Edward looked stricken. “I didn’t get one for you!”
Anna kissed him. “Yes, you did.” She placed his hand next to hers on her belly. He looked confused, then his gaze traveled to her face. She was grinning like an idiot.
He laughed, pulled her close, and they celebrated their new baby in the same manner in which he—or she—was created.
Epilogue
Autumn 1868
“What is this?” Anna’s brain was fuzzy with sleep as she tried to focus on the hand holding the small box in front of her face.
“Happy birthday, Anna.” Edward grinned, leaning in for a kiss.
Anna sat up and gingerly took the box, wrapped in fancy paper. She unwrapped it slowly, careful not to shake it too hard. With Edward and Zachary, one never knew what might be inside. Two years before, Zachary had thoughtfully given her a mouse he had caught in the pantry. Last year he and Edward had given her a puppy.
Opening the box, Anna spied a small gull, elaborately carved of driftwood, bleached by the sun so it gleamed silvery in the sunlight peeking through the window. Her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open as Edward removed it from the box and set it on her palm.
“When I returned to Wallsend last year, I thought the sign in front of your pub looked familiar. Finally I remembered.”
Anna fingered the small bird, identical to the one Edward had carved ten years before. The gull that had sat on her dressing table until it was destroyed by the fire.
“Oh, Edward.” Tears filled her eyes as she smiled. “It’s beautiful.”
“You named your pub after this bird, didn’t you?”
“My silver gull. As long as I had it, I had hope you would return to me. And then you did.” She pulled him close and kissed him, the joy in her heart so intense she was afraid it would burst. At least until young Sarah began to wail, awakened by the commotion.
Edward pulled away with obvious reluctance and plucked his daughter out of her bassinet next to the bed. He nuzzled her for a moment, then placed her in Anna’s arms. She quieted and began to suckle. Anna inhaled the milky scent of her and kissed her soft red hair, so like Anna’s. In moments such as these, Anna was amazed it was possible to be so happy.
It could so easily have gone another way. Sometimes when Anna couldn’t sleep, she would step onto the widow’s walk outside the bedroom of the new manor—an architectural feature Edward had admired in America. Anna had not been pleased by the name, but she stood upon it and gazed at the sea and the priory, remembering.
The police had found a room in Weston’s house dedicated to Anna, filled with drawings and paintings of her, both with and without clothing. Anna knew the man had harbored unrealistic fantasies of marrying her, but she had had no idea just how insane he had been. They had found diaries in his house, going back a dozen years, in which he described killing Edward’s parents, destroying Edward’s letters from America. He expressed his growing frustration that the attempts he had made on Edward’s life had not been successful. He had never meant to kill John Baxter, but the man had gotten in the way when Weston had been lying in wait for Edward. By the time he set fire to Anna’s pub, his angry scribblings were the ravings of a lunatic.
Until Weston’s body had finally washed ashore six months ago, Anna had nightmares he had survived and was still seeking revenge. But since then, she had slept peacefully. Now when she went out on the walk, she took Sarah with her, pointing toward the sea, the boats, and the swooping gulls with their plaintive cries.
Her reveries were interrupted by Zachary, who burst into the room with the now-fully-grown puppy in tow. Bruno placed his enormous front paws on the bed and licked both Anna and Sarah with one swipe of his huge tongue, causing the baby to giggle. Edward pushed the dog off the bed and took Sarah, setting her once again into her bassinet before taking his own seat at Anna’s feet.
“Happy birthday, Mam!” Zachary clambered onto the bed to sit beside her, holding out a box of his own which he had obviously wrapped himself, although it was only marginally less messy than Edward’s offering.
“Is this for me?”
“Yes! It’s your birthday!”
She smiled and wrapped one arm around him, squeezing tight. “Well, it does seem too small for a puppy this time. It’s not another mouse, is it?”
“No. Papa said you might not like that.” She looked up at Edward, who winked.
She unwrapped the paper and opened the box. A small shell gleamed within it, hanging on a simple silver chain.
She pulled it out and held it in front of her. The shell spun gently, its opalescence sparkling in the sun.
“It’s beautiful, Zach. Did you make it yourself?”
Her boy puffed out his chest proudly. “I found it when Papa and I were walking on the beach, and he helped me make the hole.” He frowned slightly. “I didn’t make the chain, though.”
“It’s truly lovely, and I shall cherish it, even if you didn’t make the chain. Come, help me.” She draped it around her neck and lifted up her hair so Zach could fasten it. She kissed him on one rosy cheek. “Thank you, darling.”
Edward smiled. “It looks very nice, Zach. Now go ask Mrs. Graham if breakfast is ready, would you, please? We’ll be down soon.”
Zachary and Bruno lumbered out of the room and down the stairs. Edward closed and locked the door behind them, then took Zach’s place on the bed.
He fingered Anna’s new necklace, then kissed the spot beneath it, slowly moving his lips lower. Anna shuddered, her skin beginning to tingle at his touch.
“I thought we were going to breakfast.” She slid down the bed to lie beside him.
“We are. Eventually.”
Author’s Note
Although I tried to be as accurate as possible in portraying Civil War history in this book, I freely admit to playing a bit fast and loose with it in the interests of my story. There was a Union blockade of the U.S. Southern coast, including the Chesapeake Bay, beginning in April 1861, and plenty of British ships attempted to run it—the majority of them actually made it through successfully. There was a Prisoner of War Depot on Johnson’s Island in Lake Erie, and it housed more than 9,000 Confederate prisoners from April 1862 to September 1865. Over 200 of them are still buried there.
But in truth, an Englishman caught running the naval blockade would not have been imprisoned for very long, or anywhere near Ohio. To any Civil War buffs out there, please do forgive my literary license.
~Marin McGinnis
A word about the author…
Clevelanders are tough, a bit cynical, and just a little crazy, and Marin McGinnis is no exception. When she’s not chasing after big dogs or watching tweens skate around hockey rinks, she is immersing herself in romantic tales of years gone by. She lives in Northeast Ohio with her husband and son.
You can find her at marinmcginnis.com,
on her group blog, throughheartshapedglasses.com,
on Twitter @MarinMcGinnis,
or at facebook.com/MarinMcG.
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