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The late spring sun filtered through the lace curtains in Olivia Carrington’s sitting room, casting shifting patterns across the worn but beloved rug beneath her feet.
A breeze stirred the corners of her letters on the desk nearby, carrying the scent of lavender from the garden where blooms had begun to awaken in earnest.
The room had changed little over the years—more lived-in now, with shelves dotted by Henry’s school books, Elliot’s latest correspondence from the House of Lords, and Olivia’s favorite volumes of poetry.
But the true heart of the space was the family that filled it.
“I daresay you’re fretting again,” Elliot said from the doorway, his coat flung casually over one arm, a slight smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He stepped into the room with the easy confidence of a man who had long since grown accustomed to joy—and yet still found himself surprised by it.
Olivia looked up from the small bonnet she was adjusting on her daughter’s head. “I am not fretting,” she said, though the crease between her brows betrayed her. “I’m simply ensuring that Alice doesn’t arrive looking like a tangle of ribbons and wildflowers. Charlotte would never let me hear the end of it if our daughter appears less than perfectly presented.”
From the settee, Henry—now nearly fifteen and growing taller by the day—snorted as he carefully tied his cravat. “Aunt Charlotte will be too busy managing Uncle Jonathan’s nerves to notice Alice’s bonnet.”
Elliot laughed, crossing to scoop up his daughter, whose dark curls tumbled from beneath the bonnet no matter how tightly Olivia tied it. “There’s my girl,” he said, kissing her cheek before twirling her once, her delighted squeal echoing off the paneled walls.
At just under two years old, Alice Carrington was a miniature whirlwind of determined opinions and boundless energy. She had Olivia’s eyes and Elliot’s stubborn chin, and from the moment she’d entered the world on a soft autumn night, she’d wrapped the entire household around her small, capable fingers.
“Come now,” Elliot said, setting the child down and offering Olivia his arm. “We’ll never make it to the chapel if you insist on repacking the nappy bag again.”
“I’ve only checked it twice,” Olivia said, standing and smoothing her skirts with a hint of self-deprecating amusement. “You forget—I once rode through a thunderstorm with no more than a half-packed valise and a letter from your father. I’m capable of a bit of chaos.”
“Capable?” Elliot murmured, stealing a kiss as Alice toddled ahead. “You thrive in it, Mrs. Carrington.”
The family stepped outside into the sunlit courtyard, where a familiar carriage awaited. The footman tipped his hat, the horses already restive in their traces. Hinton House, now fully restored and brimming with life, stood proud behind them—its windows gleaming, the gardens well-kept, and the household bustling with the sort of quiet, everyday joy that Olivia had once thought forever lost.
They were off to a wedding today—Charlotte Ashworth’s, at long last. And though Olivia had long since known it would come to pass, the fact of it still made her heart ache with happiness.
Charlotte, of course, had required some convincing.
“We’re far too alike to ever suit,” she’d once declared of Jonathan Turner, her nose wrinkling at the very idea of marrying him. But three years of letters, visits, and reluctant confessions had finally yielded what Olivia had predicted all along.
Now, beneath the same chapel where Olivia and Elliot had spoken their vows, Charlotte would marry the man who had stood beside Elliot through every storm. And in that moment, Olivia thought as she nestled closer to her husband in the carriage, all the old wrongs—every lie, every painful silence, every lost chance—truly did feel as though they’d been made right.
The small stone chapel nestled on the edge of Ashton Hollow looked much the same as it had on the day Olivia and Elliot were married—humble, warm, and surrounded by golden meadows now blooming with wild poppies and purple foxglove.
As their carriage approached, the bells rang with a cheerful clamor that carried on the breeze and stirred memories in Olivia’s chest that felt like sunlight after rain.
Guests spilled across the green outside, laughing, greeting, shaking off travel dust. It was not the grand affair Lady Turner would have orchestrated—had she been there. But Charlotte had insisted on something simpler. “We’ve had enough pageantry to last a lifetime,” she’d declared firmly. “Let this be real, and ours.”
Jonathan stood near the chapel entrance, adjusting his cuffs for the third time in as many minutes. His waistcoat—tastefully embroidered, clearly Charlotte’s influence—was immaculate, but his hair had already begun to curl at the edges in the heat. When he saw the Carrington carriage, he exhaled visibly in relief.
“I feared you’d been swept away by some last-minute political crisis,” he said as Elliot stepped down and shook his hand firmly.
“And miss this? Never,” Elliot replied with a grin. “Besides, I couldn’t allow Charlotte to strangle you at the altar for tardiness.”
Olivia followed with Alice on her hip and Henry at her side, pausing only to smooth down her daughter’s unruly curls before presenting the child like a peace offering.
“Would you care to hold your goddaughter?” she asked with a mischievous tilt to her brow.
Jonathan blinked, then carefully accepted Alice, who regarded him solemnly before gripping his cravat with sticky fingers. “She’s grown heavier,” he said with mock alarm, adjusting his grip.
“She’s a Carrington,” Olivia replied. “Full of opinions and hard to put down.”
A ripple of laughter passed through them as Angela approached, radiant in sea-foam green silk, her expression softer than Olivia remembered from their early acquaintance. Time had been kind to her—or perhaps freedom from her mother’s shadow had.
“I see the godfather is already being tested,” Angela said as Jonathan shifted Alice to his other arm. “I’m told that if you survive ten minutes without losing your cravat or being bitten, you’re allowed to make a speech at the reception.”
“Noted,” Jonathan muttered, though his smile didn’t fade.
The tension Olivia had once felt in Angela’s presence had long since ebbed. After the night of Lady Turner’s downfall, Angela had quietly stepped out of the limelight, choosing instead a life of quiet reform—supporting charities, visiting schools, even championing the restoration of her father’s neglected tenants’ lands. They weren’t friends in the traditional sense, but Olivia respected her now. Perhaps even liked her.
“I’m glad you came,” Angela said in a low voice as they moved toward the chapel together.
Olivia met her eyes and nodded. “So am I.”
Inside, the pews filled with familiar faces—Winterses, villagers, even a few school friends of Charlotte’s who had made the journey from Cornwall.
At the front, Henry fidgeted in his seat beside Edward Carrington, who looked every inch the proud patriarch in his tailored coat, his silver hair neatly combed back. He winked at Olivia as she passed, then promptly handed Henry a peppermint sweet with all the secrecy of a schoolboy.
At last, the doors opened, and the crowd rose as Charlotte entered on her cousin’s arm.
She was breathtaking—not because of the ivory gown or the delicate veil, but because of the look she wore. Fierce, focused, and entirely herself. Olivia felt her throat tighten as she took her seat beside Elliot.
“She’s not afraid,” she whispered.
“She never was,” Elliot replied, his fingers brushing hers. “Only waiting for someone who wouldn’t ask her to become something smaller.”
And as Charlotte reached the altar, taking Jonathan’s hand with a smile that held every bit of their long journey, Olivia realized that love—real, enduring love—was never neat or simple. It was a mess of tangled paths and stubborn hearts. But when it found its place… it flourished.
It was late afternoon when the Carringtons returned to Hinton House. The sun filtered through the orchard in ribbons of gold, and laughter from the staff echoed from the kitchen gardens where a few of the children from the village were still chasing ribbons tied to long poles. The wedding celebration had been perfect—unfussy, heartfelt, and filled with the kind of joy that didn’t need polishing.
Elliot lifted Alice from the carriage and planted a kiss on her forehead as she wriggled in protest. “Do you suppose she realizes she’s now the youngest guest to ever nap through an entire wedding ceremony?”
“She’ll hold the record until Charlotte and Jonathan start their brood,” Olivia replied with a tired, happy smile. “Mark my words, she won’t remain the youngest for long.”
Inside, the library waited—cool and sun-dappled, smelling faintly of leather, lemon oil, and the faintest trace of pipe smoke from Edward’s early morning reading sessions. Olivia set down her gloves and bonnet before noticing the sealed envelope on the writing desk. Her name, in a hand she hadn’t seen in years.
She picked it up slowly, her heart hesitating. “It’s from Lydia.”
Elliot looked up sharply from where he’d been loosening his cravat. “Your cousin Lydia?”
Olivia nodded and sat, breaking the seal with fingers she tried to keep steady. They had not spoken since Olivia’s wedding—not from anger, but from a quiet, mutual distance built over years of misunderstandings and painful family history. For Lydia to write now…
She read silently for several minutes, her eyes moving swiftly, then more slowly. By the time she finished, her expression had shifted from wary caution to tentative hope.
“She’s in Wyoming now,” Olivia said softly. “Married. A rancher’s wife. She writes that she’s never known such peace.”
Elliot moved beside her, placing a hand on the back of her chair. “I’m glad. For her—and for you.”
Olivia nodded, her fingers lingering on the paper. “She says she thought often of writing before now, but feared her words might stir up what we’ve both tried to forget.”
“And now?” Elliot asked.
“She hopes we might find our way forward—not to forget, but to build something new.” Olivia smiled faintly. “She even asked if Alice might one day visit.”
Elliot looked down at the letter and then at his wife. “Do you want that?”
“I think I do.” Olivia folded the paper with care. “It’s strange, isn’t it? The way pain can circle back as something softer, given time and distance.”
Elliot leaned down, kissing her temple. “Time and love can make most things softer.”
She glanced up at him, her smile deepening. “You’ve become quite the philosopher, Lord Carrington.”
He smirked. “Don’t tell the House of Lords. They’d never recover.”
Just then, Henry burst into the room, a book in one hand and mud on both shoes. “I’ve decided!” he announced triumphantly.
“Decided what?” Olivia asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“What I’ll write my first article on,” he said, brandishing the slim volume. “The social conditions of tenant farmers in the north. It’s a disgrace! Did you know one family lives with five children in a single room with no stove?”
“I believe you read that in the last pamphlet Edward slipped into your pocket,” Elliot replied, but there was no censure in his tone—only pride.
Olivia stood, brushing invisible dust from her skirts as she met her brother’s earnest gaze. “That sounds like an excellent topic, Henry.”
He beamed and then darted out of the room, presumably to corner Edward with impassioned arguments and poorly organized footnotes.
Elliot chuckled. “Cambridge has created a monster.”
“No,” Olivia said, slipping her arm through his. “We have. All of us. One brave, clever, stubborn Carrington-Marston hybrid of a monster.”
They walked together through the open doors, out into the orchard where dusk had begun to settle. The past was still there, tucked into shadows and old memories—but so was the future.
And it was wide open.
ater that evening, long after Alice had been tucked into bed with her favorite stuffed fox and Henry had exhausted Edward with his plans for social reform, Olivia stepped out onto the terrace. The sky above Hinton House was a velvet canopy of stars, clear and luminous.
The countryside lay in peaceful slumber, only the occasional rustle of wind in the hedges breaking the hush.
She pulled Elliot’s coat tighter around her shoulders—it had become a habit of hers, slipping into his garments as if claiming a part of him even in his absence. She didn’t have to wait long.
“I knew I’d find you here,” Elliot said softly behind her. His boots were nearly silent on the stone. “Do you realize you always come here when you have something on your mind?”
“Do I?” She smiled as he stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“Mmm,” he murmured into her hair. “Every time. Even that evening before the wedding—when you were wondering whether marrying a Carrington meant losing the woman you used to be.”
She leaned back against him, their bodies fitting together as naturally as breath. “I was wrong, you know. I didn’t lose her. I just… discovered someone else entirely. Someone braver. Someone happier.”
Elliot rested his chin on her shoulder. “Do you think she would’ve made it here on her own?”
“No,” Olivia said honestly. “But she wouldn’t have had to.”
They stood in silence, watching the moon cast silver light over the distant beech grove. The very spot where they’d carved their initials, where everything had changed not once, but twice—first in heartbreak, then in healing.
“I’ve been thinking,” Elliot said after a pause, his voice as steady as the rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her spine.
“Dangerous,” she teased.
He gave her a nudge. “I want to build a school.”
She turned her head, surprised. “A school?”
“For girls,” he continued. “And for boys. On the edge of the estate. A proper one—not just reading and sums, but something more. A place for thinking. For challenging ideas. For learning to ask why.”
Olivia blinked, stunned into silence. It was so unexpected, and yet—so very right.
“Elliot Carrington,” she said softly, tears warming her eyes, “you surprise me still.”
He kissed her cheek. “I married a woman who turned my world on its head. It only seems fair I do the same.”
“And what shall we name it?” she asked, blinking up at the stars.
He considered, then said simply, “The Barbara School. For her. For the letter that changed everything. For the truth that waited thirty years to be heard.”
Olivia closed her eyes against the sudden sting. “She’d like that.”
“I think,” Elliot said, taking her hand, “she’d be proud of us.”
They stood there for a long time, watching the stars. Behind them, Hinton House glowed with warmth and light—echoes of laughter drifting through open windows. Tomorrow, there would be plans to make and letters to send and builders to speak with.
But tonight, there was only this: a life they had built out of pain and joy, misunderstanding and forgiveness. A love that had once been tested and now stood unshakable.
“Let’s go in,” Olivia whispered. “Before your father eats the rest of the honey cake.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Elliot said, guiding her back inside. “Though I’ll remind you, he’s grown rather fond of Henry’s appetite as a convenient excuse.”
“And Alice?” she asked.
“Fast asleep, dreaming of ribbons and frogs, no doubt.”
“Perfect,” Olivia said, her voice full of laughter as they stepped over the threshold. “Just like everything else.”
And for once, Elliot could find no reason to argue.
OFFER: A BRAND NEW SERIES AND 2 FREEBIES FOR YOU!
Grab my new series, "Secrets and Passions of High Society", and get 2 FREE novels as a gift! Have a look here!
Hello there, my dearest readers! I hope you enjoyed the book and the Extended Epilogue! I will be waiting for your comments here. Thank you 😊