.
She listened happily as he explained all of his agricultural innovations and showed her his plant conservatory and laboratory.
Testing soil temperatures, proper irrigation, defending against blight—none of these things should be interesting to her, and yet when he explained them, she pictured him poring over his research, staying up late at night, dark smudges under his eyes, hair in disarray.
Shirtsleeves rolled up and ink stains on his hands. The single-minded focus he brought to every aspect of his life.
And it filled her heart with pride.
“Maybe you’d like to put that nimble mind of yours to the task of puzzling out solutions for some of my agricultural problems,” he said.
“I would be honored.” Her heart jumped and skipped as they walked.
She had this overwhelming sense of rightness. She helped him. He helped her.
He was the logical one, the cool-headed one, and she led with her emotions, but together they could solve any puzzle, any code.
They’d solved the greatest puzzle of all, hadn’t they?
They’d found a way to be together.
“Drew, is that a field of daisies in the distance? I can’t believe they’re still blooming.”
