Three years later . . .

Bridget’s back was pressed against the willow tree’s trunk as she examined the canvas before her. She tipped her head to one side, her lips pressed together. She held a piece of charcoal in her right hand, rolling it between her index finger and thumb as she considered the work.

Something was missing in her latest piece, but she could not figure out what it was. The painting she was working on was one of her most cherished subjects—her beloved husband.

Once completed to her satisfaction, the painting would be a gift for her mother-in-law, in honor of her birthday in a fortnight’s time. Bridget knew she had to hurry for color would have to be added, and, over the past few weeks, it had rained more than usual in Hertfordshire. Cold, damp weather was no friend to her oil paintings, a passion she had never lost.

Still, the present day was pleasant, and perhaps she could at least apply the first layer when they returned to the solarium later. If only she could figure out what the sketch was missing…

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him on how to load and bless

 With fruit, the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

 To bend with apples, the moss’d cottage trees,

 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core . . .”

Graham’s voice sounded nearby, drawing her from her thoughts. She smiled as she soaked in his warm voice, which was as comforting as a steaming glass of milk with honey on a cold day. Even after all these years, she never grew tired of hearing him speak. No matter if his voice spoke mundane words or poetry—it was music to her ears.

She loved that they could spend their afternoons together, each following their passions. She would paint either in the solarium or outside, while he sat and read. Sometimes out loud, sometimes quietly to himself. Their favorite pastimes complemented each other just as they did. They were, in a way, made for one another.

“What is this poem called?” she asked gingerly, adding a hair curl to the picture.

“To autumn. It is by…”

“John Keats,” she completed his sentence with a chuckle.

“Am I so predictable?” he teased.

“There is nothing predictable about you other than your favorite poet,” she answered. She gathered her skirts and lowered herself onto the black and red checkered blanket where he was sitting.

“Are you quite finished with your sketch?” he asked, evidently surprised.

“No, not yet. I am having some trouble completing the outline,” she said and came to rest beside him, her legs pressed against his.

“Mayhap looking at the inspiration will help you,” he said with a wink. Bridget’s heart leaped as it always did when she was exposed to his mischievous ways.

“I dare say it shall distract me more than anything.”

“Either way, if it brings me your attention and company, I shall gladly accept it,” he replied and placed his book aside. Then, he patted his lap, and Bridget swiftly turned, resting her head on it.

The sensation of his strong legs under her head was comforting and familiar. They often rested that way, either under their beloved willow tree, or in front of a fire inside Foxglove Hall. Graham had installed a lovely, thick carpet in front of the old fireplace to add to their comfort. There, they would while away the hours while reading or talking.

It was peaceful, as was this afternoon’s interlude. She glanced up and saw a breeze shifting the leaves. It was autumn now, so Keats’ poem was entirely fitting. Soon, the lush green hue that was so dominant in the Hertfordshire countryside during spring and summer would make for a gorgeous symphony of orange, yellow, and brown. It would feed her inspiration to see the colors; she already knew there would be hours of painting the landscapes before her.

“I can see your artist’s mind working,” Graham said with a chuckle as he ran one hand through her hair, a loving smile on his lips. A rush of warmth overcame her as she shifted enough to look at him directly.

“I was contemplating my next painting, yes.”

“I take it that it is no longer me,” he teased, and she felt her cheeks redden.

“I meant in the future. I…” she smiled. “I had a mind to paint a landscape for Warren and Jane. As a wedding gift. Or do you think people think my paintings are foolish gifts?”

She knew she was talented; she had been told so by many. Still, a part of her was always insecure. The curse of an artist, as Mary had once told her.

“No, love. They would greatly appreciate it. You know they found one another by taking long walks between Foxglove Hall and Sedgwick Manor. I’m sure they would love a reminder of that for their marital home,” Graham assured her. “And your depictions are wonderful. Recall how my mother shed tears when you presented her with the painting of Mary?”

Bridget had, in fact, painted Mary from memory for her mother-in-law for their first Christmas together as a family. She’d drawn Mary there, under the willow tree, with leaves in her hair. She’d then used her best colors to bring the painting to life, and when it was finished, she’d given it to Fanny as a gift.

“Good, I shall commence it once I complete this one,” she said and closed her eyes, allowing the gentle wind to graze her cheeks.

“I hope you are not taking on too much,” Graham said, a hint of worry in his voice. “In your condition, you ought to rest more.”

Her eyes sprang open again, and she placed one hand on her slightly rounded stomach. She was with child, but only at a very early stage. The lovely stage when a flowing gown could easily conceal the condition. She adored that time, when nobody but her and Graham knew. And  Tilda, naturally, for she helped Bridget dress every day and noticed the condition before anyone else. However, the rest of the world was blissfully unaware.

Graham placed his hand on hers as if to shield their unborn from the world together.

“It is still early. Besides, remember, I painted until I had to go into my confinement the last time.” She smiled as she remembered the final months of her first pregnancy. Mary was almost two years old, but it seemed like only yesterday that they’d held her for the first time, heard her cries, and gazed into her beautiful blue eyes. Her eyes had turned to a rich green, always reminding her of the countryside. Her hair was a lovely auburn, and her face, freckled, bore a resemblance to her late aunt that struck Bridget both pleasantly and painfully at times.

Graham let out a sigh and leaned forward a little. “There she is,” he said, his tone full of delight. Bridget sat up, feeling a familiar pinch in her back. She’d had the same when pregnant with Mary. The discomfort was forgotten when she spotted her daughter running toward them through a field of lavender, Tilda behind her. The little girl’s hair had come out of its confines and tumbled around her shoulders. Her dress, a simple, yellow cotton gown, swayed as she ran.

Bridget spotted a bunch of flowers in the child’s chubby right hand, and her giggles mingled with the chirping of a small flock of sparrows which made their presence known nearby. Tilda hurried after the child, her blue skirt raised slightly to keep it from dragging on the ground. She had one hand on her head to keep her bonnet in place as she rushed after Mary.

Bridget got up, joined by Graham, and then they each squatted down, their arms open. Graham wrapped his right arm around Bridget and slung her left around his back, thus creating a large opening for their daughter, who promptly ran into their arms.

They enveloped her and created a perfect circle, with Mary at the center. The little girl laughed, balm to Bridget’s ears. The scent of lavender and lye soap entered her nose, remnants of the field the child had run through, and the bath she’d had to take that morning after an enthusiastic jump into a puddle.

When they let go, Mary beamed at them. “For Mama,” she said and parted the bunched flowers down the middle, her little tongue sticking out the side of her mouth. She handed Bridget half of the daisies, while giving another half to Graham. “And Papa.”

“Well, thank you, little lady,” Graham said and kissed her cheek. Mary looked at him adoringly, and Bridget’s heart skipped a beat. He was as wonderful a father as he was a husband. She had been fortunate, that she would never deny. Graham might have left her, indulging in years of bachelorhood in London when he was younger, but he had come back. Indeed, he had left a boy and returned a man in many ways.

He was a man who was more than she ever could have asked for. A brave, loyal, good-hearted man who loved her—and their child. As she watched, Mary leaned forward and extracted one flower from Graham’s hand. Then, carefully, she tucked it behind his ear and giggled, her small hands in front of her mouth as she bent at the knees in delight.

“Well, that is lovely,” Tilda said as she caught up to them. She wore a crown of daisies draped over her bonnet, and Bridget smiled. Of course, Tilda wasn’t a governess. Still, after Bridget and Graham had decided to forgo the usual convention of hiring a nurse and then a governess in favor of raising their child on their own, Tilda had proven to be a godsend.

She was wonderful with the little girl, patient and loving yet firm when needed, unlike Fanny, who did nothing but indulge Mary’s every whim. However, she was a grandmother and, therefore, more prone to being soft with her granddaughter. Sarah, Bridget’s mother, likewise liked to spoil the child, although she had less occasion to do so.

Lady Sedgwick had relocated to a cottage at the seaside in Brighton. She claimed the sea air was better for her health, but they all knew it was because she could not stand the sight of the manor that held so many memories of her failings.

No matter how often Bridget assured her none that of what had happened was her fault, her mother continued to blame herself. The distance had done her good, and when she had last seen her earlier that summer, she had returned to the woman Bridget had once known. Composed, almost regal. However, the shadow of the past remained in her eyes. Meanwhile, her father remained on the Continent, her parents’ separation all but legal.

That was better for everyone. Her father’s gambling had caused them so much distress, and he’d never apologized. Instead, he’d quietly accepted Graham’s offer to run Sedgwick House and all of their holdings in exchange for a monthly stipend to fund his lavish lifestyle.

“Bridget?” Graham said gently, and she blinked. “You were miles away.”

“I was thinking of my father. He is missing so much,” she said, her voice hitching slightly. “I wish it could have been different, with both my parents here to see their grandchild daily, as your mother does.” Then, she shook her head. “But it cannot be.” She watched as Tilda gathered their cups and the small decanter they’d brought outside.

“His Lordship is better off where he is, and your mother is contented. Once Jane is married, all will be right in the world, and that dreadful man will be forgotten about.”

Bridget gulped. Oliver Bragg would, unfortunately, never be forgotten for he had left indelible reminders of his presence in their lives, altering them forever. However, Bridget knew better than to talk about him. Whenever she did, melancholy overcame her, which was not a good state of being in her condition. The man was locked away in London at the notorious Newgate Prison, and he’d be there for the rest of his life. The nobility could get away with much but murdering one of their own was not one of them. All lords agreed that crime had to be punished—for if it was not, any of them could be next.

“You are right,” she said quietly, and Tilda nodded.

“It is all for the best, I say,” she added. “We had better leave. There’s a storm coming.” She nodded her chin toward the horizon, and Bridget looked up. Indeed, dark clouds had gathered, and distant rolling thunder sounded. Graham rose and lifted Mary, settling her on his hip with his book in his other hand. Bridget gathered her canvas and charcoal, and a footman, who lingered nearby, carried the stool upon which the canvas had rested.

They made their way to the carriage, which stood a few feet away, and as they stored their belongings in the small crate at the back, their daughter yelped with delight.

“Horsey!” she pointed at the two horses, a bay mare and a black gelding, who stood patiently in the grass, waiting to carry the stately carriage back to the house. “Horsey!”

“Yes, that’s a horsey,” Graham said, walking to the front so their daughter could pet them. Bridget stood back, her fingers fidgeting as they always did whenever Mary got close to a horse. Like her namesake, the child adored horses, a circumstance that, at times, alarmed her. While the late Mary had been an excellent rider, she recalled many times when her friend had been a little too daring when leaping over bushes and streams with abandon. The idea that her little Mary might do the same struck fear in her heart. Then again, everything did, for the child was precious to her, and she could not imagine anything happening to her.

On the other hand, Graham had decided to take a more optimistic approach to life. While he’d lost his sister, he still carried hope for the goodness in the world in his heart. He believed that all would be well, and thus, in his mind, he had concluded that their little Mary would be an accomplished equestrienne as her aunt had been.

She caught his eye as he carried their daughter to the horse, allowing her to pet the bay mare, who stood perfectly still.

“She’s becoming more and more like Mary every day,” he said, and the girl turned, a lock of hair falling in her face.

“I am Mary,” she declared with pride, and Graham kissed her temple.

“You are, but I meant your aunt,” he explained, and the girl tipped her head to the side. She was too young to understand the notion of an aunt, given that Bridget had no siblings, and Graham was now, sadly, an only child.

“Your Grace,” Tilda urged, and Bridget noted another rumble from the heavens, louder this time.

“Yes, we must go.” She hurried toward the carriage, taking Mary from Graham as they sat down inside. Soon, they moved away, swaying on the uneven road. Tilda sat at the front of the vehicle with the coachman, allowing them privacy. Bridget rested her head against Graham’s shoulder as they rattled along, and he wrapped his arm around her.

“It shall rain soon,” he said. “But if we are lucky, we won’t get drenched again.” He chuckled, as the pair had often made it a habit to get wet, just as they had that awful night when the truth had come to light. Not that they wished to. It was just that both had a habit of being outdoors, walking or riding, and frequently time passed them by. If not for Warren or Tilda, they would be soaked to the bone more often.

“It will be a lovely afternoon to sit in the solarium,” Bridget said and looked up. As she did so, she saw that Graham had placed another of the daisies Mary had gathered behind his ear, and suddenly, she had a bit of an epiphany.

“Faith, now I know what is missing in my painting!” She grinned and raised her hand. “This. A little detail. Such as this flower.”

Graham tightened his grip on her. “Indeed, a lovely idea. Mother will adore it too.” The two of them sat, their daughter settled in Bridget’s lap, and locked their eyes on one another.

“Bridget, you are the beauty of my life; I trust you know. I shall never stop missing Mary. But in a way, she brought us together more than once, and for that, I will always be grateful.”

“As will I,” Bridget replied. “Mary has blessed us even from the grave. Sometimes, I think of her as my guardian angel.” His smile widened.

“I do too. She’s brought me happiness in the form of you and this little lady. And soon, our happiness will increase once more.” Bridget’s heart pounded as he rested his hand on her stomach and leaned in close. She closed her eyes and soaked in his presence when his lips found hers, knowing he was right. Their happiness, born of tragedy, would only grow because they had discovered the one, rare, precious thing that so many people had searched for their entire lives and never found. True love.

The End

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