Nell has been as good as gold since we returned from our journey. She worked her fingers to the bone helping Emma bring in the rest of the harvest, sang Derek’s praises to the bishop after the dedication ceremony in Chipping Campden, and slipped the word “horse” into every conversation so artlessly that when Emma and Derek finally bought Anthea’s chestnut foal they honestly thought it would be a surprise present.
Uncle Tom is doing amazingly well, now that he’s not expending half of his energy fretting about Gerald. He accepted his son’s grave news with equanimity, commenting dryly that, having survived the Blitz, he thought he could survive a minor jolt to his self-esteem. Anthea’s retitled her biography Dragon’s Fire, and is busily revising the whole thing. When I called to offer my sympathy, she admitted, “It was a shock, at first. Then Swann reminded me of how well horror sells....”
Gerald sent Sybella’s remains to Boston, where they were quietly interred in the Willis family plot. He also sent a copy of Sir Williston’s diary to Cloverly House, where it’s made a world of difference in Uncle Williston’s therapy. As Sir Poppet observed, after a first read-through: “It helps no end to have all of the facts.”
Nell tells everyone that she hopes Uncle Williston will be able to attend the wedding, but I know her well enough by now to know that she’s secretly hoping he’ll turn up in knee breeches. I also know her well enough to keep my mouth shut whenever Emma asks me about a certain brown suede jacket that mysteriously appeared in Nell’s closet shortly after we came back from Haslemere. I figure it won’t hurt Willis, Sr., and Derek to share the pedestal with another idol, and Nell couldn’t have chosen a better one. Hell, if I were in her shoes, I’d keep his damned jacket under my pillow.
But I’ve got my own hero to worship, and even though I’ve refused categorically to refer to the new life inside of me as “our little red pudding,” my hero seems to worship me back. We expected to spend the past few months getting to know each other again, but we’ve barely scratched the surface. A true marriage, it seems, is a voyage of discovery without end.
I still haven’t learned to stop wishing, though the things that I wish for have changed. The moment you feel a tiny foot tap-dance on your spinal cord—from the inside—everything changes. I’ve told Emma about some of my wishes, and Bill about others, of course, but only one person is privy to them all.
Dimity isn’t always at the cottage, but she always seems to be there when I need her. On those nights, I wait until Bill’s sound asleep, then slip downstairs to brew a pot of Sir Poppet’s herbal tea. I make a fire in the study, sit with Reginald near at hand, open the blue journal, and discuss important issues with Aunt Dimity. What to do about stretch marks, whether to get a sonogram—the vital, pressing issues of the bright new world I’ve found myself inhabiting.
And when I close the journal, I also close my eyes, and wish with all my might that my child’s life will be as blessed as mine.