Chapter Text
It is a warm summer afternoon, and the air is filled with the scents of wildflowers, hay, and fields in mid-harvest, mixed with the faint dust kicked up by the afternoon breeze.
Penelope walks slowly down the familiar well-worn path leading to Aubrey lake. One of her hands is resting on her belly and the other is clutching a small stack of letters that arrived by afternoon post.
She is a bit wobbly and heavy on her feet from the weight of the growing child inside her. It seems like each time is a bit harder to carry, so she steps carefully and moves slowly. Besides, taking her time allows her to savor the warmth of the afternoon sun on her skin and the gentle breeze teasing at the loose strands of her hair.
Laughter drifts through the air from the lake, bright and carefree. She pauses at the top of the hill, watching as Anthony and their children splash in the shallow waters below.
Eloise is six years old—fierce and full of determination. She charges boldly through the water with all the energy of a summer storm, shrieking with delight as she chases after her little brother.
Edmund, only three, with a head of chestnut curls—his father’s son through and through—follows in his sister’s footsteps from the moment he wakes until his eyes close at night. He stumbles, giggling, his chubby legs kicking up tiny waves on the lake’s surface. He doesn’t quite understand the game but is determined to keep up with his big sister.
And there, in the middle of it all, is Anthony. Her husband. His shirt discarded, his breeches clinging to his legs, his dark hair damp from where the children had entirely soaked him. He’s laughing, unguarded and free, delighting in their chaos, his eyes crinkled at the corners, looking younger than he has in years.
She lets herself pause, just for a moment, to take it in. To watch him. To watch them.
This. This is what she fought for. This is what she nearly missed out.
Penelope walks slowly down the path to the lake, letters in hand. It is a good day today. Sometimes, she still wakes up petrified and struggling for air. Suffocating scent of smoke choking her. Sounds of fire roaring and buildings collapsing in her ears. But not as often now. Not as sharply. Not with that breathless, panicked urgency. And Anthony is always there, pulling her into the warm safety of his embrace.
It took time, but the life they’ve built here has softened the edges of those nightmares. There are days now when she forgets she was ever Lady Greer, even the worst of it. The things and memories that once clung to her and haunted her have begun to fade, cooling like dying embers into ash.
Anthony sees her and grins widely as he waves. Water clings to his chest and shoulders, droplets catching the sunlight like scattered diamonds. He looks so effortlessly at ease that she can't help but marvel at his beauty. His laughter still lingers on his lips, and his hair is damp and tousled from playing with the children.
Her husband. The father of her children. The love of her life.
“Look who’s finally emerged from the house! Children, do you see how your mother abandons us in our hour of need?” he calls out, grinning.
Eloise puts her hands on her hips, her copper curls sticking to her forehead. “Papa, you said we needed to save you from a lake monster, but there is no lake monster!” She gestures wildly to the water as if to prove her point.
Penelope smirks, watching the way she challenges Anthony, her little face scrunched in determination. Just like her namesake. Stubborn. Fearless. A force of nature wrapped in six years of mischief.
Anthony feigns deep offense, clutching his chest. “Are you telling me I got completely soaked for nothing? I was certain I saw a great beast in the shallows.”
“You are the lake monster,” Edmund informs him solemnly, before throwing a handful of water at his father’s chest.
Anthony feigns a dramatic gasp and then scoops up Edmund and tosses him into the air making him squeal before catching him again.
Penelope chuckles, shaking her head as she makes her way closer to the water. She finally settles onto the soft patch of grass beside them. She grunts as she lowers herself down. Anthony, still damp from the lake, immediately joins her and kisses her cheek. His lips are cool against the warmth of her flushed skin.
“You should have joined us,” he murmurs, resting a hand on her belly.
She gives him a dry look.“Yes, because waddling into the lake with my swollen belly would have been very graceful.”
Anthony smirks, wrapping an arm around her waist. “I could have carried you in.”
She scoffs. “And I could have drowned you afterward.”
He laughs and presses another kiss to her temple before nodding to the letters in her lap.
“I see the afternoon post has arrived. What is the news from the outside world?”
She opens the first letter from the stack. “This one’s from Prudence.”
Anthony raises an eyebrow. “And how is our dear Prudence?”
He sits closer to her, his fingers idly twirling a few escaped strands of her hair and Penelope sighs contentedly as she begins to read.
“She’s well,” she says, looking over the page. “She writes of Harry, the children, and …” her lips curl into a smirk, “ … how she’s just been informed that Portia is coming to stay with them for a while.”
Anthony lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Poor Prudence. Should we send our condolences?”
“She brought this upon herself,” Penelope says, unable to suppress her amusement. “She should never have made it an option. Anyway, Philippa has just had another child and refuses to let Portia anywhere near the nursery. So naturally, Portia has now decided to go stay with Prudence, who is positively delighted by this turn of events.”
Anthony lets out a low whistle. “So, another round of passing Portia around like a hot coal.”
He chuckles darkly, shaking his head. “I do wonder how long before Harry loses his patience and sends her back to Finch’s this time.”
“Mmm.” Penelope smiles, stretching her fingers in the warm grass. “As long as she never considers crossing my path again…”
She leans back slowly on her hands, raising her face toward the sun and soaking up its warmth. Lady Danbury and Violet had ensured Portia’s social ruin in the season after Penelope went into mourning and had baby Eloise. They never openly disparaged her, of course—it would have drawn too much attention to Penelope. But it was made clear she was no longer welcome in respectable circles.
That had been a hard year. A year of holding her breath, of constantly waiting to be discovered. Waiting for accusations to start. Of nightmares so vivid and horrific and waking up screaming in sweat. Of still hearing his cruel laughter echoing in the corridors of Greer House behind her. Of being afraid to be alone, but even more afraid of being watched.
But delivering her daughter had changed everything. A daughter was her salvation. A daughter meant she could leave that cursed house. Leave the title to Greer's nephew and never look back. It meant retiring to the dowager house, having her own staff, forging a space that was hers. It meant Anthony could be with her discreetly, slipping through shadows to her side, even before her mourning had passed and they could finally be together without secrecy.
He knows her well enough by now to notice when her thoughts turn to the past.
“I know that look,” he murmurs warmly. “You’re thinking too much again.”
She exhales softly, turning her head to meet his gaze and his lips with her own “Not too much. Just… enough.”
“Enough to make your pretty face frown,” he counters, smoothing his thumb over the small crease between her brows. “And I much prefer when you are like this.”
“Like what?”
“Happy,” he says simply.
“I’m always happy when I’m with you.”
Anthony’s expression softens into a smile, his fingers trailing lazily over her wrist and forearm before he reaches for another letter from the stack. “Who else has written?”
She flips through the bundle, smiling as she recognizes the familiar scrawl. “Benedict.”
Anthony groans, already bracing himself. “Let me guess, endless musings about art and his tortured genius?”
Penelope laughs, unfolding the letter and skimming through it,“Oh no, definitely not panicking about his upcoming exhibition in the slightest.”
Anthony smirks. “Ah, so he’s a complete wreck, then. Poor mother with him.”
“Absolutely.” She continues, grinning. “He insists he is perfectly composed, but also mentions—just in passing, of course—that he hasn’t slept in days and has considered setting half his paintings on fire.”
Anthony snorts. “Benedict in an existential crisis, then. At least she's used to it by now.”
Then came Colin’s letter, written from Scotland. Jagged handwriting filling the pages with his usual enthusiasm. He sent love from Francesca and Michael and detailed some adventure that sounded ridiculous, endearing and slightly dangerous.
Anthony scanned through the page over her shoulder, shaking his head. “I swear, I have no idea why he is so restless. But at least he’s closer this year.”
Penelope smiled, watching as Anthony’s eyes lingered on his brother's words, his brow furrowing slightly. No matter how much Colin wandered and how far he roamed, Anthony would always keep track of him and always worry.
“He seems well,” she reassures him, resting a hand on his arm. “And he promises to visit before the end of autumn to meet his new nephews.”
Anthony scoffs. “If he doesn’t end up halfway across the continent again by next week.”
Penelope laughs, tucking the letter back into the stack. “That is always a possibility.”
"Hyacinth, on the other hand, seems to be determined to cause as much chaos as she can. Poor Violet seems in distress," Penelope said, handing him a letter from Violet.
Anthony groans as he scans the page. “Ah, yes. Hyacinth’s first season. Is it horrible of us that we ran away and left mother to handle her alone?”
Penelope grinned. “Just a little bit.”
He sighed dramatically. “Well, I’m not worried about Hy. I’m more concerned about Ton surviving her.”
“She is certainly keeping them on their toes,” Penelope agrees. “But more importantly, Violet says they’ll be coming to Aubrey Hall soon now that the season is over.”
Anthony groaned again, letting his head fall back against the grass. “Excellent. More matchmaking schemes and chaos. They will make me go to country dances. I just know they will.”
Finally, there was one last letter, still unopened in her lap.
Eloise.
Anthony leans in as she unfolds it to read beside her.
My dearest Pen,
I hope you are all in good health and spirits. And before you scold me, yes, I am taking care of myself, and no, I have not murdered anyone (not yet anyway).
I, sharp minded as I am, suspect you are reading this beside my ridiculous brother, so do tell him I miss him terribly and that he should write more often, rather than sulking about the fact that I live so close but he still has to write to me.
Philip and I are well. The children are thriving. I, however, am enormous and thoroughly miserable.
I remember you complaining about this when you were nearing your time, and I always assumed it was just because you were so short. Now I see it is simply the wretched fate of all women who dare venture into motherhood.
My nights are restless. And that is a polite way of putting it. Turning, shifting, trying in vain to find a comfortable position while the baby persistently kicks me. I can't wait for it to be done. Philip and the children are trying their best to pamper me, but you know how I detest being fussed over.
I think of you often, especially during those sleepless hours, when the house is still and quiet. I think of the life you and Anthony have built, and I want you to know something, Penelope—you are the bravest woman I have ever known. And not just because you were willing to go through this torture for the third time.
Anyway just know, there is not a day that passes when I am not proud to call you my sister.
Give my namesake a kiss for me. And tell Edmund he must write me soon—I require another of his excellent drawings.
With love, always,
Eloise
Penelope swallows, her throat tightening as she folds the letter against her chest.
Anthony exhales beside her, tilting his head back with a groan. “Damn her. Now I miss her.
“We shall go there soon enough.”
“I know,” he murmurs, glancing toward their children.
Eloise and Edmund are now sitting just out of water. Meticulously constructing a grand castle of sand, sticks, and stones.
The sun kisses the branches of nearby trees, painting the sky in soft oranges and blush pinks, reflecting in the rippling water of the lake.
Anthony turns to Penelope, his gaze soft, caressing. “I love you.”
She leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder. “I know.”
He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Not even a single gasp of adoration for your loving husband when he professes his love?”
She smirks. “No. But you might earn some serious adoration if you bring me cake for dinner.”
Anthony huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you adore me.”
“I do.”
“I adore you too.”
Penelope closes her eyes, letting herself sink into the warmth of his embrace, into the distant sound of their children’s laughter, into the certainty that it is where she belongs.
They had built something lasting. A life that was theirs, wholly and completely.
And as the sun dips lower over Aubrey Hall, bathing the world in golden light, Penelope knows with absolute certainty ...
They are free. And they are happy.