Three Years Later

Honora had learned, over the years since her sister’s death, that a child’s birthday could require more planning than a wedding, especially when the child in question had always had strong opinions about everything.

The kitchen had been occupied since dawn. Martha had decided the cake required two tiers, and Cecily had decided the decorations required her personal supervision, and between the two of them there had been very little room left for anyone else to help.

Honora had tried to stay out of the whole affair and had failed completely.

Little Edmund had been fascinated by everything happening around him, particularly the wooden spoon, which he had already attempted to steal twice. He was fourteen months old and had recently discovered that walking, rather unsteadily, was considerably more interesting than crawling, and that his cousin could be followed from one room to another with remarkable persistence if he simply kept trying. Leopold’s gray-green eyes were perfectly copied in their son, as was Honora’s stubbornness. It was a combination Martha often declared would become a genuine problem in about twelve years. Honora had privately decided that estimate was optimistic.

Edmund reached for the cake.

“No,” Martha said at once.

He looked offended by the answer.

“You cannot have cake yet,” Honora told him gently.

He looked toward Cecily for support instead.

“I told you she would say no,” Cecily whispered to him, though not quietly enough. 

She loved her cousin, who she often called her brother. And just like any older sibling, she could get annoyed by the constant presence of a child too young to play properly with the toys and books she wanted to play with. But also like any pair of siblings, there was deep loyalty and devotion between the children. Honora was often reminded of her childhood with Celestine. No matter how frustrated Cecily became with Edmund, she would not let him go to sleep without insisting a bedtime story was read to both of them.

Honora raised an eyebrow at her. Cecily smiled without a trace of guilt and turned back to Martha.

“Can I have a third slice after luncheon?” Cecily asked.

“No,” Martha said.

“Why not?”

“Because you are four years old.”

“That has nothing whatsoever to do with cake.”

Honora struggled fiercely to suppress a laugh. Even though the words sounded more like, “Dat has nuffin wassoeva ta doo wiff cake,” she said them, as she did all words in all arguments, with such no-nonsense conviction that it made her a formidable debate opponent. 

Martha stared at her for a long moment, and Honora had the distinct impression that Martha was privately conceding the point without saying so aloud.

“You are not saying anything,” Cecily pointed out.

“I am choosing my words carefully, which is a skill you might consider learning yourself one day, when you are older and wiser.”

“That means I have won.”

“It means nothing of the sort whatsoever, and you know it perfectly well. Go and find your uncle Barnaby and ask him whether four-year-olds are permitted a third slice of cake in his considered opinion.”

“Uncle Barnaby will say yes, without question.”

“He will say whatever gets him out of the kitchen fastest. That is not the same as agreeing with you.”

Honora laughed at the exchange.

Laughter had become one of the ordinary sounds of Belgrave now, filling rooms that had once been very quiet and cold. Cecily had learned to read the year before and had treated the achievement as permission to voice an opinion on absolutely everything since. She had always had opinions, as Honora had told Leopold the day she met him, but reading and speaking seemed to have made her confident that she could win any argument. She had spoken full sentences since she was three, in her own, toddler-speech way, and apart from when she slept, she had not been silent for five minutes since.

Most recently, she had studied the portrait of the late Duke hanging in the hallway and announced that he looked like a man who had made a great many poor decisions in his life.

Verity had looked at the portrait for a long moment, then at Cecily.

“You are not wrong,” she had said.

Cecily had nodded solemnly, entirely satisfied with the verdict, and gone off to find something else to assess. Since that exchange, the two of them had been getting along even better than before. Honora would never say so aloud, but she was sure that Verity would concede to the child, even when she was the one who was right.

Verity lived in the east wing now and took breakfast with the family most mornings. On Sundays, she and Honora drank tea together in the drawing room, and somewhere during the second year those conversations had stopped being careful. Neither woman could say precisely when the change had happened, but Honora was glad that they had become so familiar and comfortable. And she believed her mother-in-law felt the same, as well. Honora only knew that she no longer measured every word before she spoke it aloud, and it was evident that Verity did not, either.

Her mother-in-law had been truly wonderful with the children. She had watched Verity hold Cecily many times since the wedding, and there were still moments that caught her entirely off guard.

Rainy afternoons in the library were the worst of them, in the best possible sense. Verity would sit by the fire with Cecily beside her, reading aloud from whatever book the child had chosen that day, while Edmund sat on the rug nearby, generally attempting to reach whatever object Cecily had decided was important at that particular moment.

Honora would pause in the doorway sometimes just to watch.

“You are staring again,” Verity said once, without looking up from the book in her lap.

“I am not staring.”

“You are, and you do it at least once a week.”

“I am simply glad to see and watch it.”

“Then call it that and stop pretending otherwise. It does not suit you, pretending.”

Honora had smiled and said nothing further, because they both knew Verity was right.

Martha came through carrying the finished cake at last. The two tiers were covered in simple decorations, nothing excessive, exactly what she had intended from the very beginning.

“Oh,” Cecily said, looking at it with wide eyes.

“No touching,” Martha said, setting it down firmly.

“I was only looking,” Cecily said, crossing her arms.

“You tend to look with your hands, tiny lady. I have seen you do it.”

Honora laughed again at that.

Cecily scrunched her face up in great displeasure. “I not tiny.”

Martha hid a smile at the display of such serious contempt. “Do not forget, tiny means precious.”

At that, Cecily brightened again. “That is right. I am precious.”

Honora giggled quietly so the little girl did not hear. She reminded Honora more of Celestine every day, and it had brought her great comfort during the past three years. She could not wait until Cecily was old enough to share her best memories of Celestine with her.

Barnaby and Sabina arrived before lunch, bringing their son, four months old and already considerably louder than both his parents combined, while Barnaby came through the door carrying him. He had clearly given up on sleep entirely and made a kind of peace with the loss.

“I have not slept in three nights,” he announced to the room.

“Two nights,” Sabina said, following him in.

“Three,” Barnaby said.

“Two.”

“Fine,” he said, sighing. “I am tired. You have won.”

“You agree with your wife? This is the healthiest thing that has ever happened to you,” Martha called from the doorway, having just carried the cake into the dining room.

“It is wonderful to see you again too, Martha,” Barnaby said.

Martha muttered something under her breath, and Sabina laughed at the exchange.

“Your baby is loud,” Cecily announced, running to greet them and studying the infant with the frank confidence of a newly appointed expert.

“He has opinions,” Sabina said, looking down at her son.

“Mama says I have lotsa open-onions,” Cecily said.

“Exactly,” Barnaby said, biting back a laugh at the incorrect pronunciation.

“He sounds a bit like both of us,” Sabina said, giving Barnaby a look.

Studying the baby further, Cecily frowned. “He cannot even talk yet.”

“No, he cannot,” Barnaby agreed.

“So how can he sound like you?”

Sabina laughed, kneeling down to tickle the little girl. “He sounds more like his father.”

Barnaby looked fatally offended. “How deeply you wound me.”

Sabina laughed, kissing him on the cheek. “And you know it is true.”

Barnaby bowed with exaggeration. “I cannot deny it.”

The adults laughed. Cecily looked at them as though they were all mad. Then, her expression brightened. “Uncle Barnaby, can we play chess?”

Verity had taught Cecily to play chess, which in hindsight had been a mistake for absolutely everyone except Cecily herself.

Barnaby’s smile vanished.  She had beaten Barnaby the previous Sunday, and he had spent the entire week since insisting it had been intentional on his part.

“Perhaps later,” Barnaby said, giving the girl a smile that did not reach his wide, frightened eyes.

Leopold noticed his friend’s expression and chuckled. “Intentional loss, indeed.”

Barnaby narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you should play against her.”

Leopold’s eyes grew to the size of Barnaby’s. He cleared his throat and clapped his hands together. “Why do we not go prepare for lunch?”

Cecily whirled to face her uncle, the talk of chess forgotten.

“Cake,” she squealed, ignoring that her father had said lunch instead of cake.

***

Honora’s father arrived that afternoon carrying a wooden horse he had carved with his own hands, and not very well. The legs were uneven, and one ear sat noticeably smaller than the other.

“Thank you,” Cecily said, taking it with both hands at once.

She said it with all the politeness she had been carefully taught and all the sincerity she genuinely possessed, and those things were contradictory. But she gave her grandfather a warm smile.

“I thought you might like it,” Gideon said, smiling back at her.

“So I do.” She held it up and examined it carefully at arm’s length. “It is crooked.”

“Yes, it is,” Gideon said, laughing.

“I like it anyway.” That answer was more sincere. Honora suspected the child already had thought of a way to use it, despite its lopsidedness. She just hoped it did not involve her finding new ways to injure herself, which she did at least once a week.

That answer made him smile again, differently than before.

“Will you stay for the cake?” Cecily asked him.

“If I am invited.”

“You are invited. Martha made two whole tiers.”

“Then I would not dream of refusing.”

Honora smiled. “You have never refused cake.”

He beamed, as if she had just praised him on a great accomplishment. “And I do not plan to ever start.”

He had been coming to Belgrave four times a year since the wedding, and each visit he stayed a little longer while saying a little less than the time before. Honora had stopped wondering whether that silence meant discomfort on his part, as she figured out the answer after his second visit. He no longer needed to fill a room with explanations, because everyone had already heard them all. He was finally able to be at peace in silence.

She watched him crouch down to show Cecily how the horse would stand properly if she found it level ground and thought about everything that had occurred to lead them all to that beautiful birthday celebration that afternoon. 

Three years had not been enough to erase what had happened before them. They had been enough, though, to live well beyond it. She had heard nothing of Isolde since the charges were formally settled, and she preferred it that way entirely.

Miss Phoebe Redmond remained Cecily’s nursemaid and had grown genuinely fond of the family over time, fond enough to tolerate Cecily’s daily and ever-changing opinions about how the nursery ought to be arranged. Phoebe had developed the habit of appearing not to listen to any of them. She listened to every single one, all the same.

By evening, the house had finally begun to quiet down. The guests left one by one, the dishes were cleared away, and the children were finally put to bed. Cecily had argued for another slice of cake before bed. Martha had refused her outright. Honora had no doubt that negotiations continued somewhere in that house until the child had fallen asleep. 

She was still smiling about the whole exchange as she walked toward the chapel. Celestine’s remains had been moved to the Belgrave family plot the year after the wedding, placed beside the late duke, exactly where she had belonged from the very beginning. Leopold had arranged the whole matter without being asked, and had told Honora about it afterward, plainly, though clearly uncertain whether he had overstepped in doing so.

She had not been able to speak for some time after he told her, and he had held her as she cried and thanked him repeatedly.

Honora sat on the bench beside the stone and rested both hands quietly in her lap.

“Cecily is four now, Sister,” she said. “I can hardly believe how quickly the time has passed.

The evening air moved lightly through the trees around her. Honora imagined she could hear her sister whispering replies with the breeze.

“She thinks she knows everything,” Honora said, smiling. “Much like another little girl with a heart-shaped mouth I used to know.” She laughed. “She reads constantly, argues with everyone, and beats everyone at chess regularly. Edmund is fourteen months old. He follows Cecily everywhere she goes.” A small laugh escaped her as she said it. “Just like I once did with you.” She paused again, thinking of how Edmund would either insist on joining Cecily in play, or simply sit beside her and watch her carefully, as if soaking up everything she did, but not wanting to disrupt her.

“It reminds me of Leopold, before he had better things to occupy him,” Honora said, smiling again. “Edmund has his eyes.” She drew a slow breath. “You would have liked him very much,” she said. “And you would be so proud of Cecily.”

The thought alone brought her smile back.

“She has your laugh,” Honora said. “The laugh that could always fill entire rooms.” She steadied her voice before continuing. “She has had it since she was two years old.”

A branch moved somewhere behind her. She did not turn immediately, because she already knew those footsteps by heart.

Leopold sat down beside her, and Honora leaned into him. He took her hand in his without a word.

“I heard something about a third slice of cake,” he said.

“She is negotiating,” Honora said, smiling.

“Badly, or well?”

“Extremely well indeed. And she never seems to tire of any argument.”

Honora laughed. “So much like her mother.”

Leopold raised his eyebrows as high as he could. “And not at all from her loving aunt.”

Honora nodded, fighting another giggle. “That is correct. Not at all like me.”

He looked toward the house, and she followed his gaze. Every window was lit, and the whole place glowed warmly against the surrounding darkness. It was such a peaceful moment that Honora wished it would never end.

“Just one more, I promise,” Cecily’s voice carried from somewhere inside the house, shattering the tranquility.

“You said that before the second one as well,” Martha’s answer came back clearly through a nearby open window. Both of them smiled. Another noise followed close behind, Edmund babbling from the direction of the kitchen, and Verity’s voice answering him seriously, as though the two of them were genuinely conducting a conversation of real importance between them.

Honora closed her eyes and simply listened to all of it with Leopold’s hand still resting around hers. She had once been terrified of losing it all. But right then, she knew she would never have to worry about that again.

They sat together for a while without speaking further. Then he turned toward her and kissed her. For the first time in her entire life, there was nothing at all in the sound of home that she needed to fear.

THE END