Grace Burrowes: Once Upon a Tartan

A rose garden past its peak was a sad place to spend a summer afternoon, but Hester hadn’t wanted to accompany Augusta up to the nursery, and the stables had to at least throw a saddle on a horse before a lady could safely ride home.

Tea had been awful, full of knowing silences on Augusta’s part, and sidelong glances that alternated between sympathetic and speculative, while Hester stared at the carpet or out the window and tried to make conversation. If Aunt Ree hadn’t forced her to accept Augusta’s invitation—her summons—Hester would still be sitting by the burn, losing games of matches to Fee.

In a few short weeks, Hester had learned the difference between a bad judgment—such as allowing Jasper Merriman liberties—and a terrible judgment, such as flinging Tiberius Flynn’s proposal back in his face. She hadn’t made him a proper apology, and that rankled almost as much as the relentless pain of his absence from her life.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”

The pleasurable shock of hearing Tiberius Flynn’s voice was quickly doused in the reality of seeing him standing on the garden path, looking mouthwateringly handsome and well turned out in his riding attire.

“Tiberius.” She wanted to rise, to go to him, but dared not. She wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“May I sit?”

She twitched her skirts aside in answer. “You’re here.” A stupid thing to say—an imbecilic thing to say.

“Your cousin and her earl have connived for it to be so. I cannot regret their scheming. Hester, are you well?”

What was he asking? She did not meet his gaze but hunched forward, the better to hide her blush. “I am in good health. You?” He looked thinner in the face to her.

“I am…” He trailed off, and Hester could feel him taking in her features one by one. Tired eyes, hair not quite as neatly braided as it should have been, fingernails a trifle ragged. “I am going to be honest, Hester Daniels, for the rest of my life, with you, with all of those who matter, I am going to honest.”

She said nothing. This sounded like the introduction to a painful admission, though—painful for her. For the pleasure of hearing him speak, she’d bear it. Somehow, she would bear it.

“I am unhappy… no, I am miserable. Abjectly, profoundly, unendingly miserable. I have transgressed before a woman who deserved honesty and more from me, and now my life stretches out, decades of meaningless time… I am making a hash of this.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, and Hester dared a glance at him.

“Whatever it is, Tiberius, I promise I will listen.”

His expression was solemn, grave even. He had never looked more dear to her, or more distant. “Do you carry our child, Hester?”

“That is of no moment.” Oh, how she wanted to shoot off the bench and hide in the stables. How she wanted to throw herself into his arms. “If you are here to propose marriage again, I will not have you trapped. I know what it is to be trapped, to feel as if duty and honor leave one no reasonable options.”

He sighed—perhaps a sigh of relief, maybe of frustration.

“What of love, Hester? Amo, amas, amat ? You recall the word.”

“Please, Tiberius, no Latin now.” But her heart had picked up the rhythm of his conjugation: I love, you love, he loves, we love, you love, they love… A steady, anxious tattoo that wanted desperately to hear what he’d say.

He moved, and the loss of even his proximity threatened to choke her. “Don’t—” She reached out a hand to stay him, when he slid to his knees before her.

“My great, impressive vocabulary fails me, Hester Daniels. My wits fail me; my reason fails me. I only know that I have met the love of my life, a woman who can help me to face life’s hurts and wrongs with courage, a woman in whose love and trust I can repose my entire heart, if she—if you—will have me.”

“This is not—” She was supposed to tell him this was not necessary, this dramatic offer, but she saw that for the man she loved, when he was looking for a way to redeem what he believed to be his compromised honor, this was necessary.

And when she had promised to listen, he’d given her back her own words.

“Tiberius, I understand that you had no choice, that the people you love were in terrible, terrible difficulties.”

“I am in terrible difficulties.” He looked like he’d say more, but then bowed his head. “I love you, Hester Daniels. When I think of you, I want children for us to love too. Swarms of them, all with red hair, to sing to the trees and scare the fish and cheat at cards with their uncles.”

He fell silent while the images he spun took root in Hester’s mind and in her heart. She wanted him to go on, to give her more lovely words, more dreams built with his sonorous tones, but he folded forward, sliding his arms around her waist.

“Please, Hester.” A simple word. A beautiful, honest, heartfelt word rendered profound by the hoarse plea in his voice.

A single word that banished her misgivings, her self-doubt, her fear.

“Please. Please will you marry me, will you be the mother of my children? I’ve already told Quinworth he can keep his damned title, and I think he and my mother have finally set each other to rights. We’ll bide here in Scotland. Just… please, marry me.”

She grasped his hands, feeling as if every good, blessed thing in creation had been given to her with his words. “Yes, Tiberius. Yes, I will marry you. We’ll bide in Scotland, and we’ll have swarms of children, and they’ll have red hair, and we’ll love them all, each and every one of them, and we’ll love each other, for I do love you, so very much.”

He said nothing, not one word, but when she kissed him to solemnize her promises, she felt his body and his heart and every fiber of his being resonating with agreement.

And as it turned out, Hester was right: they married; they bided in Scotland; they had swarms of red-haired children—the first showing up something less than nine months after the wedding. That one was joined shortly by others who sang to trees, scared every fish in the burn, and cheated at cards when playing with their uncles and with their many, many, many cousins.