by Anne Barbour
Hand in hand they mounted the great staircase, and at the top, Helen turned to Edward.
“Before I go to my chambers, though, I'd like to look in on William.”
Edward climbed with his beloved to the nursery, where William slept the angelic sleep of the very young. Peering at the chubby form lying beneath his quilt, his thumb in his mouth, Helen whispered, “Good night, my little lord. Our crusade is over.” She breathed a kiss into the gossamer covering of his hair. “You are home at last, and here you will stay—and marry—and make more Camberwells and live, we hope, to be a very old man.”
“With your aunt and uncle hovering over you every step of the way,” Edward added.
Smoothing the quilt over the infant earl, Helen turned and, with Edward, left the nursery. They separated after one last, lingering kiss.
“Good night, my dearest love,” Helen breathed. So profound was her happiness, she was almost unable to form the words.
“Until tomorrow, my own—although I suppose I shan't sleep much. I must say, I very much enjoy everything about being betrothed except separating at the end of the day. But that won't continue for long, will it?” He claimed her mouth once more before releasing her.
“No, my dearest,” she replied dizzily. “And then we shall have the rest of our lives together—to marry and make new Beresfords—”
“Many new Beresfords,” murmured Edward, nuzzling her ear.
“Who will be the great joy of our lives as we grow old.”
With great ceremony, Mr. Edward Beresford, first cousin once removed of the Earl of Camberwell, bade his love good night.
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Epilogue
About a year after these stirring events took place, Mrs. Edward Beresford sat in a sunny corner of a terrace at Whitehouse Abbey, playing with her favorite nephew. She and her husband had ridden over from their home, Briarcliff, the day before on one of their frequent visits to the manor, and now she was engaged in a game of pitch and toss with William, the young Earl of Camberwell. She moved rather carefully to accommodate her thickening waist. William, now a robust year and a half, squealed in pleasure as his fat little legs took him across the stone terrace and on to the lawn beyond. Here he found himself briefly entangled with a young footman who righted him with obvious affection.
The footman addressed himself respectfully to Helen. “Begging your pardon, ma'am, but Mr. Beresford asks if you could please come to the Morning Room. He says,” continued the footman rather self-consciously, “he has a surprise for you.”
Turning William over to the ministrations of Finch, who hovered nearby, Helen made her way indoors, where she was met by Barney, who was just emerging from the stillroom.
“Helen!” she exclaimed. “I have just tasted Mrs. Hobart's latest batch of cordial and I must say she has—why, what is it?” she queried, noting Helen's look of puzzlement.
At Helen's explanation, the two walked swiftly to the Morning Room, where they found Edward seated with a thin, elderly gentleman of sober mien.
“Helen! Barney!” cried Edward in pleased accents. “See who has come to visit!”
Helen turned a questioning gaze on the gentleman, whose bald pate was complemented by a pair of remarkably bushy, snow-white eyebrows, and after a moment, her eyes widened. She turned to exchange a glance with an equally surprised Barney.
“Why—is it ... ?”
“The Reverend Harold Binwick, at your service, ma'am. I understand you have been looking for me.” . For a long moment, Helen could only gape at the smiling gentleman, while beside her. Barney gabbled inarticulately. Edward laughed delightedly.
“The good reverend,” he said, “appeared on our doorstep not ten minutes ago.”
“But—but—” sputtered Helen. “Did you not call off the search several months ago,” she asked Edward, “after your agent all but refused to spend any more time on it?”
“That's true.” His eyes twinkled with a look Helen had come to know.
“Then, how... ?"—she turned to the cleric—"How ... ?” she repeated helplessly. “Where have you been all this time?”
At this, the Reverend Mr. Binwick permitted himself a dry chuckle. “For the past two years, ever since I returned from Portugal, I have resided in the village of Hursley.”
"Hursley!" cried Helen and Barney in unison.
“But that is only forty miles from here!” finished Barney.
Helen stared at Edward. “You mean, all the time we have been moving heaven and earth to find the reverend, he has been almost within touching distance of us?” She swung again to the old gentleman.
“But how did you know we were looking for you—and after all this time?”
The Reverend Mr. Binwick smiled apologetically. “Actually, it was my housekeeper. One day not long ago, she passed through the village of Kingsclere, where she fell into conversation with the postmistress. At some point during their discourse, through the merest coincidence, my housekeeper mentioned my name, which the postmistress recognized. Apparently, her sister works here at the Abbey as an undercook.”
“My stars!” exclaimed Barney. “That must be Mrs. Wortie. She must have picked up the name from one of the other servants who overheard some of our conversations. Will wonders never cease?”
“Indeed,” murmured Helen faintly. “Mr. Binwick, do— do you remember performing the marriage ceremony between my sister, Beatrice, and her husband, Christopher?”
“Ah, yes.” The cleric turned to pick up a vellum packet. “I am sorry that something evidently went amiss with the copies of records of my activities that I sent to Doctors’ Commons on a regular basis. However, I retained the originals of all those records. I have taken the liberty of copying out the page that refers to that ceremony.”
He proffered the packet to Helen, who opened it with trembling fingers.
“Yes,” she said in a shaking voice. “Here it is—'the sacrament of matrimony, performed between Beatrice Eleanor Prestwick, spinster, of Evora, Portugal, and Christopher John Beresford, Earl of Camberwell, of Kingsclere, Hampshire, England.'”
Tears filled her eyes, and Edward covered her hand with his. Barney, too, was obliged to blow her nose most industriously.
“To be sure,” said Edward, “we were never asked to produce the marriage lines in support of William's claim, since we had the certificate and Helen's deposition. But it's nice to have them, even at this late date, nonetheless.”
“Yes. Even at this late date.” The tears spilled from Helen's eyes to run down her cheeks, but within a few moments she had brushed them away resolutely.
“It was most kind of you to make the trip here,” she said to the cleric. “I hope you will stay with us for awhile.”
“Oh, no,” replied the Reverend Mr. Binwick. “I never stay away from home overnight if I can avoid it. Your husband has kindly offered me a cup of tea, and that will— ah, here it is.”
The little group turned to observe Stebbings's entrance into the morning room, accompanied by two footmen and a serving cart complete with tea and all the accoutrements. As he turned to leave, Helen spoke a quiet request, and within a few minutes, the party was graced by Finch, carrying the young earl.
Helen turned to Mr. Binwick. “May we present William, the twelfth Earl of Camberwell—the product of the union between the couple you married so many months ago.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the cleric, a trifle nervously. When it became obvious he was not expected to hold the child, however, he relaxed. “What a fine young man!'” he concluded jovially.
“It is too bad,” remarked Edward, “that you were not around to perform William's christening. That occurred after his arrival here at the Abbey. However—” Here an irrepressible grin spread over his angular features. “We hope that you will agree to perform that ceremony for the Beresford heir—or heiress, as the case may be.”
“I would be honored,” stated Reverend Binwick solemnly.
A silence ensued, until Barney remarked, “Well, my dears, I suppose the occasional crusade is good for one's character, but I can't help but be grateful that there will be no doubt as to the future Beresford heir's qualifications.”
To which the assemblage could only agree heartily.
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For Aaron B. Larson, without whose incessant nagging and infernal meddling I probably would never have finished this book. Thank you, dear friend.
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Acknowledgment
My thanks to William C. Haggart, who is always so willing to share his encyclopedic knowledge of the Peninsular War, for providing me with information relating to troop locations in Portugal.
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Copyright (C) 2003 by Barbara Yirka
Originally published by Signet (ISBN 0451209621)
Electronically published in 2010 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
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