Lady in Rags

Epilogue

Richard felt his heart lift as his carriage turned the corner of the drive and the rambling old house came into view. It had been a horrendous six weeks. The least awful thing about it had been the actual moment of death. But the moments preceding– of sickness; of bitterness; the talk of long-broken promises; the snarling recount of fast-held grudges, held no less closely in the last of his father's days – they had been unbearable. And the moments after – the awful, sycophantic relatives and friends; the so very kind and sympathetic spinsters, with one eye on his fortune, and the other firmly closed against his ugliness; the so obsequious lawyers, with their quiet footsteps and quiet voices and quiet, conspiring smiles– they had been worse. And at last, he was free, and among the people who mattered: his brother, and sister-in-law and niece.

His carriage crunched to a stop on the gravel drive, and he got out rather cautiously. His leg had been troubling him even more of late, with the snap of chill autumn weather. He stretched it discreetly as he waited for someone to answer the doorbell. After a few minutes, the door swung open inwards, and the butler bowed.

"You'll tell my brother I have called." Richard stepped gratefully into the warmth of the hall.

"You may wait in the drawing room," the butler said magnanimously. "I shall see if Mr Armiger is at home."

But there was no opportunity for Richard to wait. Footsteps, very little ones, pattered in the mezzanine above, and a pair of bright green eyes peered through the bannisters at him.

"Uncle Wichard!"

Richard braced himself. The denizen thundered down the stairs and threw herself full bodied into his arms. He balanced her on his hip, wincing as she ran sticky fingers over his cravat.

"Did you bring me a present?" Annie demanded, plucking at his cravat. "Why is it black?" She had found his mourning band. "Daddy has one too. It's ugly."

"Death is ugly," Richard agreed. "And you know you shouldn't be asking me for presents. It's not polite."

"But you did bring me one?" she said coyly.

"Perhaps." He adjusted her weight, and Neil appeared at the top of the stairs. "I arrive unheralded. Apologies. There was no time to send a letter."

"I'm glad you've come. Here. Let me help." Neil came running lightly down the stairs and plucked the toddler from Richard's side. There was nothing in him now of the invalid of three years ago. Nothing, except the thin white scar arcing down over his temple. "You mustn't ask for presents, Annie," he chided gently. "Not until after you've said hello at the very least."

Not in the least bit abashed, Annie waved at Richard. "Hello."

"Good morning," Richard said solemnly. But did not put his hand in his pocket, yet, for the little ribboned candy box that waited for her.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come," Neil said. "I didn't mean to saddle you with all of that – but it was a very difficult time for Verity, and I couldn't leave her."

"I understand." Richard hesitated. "I have heard no news. Is she well? Would congratulations be premature?"

"She's very well." By the broad smile on Neil's face, Richard knew the baby had been born. "I'll accept your congratulations, with thanks. A boy," Neil admitted. "They're both doing very well. You can come up and see them. She's still in confinement. It has only been two weeks."

"I'd like to – that's why I came. And it was a relief to get away."

"I'm sorry," Neil said again, as they went up the stairs. "I would have come – something to dilute the unpleasantness of it all."