Three Years Later

The kitchens of Langley Hall smelled aggressively of spun sugar, vanilla bean, and absolute chaos.

Thelma stood in the doorway of the massive culinary domain. A fine dusting of white flour coated the dark stone floor. Patricia stood at the central wooden island. The cook had her sleeves rolled up past her elbows and a smudge of powdered sugar across her forehead. Patricia was carefully applying a thick layer of icing to a massive cake.

Standing on a wooden stool directly beside the cook was Liliana.

Liliana was four years old that day. She wore a dark blue velvet dress protected by a miniature linen apron. Her dark curls were tied back with a silk ribbon, but several strands had escaped to frame her face. She held a small wooden spoon, pointing it at the cake with the severe, absolute authority of a battlefield commander.

“The candied lemons need to go on the top, Patricia,” Liliana instructed. Her tone was completely serious. “If you put them on the bottom tier, Edmund will reach them. Edmund eats dirt. He will not appreciate the lemon.”

Patricia did not laugh. She paused her frosting knife and looked at the four-year-old with total, unwavering respect. “You make an excellent point, Lady Liliana. We shall reserve the candied lemons for the top. Will the spun sugar flowers be acceptable for the base?”

“Yes,” Liliana agreed, lowering her wooden spoon. “But they must be pink.”

Thelma leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest. A bright, uncontainable smile broke across her face. The house had been in a state of frantic preparation since the previous morning. Patricia had decided the birthday cake required two tiers, and Liliana had firmly decided the decorations required her direct, personal supervision. Between the two of them, the kitchen had been entirely occupied since dawn.

“I see the negotiations are progressing smoothly,” Thelma called out.

Liliana turned her head. Her gray eyes lit up instantly. She dropped the wooden spoon onto the table and scrambled down from the stool. She ran across the stone floor, completely ignoring the cloud of flour she kicked up in her wake, and threw her arms around Thelma’s legs.

“Mama,” Liliana announced proudly. “I am organizing the cake.”

“I can see that,” Thelma said, bending down to kiss the top of her daughter’s head. She smoothed a stray curl behind Liliana’s ear. “But Miss Hartley is waiting upstairs to brush your hair before the guests arrive. You must leave Patricia to finish the pink flowers in peace.”

Liliana sighed heavily, a dramatic exhalation that she had absolutely learned from observing Orson Mercer. “Very well. I shall go inspect the nursery. Miss Hartley keeps moving my picture books to the top shelf. It is entirely unacceptable.”

Eliza Hartley appeared in the corridor right on cue. The pragmatic nursemaid offered Thelma a polite nod before holding her hand out to the four-year-old. Eliza had remained at Langley Hall, becoming fiercely fond of the family. She tolerated Liliana’s daily changing opinions regarding nursery organization with the calm patience of a saint.

“Come along, my lady,” Eliza said briskly. “We have a hairbrush to conquer.”

Liliana took the nursemaid’s hand and marched down the corridor, her voice drifting back as she immediately began lecturing Eliza on the proper alphabetical arrangement of her storybooks.

Thelma watched them go. Her heart swelled with a deep, abiding warmth. Liliana had recently learned to read. The child treated this new skill as a universal license to possess an opinion on absolutely everything.

Only two days ago, Liliana had stopped in the main gallery, staring up at the massive oil painting of the late Duke of Berengar. The dowager duchess had been walking beside them. Liliana had pointed a small finger at the imposing portrait and confidently informed her grandmother that the man in the painting looked like a person who made extremely poor decisions.

Thelma had frozen, terrified of the older woman’s reaction.

But Liliana’s grandmother had simply looked at the portrait, looked down at Liliana, and calmly replied that the child was not entirely wrong.

Thelma and her mother-in-law had been getting along considerably better since that afternoon. The dowager now lived permanently in the renovated east wing. She took breakfast with the family every single morning. She and Thelma drank tea alone in the drawing room on Sundays. The conversation between them had stopped being careful somewhere in the second year of the marriage, though Thelma could not say exactly which afternoon the tension finally broke.

“She is a force of nature, Your Grace,” Patricia remarked, wiping her hands on a towel.

“She is entirely her father’s daughter,” Thelma laughed. She turned and made her way toward the library to find the rest of her family.

The library doors were open. A warm fire burned cheerfully in the grate.

The dowager duchess sat in the comfortable velvet armchair near the window. Sitting cross-legged on the thick Persian rug at her feet was Edmund.

Edmund was fourteen months old. He possessed Roman’s striking gray-green eyes and a mop of unruly dark hair. He was currently chewing thoughtfully on the corner of a leather-bound book while his grandmother read aloud from a collection of ancient Greek myths.

Thelma stopped in the doorway, watching the quiet scene. She looked at the dowager’s hands. The older woman held the heavy book securely, her voice rising and falling with the rhythm of the story. Thelma thought back to the night in the nursery three years ago. She remembered a woman whose hands shook violently the very first time she held her granddaughter. The fearful, rigid duchess was gone, replaced by a grandmother who spent rainy afternoons reading aloud to a toddler who chewed on the library inventory.

Edmund possessed a profound, quiet stubbornness that Patricia frequently claimed would be a massive problem in exactly twelve years. He spent his days following Liliana everywhere she went. He shadowed his older sister with a quiet, intense devotion that vividly reminded Thelma of the way Roman used to stand in the corner and watch rooms before he found better things to do. Liliana tolerated his constant company exactly the way a master craftsman tolerates a clumsy apprentice. She showed occasional impatience, but underneath the bossiness lay a fierce, complete loyalty.

“He is not listening to the story, Mother,” Roman said.

Thelma looked toward the fireplace. Roman was leaning against the mantelpiece. He wore a dark blue morning coat; his arms crossed casually over his chest. He looked up and caught Thelma’s eye. A slow, incredibly warm smile spread across his face, lighting up his gray eyes.

“He is absorbing the atmosphere, Roman,” his mother countered, turning the page smoothly. “A child is never too young for the classics.”

Before Roman could argue the point, the loud, unmistakable sound of a crying infant echoed from the main entrance hall.

Thelma smiled. “The Ashmores have arrived.”

They walked out to the grand foyer just as Earnest opened the heavy oak front doors.

Orson Mercer stepped inside. He carried a squalling, red-faced bundle of blankets against his chest. The viscount looked completely exhausted. Dark circles shadowed his pale blue eyes. His normally immaculate hair was slightly rumpled. Yet, despite the obvious fatigue, the viscount looked like a man who had given up on sleep entirely and had made absolute, joyous peace with the loss.

Nicolette followed him into the hall. She wore a stunning green day dress, looking incredibly vibrant and entirely awake.

Their son was four months old, and he was already significantly louder than both of his parents combined.

“Take him,” Orson pleaded, holding the screaming baby out toward Roman. “Please. I will give you the deeds to my hunting lodge. I will audit your ledgers for a decade. Just hold him for five minutes so I can remember what silence sounds like.”

Roman chuckled, stepping back and holding his hands up in surrender. “Absolutely not. You created that particular noise. You may manage it.”

Nicolette laughed, taking the baby from her husband’s arms. The child instantly stopped crying, letting out a soft, contented hiccup. Orson stared at his wife with a mixture of profound betrayal and deep adoration.

“He simply dislikes your theories on agricultural yields, Orson,” Nicolette teased, bouncing the baby gently on her hip. “I was explaining the necessity of land tax reform during the carriage ride, and Orson fundamentally disagreed.”

“I disagreed because your proposed tax brackets are punitive,” Orson argued, though there was no real heat in his voice.

Nicolette smiled wickedly. “I won the argument.”

“You always win the argument,” Orson sighed, pressing a kiss to his wife’s temple.

Patricia had walked into the hallway to greet the guests. She shook her head, muttering that Nicolette winning every debate was the healthiest thing that had ever happened to the viscount’s enormous ego.

“Speaking of winning,” Roman said, a teasing edge entering his voice as he looked at Orson. “Liliana is waiting for you in the drawing room. She has set up the chessboard.”

Orson winced. Roman’s mother had spent the past six months teaching Liliana the complex strategies of chess. Just last Sunday, the four-year-old had trapped Orson’s king in a brutal, highly efficient checkmate. Orson had spent the entire week loudly pretending to anyone who would listen that he had let the child win intentionally.

“I am a grown man, Roman,” Orson grumbled, walking toward the drawing room. “I will not be humiliated by a child who still requires assistance tying her own shoes.”

Ten minutes later, Orson lost his knight to Liliana’s bishop, and he spent the remainder of the afternoon complaining about the glare from the windows.

The afternoon birthday party was a loud, joyful affair.

Mr. Preston arrived shortly after lunch. He walked into the bustling drawing room, his silver hair neatly combed, holding a small object wrapped in plain brown paper.

He had been coming to Langley Hall four times a year since the wedding. With each passing visit, he stayed a little longer. He sat by the fire, drinking tea and watching the children play. He said very little, but the quiet gratitude in his brown eyes meant a great deal more than any grand apology ever could.

He knelt down in front of Liliana and handed her the package.

Liliana tore the paper away. Inside was a wooden horse. Mr. Preston had carved it himself. It was, objectively speaking, carved quite badly. One leg was noticeably shorter than the other three, and the head looked slightly more like a confused dog than a majestic stallion.

Liliana held the wooden toy in both hands. She looked at the lopsided legs. She looked at Mr. Preston.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Liliana said. She delivered the words with the exact practiced politeness Eliza Hartley had coached her to use, but the bright, happy smile that followed was entirely sincere. “He shall be the captain of my cavalry.”

Mr. Preston’s eyes watered. He reached out and gently patted the little girl’s cheek. He stood up, catching Thelma’s gaze across the room. Thelma offered him a warm, genuine smile, silently closing the final gap between them.

Thelma sat on the velvet sofa, holding a sleeping Edmund against her chest, and looked around the crowded, noisy room. She thought briefly about Daphne Vane. She had heard absolutely nothing of the woman since the criminal charges were settled three years ago, and she vastly preferred it that way. Her world was completely full. There was no room left for old ghosts or lingering fears.

Much later that evening, the heavy oak doors of the estate closed behind the last departing guests. The children were bathed and tucked safely into their beds. The massive house finally settled into a quiet, peaceful rhythm.

Thelma wrapped a thick, dark wool shawl over her shoulders. She slipped out the rear doors and walked alone down the long gravel path toward the edge of the estate.

The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and blooming night jasmine. She walked past the ancient oak trees until she reached the small stone chapel.

Roman had ordered Yvette’s remains, along with her husband’s, moved from the small, forgotten graveyard in Somerset during their first year of marriage. He had brought her home. Yvette now rested in the private Langley family plot, buried directly beside the late Duke, exactly where the firstborn daughter of the house belonged from the very beginning.

Thelma stopped in front of the smooth white marble headstone. She sat down on the carved stone bench resting beside the grave.

The moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting silver shadows across the carved letters of Yvette’s name.

“She is four today,” Thelma whispered into the quiet night air. “Patricia made a cake the size of a small carriage. Liliana organized the entire event. She possesses your laugh, Yvette. She throws her head back, and the sound absolutely fills the room. She has had that laugh since she was two years old, and I suspect she always will.”

Thelma pulled the wool shawl tighter around her shoulders. She traced the edge of the stone bench with her fingers.

“Edmund follows her everywhere,” Thelma continued, a soft smile touching her lips. “He is entirely devoted to her. And Orson lost another chess match to a four-year-old today. He is currently furious. You would have found it incredibly funny.”

She sat in the quiet dark, talking to the sister she had loved so fiercely. She did not cry. There was no lingering grief weighing her down anymore. There was only a profound, beautiful peace.

The sound of footsteps crunched softly on the gravel path behind her.

Thelma did not turn around. She knew the heavy, measured rhythm of those steps perfectly.

Roman walked up beside the stone bench. He did not speak. He simply sat down beside her, his solid warmth immediately chasing away the chill of the night air. He reached out, his large hand wrapping securely over hers, intertwining their fingers together.

Thelma leaned sideways, resting her head comfortably against his broad shoulder.

She looked back up the long path toward Langley Hall.

The massive stone estate glowed brilliantly in the dark. Every single window was lit, casting warm squares of golden light out onto the manicured lawns. Even from that distance, the faint, joyful sounds of their life carried through the open windows. She could hear the distinct, high-pitched sound of Liliana’s voice floating down from the nursery, loudly arguing with Patricia about the logistical possibility of eating a third slice of lemon cake in bed. Below that, she could hear the soft, rumbling sound of the dowager duchess singing a quiet lullaby to Edmund.

Thelma closed her eyes. She held Roman’s hand tightly and simply listened to the beautiful, chaotic symphony of her family.

Roman turned his head. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss against the crown of her hair, his arm wrapping securely around her waist to pull her even closer.

Thelma tilted her face upward. Roman leaned down, capturing her lips in a slow, incredibly sweet kiss. It was a kiss built on three years of absolute trust, shared laughter, and a love that had survived the darkest corners of their history.

They sat together on the stone bench, surrounded by the quiet Yorkshire night. Behind them, the great house of Langley settled warmly into its foundations, glowing with light and life, feeling exactly the way a home should.