An Unpublished Epilogue

Cora had come hurtling down to the drawing room of the Bristol house in her usual undignified manner. But she had said only that all was well and that he must go up immediately. When Francis had raised his eyebrows in expectation of more information and Mr. Downes had openly asked for it, she had smiled dazzlingly and asked her brother if he was about to faint.

He had stridden from the room without further ado and taken the stairs to the bedchamber two at a time--even though there was a strange buzzing in his head and the air in his nostrils felt cold.

All was well, Cora had said.

His father's new wife came bustling toward him when he opened the bedchamber door, the doctor at her heels, bag in hand. Letty beamed at him and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek; the doctor bowed and made his exit with her.

Edgar was left alone. Though not quite alone. Helena was lying on the bed, pale and silent, her eyes closed. Beyond her was a small bundle that had him swallowing convulsively. It was moving and making soft fussing noises. But it was not his main concern. She looked too still and too pale for all to be well--and she had labored for all of fourteen hours. He took a few fearful steps toward the bed. Was it possible that she was...

"Damn you, Edgar," she said without opening her eyes. Her voice sounded strangely normal. "If I had known--though I might have guessed, of course--that you would beget such large children, I would not in a million years have seduced you."

He could feel no amusement. Only relief--and guilt. It had been unbearably hard to pace downstairs, his father and Francis in tow, for fourteen hours. What must it have been like...

"You had a hard time," he told her just as if she did not know it for herself. "I am so sorry, Helena. I wish I could have suffered the pain for you."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "He well nigh tore me apart," she told him.

He winced even as one of her words caught him like a blow low in his stomach. "He?" He swallowed again. "We have a son, Helena?" Not that the gender mattered. He had rather hoped for a daughter. What he really meant was--we have a child, Helena? Fruit of his body and hers? Product of their love? Their very own baby? The miracle of it all left him feeling paralyzed.

"Are you pleased that I have done my duty like a good wife?" she asked him. "I have presented you with an heir for the Downes fortune."

"To hell with the Downes fortune," he said, forgetting himself in the emotion of the moment. "We have a child, my love. A baby."

She smiled fleetingly. He could see that she was desperate with weariness.

"Meet your son," she said, and she turned to draw back the blanket from the moving bundle. A red, wrinkled, ugly little face, its eyes gazing vacantly about it, was revealed to his view--for a moment. Then he lost sight of it.

"Foolish Edgar," his wife said. "How bourgeois to weep at sight of your newborn child. You are supposed to look closely for a moment to assure yourself that he has the requisite number of eyes, noses, and mouths, all in the appropriate places, and then you are supposed to return to your brandy and your dogs and your hunting."

"Am I?" She was lifting the bundle and then holding it up to him. He did not dare. He would drop it. How could human life be so small? "But I am bourgeois, Helena, and so I will cry at sight of my son." He took the bundle gingerly into his own arms. It was warm and soft and alive.

"Is he not the most beautiful child ever born?" Her voice had lost its mocking tone.

"Yes." He lifted the bundle and set his lips lightly to the soft, warm cheek of his son. "At least the most beautiful. Thank you, my love." He reached over her to set the child back on the bed before he could drop it in his clumsiness. He smiled at her. "You must rest now."

"Oh, damn you," she said, lifting one hand to dash across her cheeks. "Now you have started me weeping. It is because I am tired after all that damnable work. I would not do it otherwise."

But she grabbed for him as he would have straightened up and moved away. She wrapped her arms tightly about his neck and hid her face against his neckcloth. "Edgar," she said fiercely, "we have a child. At the age of seven-and-thirty!"

"Yes." He kissed the top of her head. "And Priscilla and Gerald have a new daughter. A letter came just this morning. All is well, my love."

She said nothing, but she sighed aloud against him and relaxed. She had forgiven herself for the past, he knew, and had set up a close relationship with her former stepson and his wife. But a part of her would always yearn to know that they were eternally happy, that what she had done no longer had any negative effect on their lives.

"All is well," he whispered again.

And all was well, he thought as he kissed her, got up from the bed, and crossed quietly to the door. Their marriage, begun under such inauspicious circumstances, was bringing them more joy than they could possibly have expected; his father and Letty were contentedly married; Gerald and Priscilla were being accepted by society; the business was prospering; and he was a father.

He was a father!

"I love you, Edgar Downes," she said as his hand closed about the knob of the door. Her eyes were closed again, he saw. But there was a smile on her pale face. "And if I had everything to do over, I would seduce you again. I swear I would."

He grinned at her even though she did not open her eyes. "It was a night to remember," he said, "in more ways than one. But it can be repeated and will be. Not now. Not soon. But it will happen--with me as seducer. I owe it to you--and to myself. You have been given fair warning."

He could hear her chuckling softly as he let himself out of the room and shut the door behind him before going back downstairs to rejoice with his family.

He and Helena were parents. They had a child.

He took the stairs down two at a time again.

--Originally written for Kelly Ferjutz

© Mary Balogh