#36 Extended Epilogue

Six years later…

The annual Thornecrest lake picnic had grown into a beloved ritual—part summer celebration, part carefully orchestrated chaos. It was the kind of tradition that began with tartan blankets and currant scones and inevitably ended with someone in the lake (usually a child, occasionally a father, and once—memorably—David, still holding a teacup).

Graham sat cross-legged on the blanket, leaning back against a rolled coat with the faint resignation of a man who’d learned, over time, that one did not wear good wool to a family picnic. Aurelia was nestled beside him, her straw bonnet pushed back slightly to let the sun touch her freckled cheeks. She held a book in her lap, unopened, content instead to watch their children through the dappled haze of sunlight and spring breeze.

James, now four, was busily stuffing a handful of wildflowers into his sister’s bonnet, utterly convinced it was a suitable bouquet vessel. Sophia—who, at nearly seven, carried herself with a sense of command worthy of a minor duchess—was kneeling carefully in the grass, offering sage guidance.

“Not the squashed ones, Jamie,” she said seriously. “Thomas says only symmetrical specimens count as scientifically interesting.”

James blinked up at her. “What’s symmet-trick-ul?”

Sophia sighed in the long-suffering way only elder siblings could. “It means they look the same on both sides. Like butterfly wings. Or Mama’s eyebrows.”

From their position on the blanket, Aurelia muffled a laugh behind her hand. Graham, a smirk playing on his lips, murmured, “Ought I to be concerned that she is now quoting Thomas’s field observations?”

“She is remarkably precocious,” Aurelia replied with mock formality. 

Graham glanced out at the lake, where the gentle lapping of water reflected the quiet peace of the moment. Not long ago, this part of the estate had been the site of excavation, discovery, and nearly a murder. Now it held picnics. He found he preferred the latter.

As James scampered off to chase a dragonfly with all the coordination of a sack of potatoes, Sophia sat back, hands clasped primly over her lap.

“I wish Thomas were here,” Sophia said aloud, not to anyone in particular.

Graham felt a familiar tug in his chest. He did too.

“Me too,” James echoed solemnly, now wearing a wildflower as a badge on his chest. “He’s at his sword school.”

“No, silly,” Sophia corrected gently. “He is studying architecture and history as well as Latin declensions at university. They don’t even have swords.”

“I bet they do,” James muttered.

Graham smiled faintly, his gaze lingering on Sophia’s thoughtful expression.

Thomas sent letters twice a week. Sometimes in Latin. Occasionally accompanied by a drawing of a gargoyle that “resembled Uncle David when he disagrees with the vicar.”

“He’ll be home soon,” Graham said, reaching over to smooth Sophia’s unruly braid. “And I’m sure he’ll give you an entire lecture on floral taxonomy the moment he walks in the door.”

Sophia beamed. “I hope so. I’m saving all the pressed ones for him.”

Aurelia leaned her head against Graham’s shoulder, her voice soft. “We’ve done well, haven’t we?”

He glanced down at her, heart full and impossibly calm. “We’ve done something,” he murmured. “I’ve somehow ended up with one child studying Roman inscriptions and another trying to eat them.”

“Balance,” she said cheerfully. “It’s very important in family dynamics.”

Clara sat cross-legged in the grass, her sketchbook balanced delicately on her knee as she squinted at the wisteria-draped pergola across the garden. Her brow furrowed in concentration, the tip of her pencil tapping her chin.

“I think,” she announced to no one in particular, “that I’ve accidentally drawn Mrs. Huxley into the landscape again. She keeps appearing like some sort of domestic deity.”

“Not inaccurate,” murmured Aurelia, not looking up from the folded cloth she was arranging over a picnic basket. “She does seem to command the weather and all baked goods within a five-mile radius.”

“She made me put on a jacket just now,” Graham said mildly. “Despite it being midsummer.”

“And did you?” Aurelia asked, hiding a smile.

“She’s very persuasive.”

Across the lawn, the subject in question—Mrs. Huxley—was reorganizing tea things with the tactical efficiency of a field commander and the gentleness of a woman who now, quite openly, adored the Davenport family. Her initial doubts had long since dissolved, replaced by an exasperated fondness that showed itself in extra helpings and unsolicited advice on raising clever children.

David and Eleanor arrived shortly after, with their two children in tow and David carrying himself with the slightly dazed air of a man unused to being fussed over.

“Before anyone asks,” David called as he approached, “yes, it’s official. They’ve appointed me deputy legal counsel to the Treasury. And no, I don’t know why either.”

“Because you’re clever and terrifying,” Eleanor said cheerfully, setting down the baby basket and adjusting her bonnet. “And they know better than to argue.”

“Ah,” said Graham. “So the civil service has finally yielded to sheer stubborn competence. Congratulations.”

Eleanor hugged Aurelia warmly, then bent to greet Sophia and James, who immediately began describing an elaborate plan to turn the orchard into a ‘museum of interesting worms.’

Vicar Ramsey arrived not long after, bearing two baskets of baked goods and a smile of delighted approval at the general flourishing of the household.

“You’ve made a little kingdom here, my dear,” he said to Aurelia, handing her a still-warm currant loaf. “It does an old man’s heart good.”

“We’ve certainly made children and manuscripts,” Graham said wryly, accepting the loaf.

Which, of course, brought them to the manuscripts. Four volumes now—meticulously researched, deeply footnoted, and surprisingly popular—bearing both Graham’s and Aurelia’s names. A natural continuation of the complete works of her late father, whose legacy was now shelved in leather-bound pride in libraries from Cambridge to Vienna. Their academic success was matched only by the chaos of raising inquisitive children and entertaining an ever-growing circle of eccentric friends.

As Graham prepared to slice into the currant loaf with a travel knife that had once unearthed a Roman coin, Mrs. Huxley bustled over, patting her apron.

“Oh! Nearly forgot. This came for you earlier, Lord Davenport. From Thomas.”

She handed him a slightly crumpled envelope, bearing the tidy handwriting of a boy who had once tried to catalogue his sister’s dolls by historical period.

Graham opened it carefully, his brows lifting as he read. Aurelia leaned in.

“Well?” she asked softly.

He handed her the letter, his lips twitching with pride.

Dear Uncle,

I’ve decided to apply to another university for further studies. Their architectural history programme is the best in the country, and the ruins nearby are supposedly magnificent. I’ve included a preliminary sketch of the cloister foundations I mentioned. Also, James had Clara ask me in one of her letters if he could have my room when I leave. Tell him no.

Yours,

Thomas Davenport

Aurelia laughed and folded the letter close to her heart.

“He possesses your very spirit,” she observed.

“Ah, but he is far more astute than I,” Graham countered. “Though I do believe I have better luck, as I found you.”

As evening fell, the golden haze of the setting sun spread over the grounds like honey. The children tumbled through grass stained with wildflowers. David was attempting to read a legal journal and Mrs. Huxley dispensed seconds whether they were asked for or not. Vicar Ramsey was telling an exaggerated tale to Clara, who tried and failed to suppress her laughter.

Graham pulled Aurelia to his side as they sat watching it all, his hand brushing hers.

“All of this,” he murmured, “started because a governess had the audacity to lecture me about a Roman floor mosaic.”

She looked up at him, eyes warm. “And because a very proud man listened.”

The End