by Ingrid Hahn
Patience went to stand by the man she would marry. She took his hand. He intertwined their fingers, and they gazed at each other. “With the whole of my heart.”
Epilogue
Five years later, on the Dalmatian Coast
The Marchioness of Ashcroft sat on the nearly deserted stretch of Adriatic coast with all those she loved most in the world surrounding her. Her husband sat on the bench nearby, sketching.
After the splint had come off, he’d worked for hours every day to regain use of his arm, starting with sketching their cat, lazy old King, may he rest in peace, whose likeness had delighted the children of Patience’s friends. Giles had spent a year with nothing but pencil and pen, writing and drawing, before he’d dared to return to paint. Having to work carefully lightened and loosened his style from what it had been before the accident. His arm ached him from time to time, especially when it rained, but that, he always said, he was happy to live with.
When she’d quickly become pregnant after they married, they’d moved to France. The better to raise children away from the lingering scandals of their parents and long English memories. Since then, they’d twice traveled farther east. First to the city of Ravenna for a time. Then, after the British withdrew from the occupied Dalmatian islands, across the sea.
Their son, christened Giles Benjamin Charles Emery Warrington Hale but called Ben—age four—chased their daughter, Louisa Margaret—age two and three quarters—on the sand. The little ones screamed and laughed. The children’s nursery maid, Mademoiselle Amélie, ran with them, her hair loose and trailing behind her when the wind wasn’t lifting it this way and that. The gold curls caught the sunlight just so. At sixteen, Amélie was more a loving playmate to the children than anything else, and neither Giles nor Patience would have it any other way.
Patience held baby Michael to her breast where the greedy, fat-cheeked newborn guzzled noisily, busily nursing himself into a milk stupor. She’d fed two children from her own body already—and Louisa still came for a sip at bedtime or when she was ill—but it never stopped being surprising that so small and helpless a creature could have such a powerful little rosebud mouth. Michael kept her up all night, but she already adored him despite sleep deprivation.
Her father sat nearby, carefully folding paper into boats that the children would float on the tiny lakes and ponds when the tide rolled out. His hat rested by his feet along with a bound copy of The Haunted Tower, all the chapters newly collected in a single volume. (Three dozen more copies were at home waiting for the marquess to distribute to all his friends—Giles boasted about Patience quite shamelessly.) Mr. Emery’s hair had become thinner and even more wiry in the past few years, and he didn’t often bother having it cut. The ocean’s wind fluttered the white length this way and that, making it look like a bird tied to a post, trying frantically to get away.
Patience had penned a letter to her parents about expecting her first child and had received a reply at unusual speed. They’d written saying that her father was selling his shop and her parents were moving to the Continent to be closer to their daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren.
When they’d come, she’d expressed surprise at her father’s decision.
“You and your children are my legacy,” he’d told her. “This is what I worked so hard for—to give your mother and you everything. I didn’t quite achieve it, but that’s what makes what we have now an even more precious gift.”
And now, they enjoyed it together. So far as she knew, he’d never looked back.
Mrs. Emery, overcoming her awe of the duchess—and to be perfectly honest, that had taken some time—had befriended her. Then, in an unexpected twist, they’d become rivals. Friendly rivals—each spurring the other on to more imaginative heights of fantastical embroidery. There was no telling where it would end. For the new baby, they’d each started a panel on a wide swathe of linen. Each project was so ambitious, the family teased them that little Michael would be well out of the nursery before the panels were complete.
There was one thing, though, that had been significantly altered. After Patience had explained her last encounter with the jewel, Giles had agreed that it no longer made a suitable toy for bedroom play. So they’d had the sapphire reset in a necklace…and shared secret smiles whenever Patience had occasion to wear it.
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Acknowledgments
The readers who took the time to review my original proposal package for this book paid me the compliment of giving me honest feedback, telling me not only what they liked, but also what they didn’t like. Such feedback is invaluable. Nothing is worse than having smoke blown up one’s delicate areas. It’s very drying.
To each and everyone one of the people I name below, I love having you in my corner. I hope I can be in yours.
First, I’ll begin where the story did and offer a special thanks to the always fabulous Holly Bryant-Simpson. When she saw on Instagram I was in Atlanta for a mini-break, she suggested we get together. Over coffee, she mentioned an upcoming Entangled Scorched novella about to be released and told me to read it. I preordered it and read it when it landed on my Kindle. Inspiration blossomed. Soon I had three stories in my head. Patience and Giles’s story is one of those dreams come true. Holly, I hope you love your new adventure.
Erica A. Howard patiently and kindly pointed out fiddly problems with writing, character, and plot like a pro who’d been editing for years and years. Thank you for your years of friendship. I look forward to many, many more!
Marta Miller Bliese, Queen of GMC, big on the C, for the line “…Princess Sunflower of Bulgaria who is allergic to oil paints or something?” when you were offering suggestions to strengthen the story. Thank you for your humor and patience. Thank you all the more for fighting against greed and corruption in order to make the world a better place. We need more people like you. Maryland misses you and so do I.
Becky C., who was enormously helpful in pointing out places that needed more emotion, places that turned her off, places where I needed to proceed with caution, and places that needed more motivation. She also gave me the idea to send Giles and Patience to France, which I loved. She was gentle and kind, forthright and honest.
Laurel Wanrow, a writer with a wild imagination that won’t quit, was working up to release day when she beta read my proposal package. Being an independent author, she is a one-woman publishing and marketing house. That means she does minimally five jobs in addition to the work of writing her books. Yet she made time to offer me feedback and encouragement. Thank you!
I can’t recall now whether Carrie Lomax read the proposal package, too (faulty memory, I apologize!), but I know I owe her thanks for lunches, texts, and constant support. Last, but not least, for the dick joke list. I asked, you delivered.
Katrina Sizemore, thank you for reading!
E. Elizabeth Watson—a very, very different writer from me who offered feedback from a different perspective, which can be tricky, but I always appreciate.
And though Nancy C. Weeks did not read my proposal package, she unfailingly offers support and encouragement whenever she can. Nancy brings light into the world with her soul and a capacity for love most can only aspire to. Thank you for lunches, support, writer talk, and friendly company. Everyone who is lucky enough to count you as a part of their lives is very lucky indeed.
Thank you to the team at Entangled, from the cover designers to the copy editor.
And most especially, an enormous thank-you to Tera Cuskaden for getting the book off the ground and a second enormous thank-you to Erin Molta for seeing it safely launched. Each of these talented editors helped shape the story in powerful ways, bringing my vision to life through repeated rounds of detailed, thoughtful, and highly intelligent edits. Thank you for bringing beautiful books full of hope and love into the world. Thank you again for your
thoughtful guidance and unfailing support. I owe you more than I can ever repay. You’ll have my gratitude forever. I hope I make you proud.
About the Author
Ingrid Hahn is a failed administrative assistant with a BA in art history. Her love of reading has turned her mortgage payment into a book storage fee, which makes her the friend who you never want to ask you for help moving. Originally from Seattle, she now lives in the metropolitan DC area with her ship-nerd husband, two small sons, and four opinionated cats. When she’s not reading or writing, she loves knitting, theater, nature walks, travel, history, and is a hopelessly devoted fan of Jane Austen. Find her on Twitter as @Ingrid_Writer, on Instagram as ingrid_hahn, and on Facebook as Ingrid Hahn.
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