Five Years Later

Snow fell in gentle flurries outside the windows of Brokeshire Manor, coating the formal gardens in a blanket of pristine white. Inside, a great fire roared in the drawing room hearth, casting a golden glow across the assembled family sprawled comfortably on various settees and armchairs.

“Papa, you pledged your word!” came the insistent pronouncement of young Thomas, now seven years of age, his small fingers tugging with determined persistence at his father’s sleeve. “You distinctly said that tonight we should have the promised tale.”

Jameson cast a downward glance at his eldest son, his expression a carefully cultivated mask of exaggerated surprise. “Did I, indeed? My memory, it appears, fails to furnish any recollection of such a solemn vow.”

“But you did!” insisted five-year-old Charlotte, her dark curls bouncing with spirited energy as she abandoned her regiment of wooden soldiers to join her brother’s determined campaign. “Just last night, when we were supposed to be fast asleep and you came to ensure we were tucked in properly.”

“Ah, so you were eavesdropping again,” Jameson said, raising an eyebrow. “Perhaps I should reconsider, then.”

“It’s not eavesdropping if you’re talking in our bedroom,” Thomas reasoned with impeccable logic. “And Baby Henry wants to hear it too.”

The “baby” in question—a sturdy two-year-old with his mother’s golden hair and his father’s determined chin—looked up from his position on the carpet at the sound of his name, then returned his attention to the wooden blocks he was enthusiastically stacking and knocking down.

“I hardly believe Henry is concerned with stories just yet,” Jameson replied, suppressing a smile.

“Please, Papa!” Charlotte wheedled, climbing onto his lap without ceremony. “You promised the Christmas story.”

From her place by the fire, where she was embroidering what appeared to be a pair of slippers, Baroness Gemma Sinclair watched the scene with undisguised amusement. “You did promise, darling,” she reminded her husband. “And now you have an audience.”

She gestured toward the other occupants of the room: Christopher and Abigail, cuddled together on a love seat with their twin daughters—four-year-old terrors named Margaret and Elizabeth—drowsing against them; William, now married to the former Miss Penelope Clarke, who sat with their infant son cradled in her arms; and of course, the indomitable duo of Helena Sinclair and Lady Belinda Brookfield, who had arrived two days prior for the Christmas celebrations and showed no signs of departing before Twelfth Night.

“Very well,” Jameson conceded with a theatrical sigh. “Since I am outnumbered and outmaneuvered. The Christmas story it is.”

“The one about how you and Mama fell in love,” Thomas clarified eagerly.

“I believe your mother and I have differing accounts of that particular tale,” Jameson replied, his eyes finding Gemma’s across the room.

“Then you shall have to tell it together,” declared Lady Belinda from her position by the window, where she had been engaged in a spirited game of chess with Helena. “Though I warn you, children, your father’s version contains significantly more self-aggrandizement than is strictly accurate.”

“And your mother’s version,” Helena added, capturing Belinda’s knight with a triumphant flourish, “omits certain key details about her own stubbornness.”

“Grandmamma!” Gemma protested, though her eyes danced with laughter. “You’re meant to be on my side.”

“I am on the side of historical accuracy, my dear,” Helena sniffed. “And accurate history acknowledges that both parties were insufferably proud.”

“I prefer ‘appropriately dignified,'” Jameson corrected.

“You were a beast,” Gemma said fondly. “Storming into my father’s study like Zeus descended from Olympus, demanding satisfaction for a perceived slight to your business interests.”

“He had reneged on a contract,” Jameson defended himself.

“He was ill!”

“He was avoiding his obligations.”

“Children,” interrupted Abigail, her gentle voice cutting through the familiar debate, “perhaps we should begin at the beginning?”

“An excellent suggestion, Aunt Abigail,” Thomas agreed with the gravity of a much older child. He settled himself at his father’s feet, prepared for a lengthy tale.

“Very well,” Jameson said, pulling Charlotte more securely onto his lap. “It was a winter much like this one—”

“It was autumn,” Gemma corrected. “The leaves were just turning.”

“I distinctly recall snow.”

“That was months later, dear. After the betrothal.”

“Are you certain? I remember snow on your cloak when you arrived at Brokeshire.”

“That was rain,” Gemma insisted. “It had been pouring for days.”

Christopher cleared his throat meaningfully. “If I may intercede before the children grow old and gray waiting for this tale to commence? It was, in fact, early October. The weather was unseasonably warm, and you, brother, were in a foul mood because the quarterly reports had shown a decline in Baltic trade.”

Jameson blinked. “How on earth do you remember that?”

“Because,” Christopher replied with a smirk, “it was the day I bet William five pounds that you would be wedded within the year. A bet I won, I might add.”

“You wagered on my matrimony?” Jameson asked, outraged.

William coughed discreetly. “In my defense, I did not believe any woman would have you, given your temperament at the time.”

“My temperament was perfectly reasonable!”

“You dismissed three secretaries in a fortnight,” William reminded him. “And reduced a shipping clerk to tears.”

“He had misfiled the Amsterdam contracts!”

“Children,” Gemma interrupted, “this is becoming rather a different story than the one you asked for.”

“I like this story better,” Charlotte decided, her eyes bright with interest. “Was Papa really so cross all the time?”

“Only until he met your mother,” Christopher assured her. “After that, he was merely cross most of the time.”

“I was focused,” Jameson corrected. “There is a difference.”

“Your focus did seem to shift rather dramatically,” William observed with a small smile. “From Baltic trade routes to the comings and goings of a certain Miss Harrington.”

“It was a matter of business,” Jameson insisted, though his lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “Sir Edward Harrington owed me a considerable sum.”

“And payment was best collected in the form of his daughter’s hand?” Gemma asked archly. “How very medieval of you, my love.”

The children looked between their parents with growing fascination.

“Did Papa buy you, Mama?” Charlotte asked innocently.

A chorus of hastily suppressed laughter filled the room.

“Certainly not,” Gemma replied firmly. “Your father merely… convinced my Mama that a matrimonial alliance would be mutually beneficial.”

“With the aid of several rather compelling legal documents,” William added.

“And a midnight visit from several large, intimidating men,” Christopher supplied helpfully.

“They were there to provide security!” Jameson protested. “Sir Edward had received threats.”

“How convenient,” Gemma murmured.

“Do continue,” Lady Belinda urged, abandoning all pretense of interest in the chess game. “The children should know what sort of scoundrel their father was.”

“I prefer ‘determined businessman,'” Jameson said. “And I maintain that the arrangement was entirely above board.”

“The banns were read before I had even accepted your proposal,” Gemma reminded him.

“A mere formality to expedite matters.”

“You sent a carriage to collect me with instructions not to return without me!”

“I was eager to show you Brokeshire,” he replied with an unrepentant grin. “The autumn gardens are particularly fine.”

“It was pouring rain,” she reminded him. “And you were nowhere to be found when I arrived. I was greeted by your butler, who looked as though he’d been expecting the coronation rather than a bedraggled, unwilling bride.”

“Unavoidable business in London,” Jameson explained to the children. “A matter of national security, in fact.”

“He was hiding,” Gemma stage-whispered. “Afraid to face me after the high-handed way he had behaved.”

“I was not hiding,” Jameson insisted with dignity. “I was strategically delaying our first meeting until more favorable circumstances could be arranged.”

“And pray tell, how did that venture fare for you?” Christopher asked innocently.

Jameson grimaced. “Less well than anticipated.”

“Papa was late for his own betrothal ball,” Thomas informed the room with great satisfaction, clearly having heard this part of the story before.

“Unavoidably detained,” Jameson corrected.

“By a tavern wench in Cheapside,” Christopher supplied.

“By urgent business matters,” Jameson growled, casting his friend a warning glance that spoke volumes about the presence of impressionable ears.

“The tavern wench was in possession of certain documents,” William clarified smoothly. “Documents that proved rather vital to Lord Brokeshire’s interests.”

“And those of the Crown,” Penelope added, speaking up for the first time. As the daughter of a prominent diplomat, she had been tangentially involved in the affair, though she and William had not yet been acquainted at the time.

“The point,” Jameson continued firmly, “is that I arrived at the ball somewhat later than intended.”

“Four hours late,” Gemma specified. “In mud-splattered boots and with a black eye.”

“The documents were not surrendered willingly,” William explained to the children.

“And Mama was very angry,” Charlotte concluded, clearly delighted by this detail.

“I was livid,” Gemma confirmed. “I had been paraded before society like a prize heifer, forced to smile and pretend I was delighted with a match I had not chosen, only to be humiliated when my affianced failed to appear.”

“So what did you do?” Thomas asked eagerly.

A slow smile spread across Gemma’s face. “I danced with every eligible bachelor in the room. Twice.”

“You did not!” Helena exclaimed. “I would remember such scandalous behavior.”

“You had retired with a headache,” Gemma reminded her. “Brought on, if I recall, by the shocking news that your beloved daughter had been jilted by her fiancé.”

“I did not jilt you,” Jameson protested. “I was merely delayed.”

“Minor details,” Gemma dismissed. “The result was the same. I was abandoned at my own betrothal ball and took measures to salvage my dignity.”

“By dancing with Lord Pembroke’s dissolute son?” Jameson’s voice held a trace of the old outrage. “The man was three sheets to the wind and had his hands positioned most inappropriately.”

“I needed a partner for the waltz,” Gemma replied innocently. “And he was available.”

“He was practically drooling on your gown!”

“Was he, indeed? I hadn’t noticed.”

The children were watching this exchange with rapt attention, heads swiveling back and forth as though at a tennis match.

“So that’s when Papa punched him?” Thomas asked hopefully.

“Certainly not,” Jameson replied, affronted. “I am a gentleman. I merely… suggested he find another partner.”

“While dangling him by his cravat over the punch bowl,” Christopher added helpfully.

“He tripped,” Jameson insisted. “Most unfortunate.”

“Into the punch bowl?” Gemma asked skeptically.

“The floor was slippery.”

“With punch, after you had dumped him in it!”

“These details are immaterial,” Jameson said loftily. “The point is, I arrived, I claimed my fiancée, and order was restored.”

“Order?” Gemma laughed. “You caused a riot! Lady Jersey fainted, Lord Pembroke challenged you to a duel, and your mother disowned you on the spot.”

“Temporarily,” Helena clarified. “I reconsidered once I learned the full circumstances.”

“Which were?” Lady Belinda prompted.

Helena and Jameson exchanged a look.

“Perhaps not suitable for young ears,” Helena said delicately.

“Suffice it to say,” Jameson continued, “there were certain elements of intrigue involved that warranted my delayed arrival and subsequent… forceful intervention.”

“You were jealous,” Gemma translated for the children.

“I was concerned for your reputation,” he corrected. “Dancing three waltzes in a row with the same partner was most improper.”

“It was two,” she countered. “And only because you had left me without an escort.”

“I sent Christopher!”

“Who was otherwise occupied attempting to woo Lady Pembroke’s companion.”

All eyes turned to Christopher, who had the grace to look sheepish.

“Successfully, I might add,” he said, smiling at Abigail. “Though it took another year to convince her I was sincere.”

“After you had dallied with half the ladies in London,” Abigail reminded him, though her tone was affectionate.

“Only a quarter,” he protested. “And none after I met you.”

“And so,” Jameson continued, returning to the main narrative, “despite an inauspicious beginning, the engagement ball concluded without bloodshed.”

“Only because William intervened before Lord Pembroke could fetch his pistols,” Gemma added.

“A duel would have been excessive,” William agreed mildly. “Though I confess I was tempted to allow it, given my lord’s behavior that evening.”

“Betrayed on all sides,” Jameson sighed dramatically. “Is it any wonder I developed a reputation as a harsh and unforgiving master?”

“You had that reputation well before I entered the picture,” Gemma reminded him. “Something about demanding impossible standards and dismissing servants for the slightest infractions.”

“I expected competence,” Jameson said. “Hardly an unreasonable standard.”

“You expected perfection,” William corrected. “From yourself most of all.”

A contemplative silence fell over the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the soft sounds of young Henry still playing with his blocks.

“So when did you fall in love?” Charlotte asked, looking between her parents. “Was it at the ball?”

Gemma and Jameson exchanged a glance filled with private meaning.

“Not quite,” Gemma said softly. “Though I will admit, seeing your father defend my honor—however unnecessarily—did make an impression.”

“And your mother’s loyalty to her family,” Jameson added, “even when faced with my rather… forceful persuasion, showed a strength of character I had not anticipated.”

“They argued constantly,” Christopher told the children. “From morning till night, over everything from the matrimonial settlements to the color of the drawing room curtains.”

“Spirited discussions,” Jameson corrected.

“Shouting matches,” William countered.

“Passionate debates,” Gemma suggested diplomatically.

“And then,” Helena continued, “came the incident with the Russian ambassador.”

“Oh!” Lady Belinda clapped her hands in delight. “I had forgotten about Count Orlov!”

“Who’s Count Orlov?” Thomas demanded.

“A most persistent suitor,” Gemma explained. “He arrived in London shortly after my betrothal was announced and took it upon himself to ‘rescue’ me from what he termed ‘an alliance of mercenary convenience.”

“He sent sonnets,” Christopher recalled, grinning. “Terrible ones.”

“And posies,” Abigail added. “Delivered daily to the Harrington townhouse.”

“And finally,” William continued, “an invitation to elope.”

The children gasped in unison.

“Did you go, Mama?” Charlotte asked, wide-eyed.

“Of course not,” Gemma assured her. “Though I will admit, I was tempted to teach your father a lesson for holding me in so little regard.”

“I never held you in so little regard.” Jameson protested. “I was merely… preoccupied with important business matters.”

“More important than your fiancée?” Lady Belinda asked archly.

“National security,” Jameson insisted. “There were French spies involved.”

“There were always French spies involved when you wanted to avoid social obligations,” Gemma reminded him. “Remarkably convenient, these spies.”

“Nevertheless,” Jameson continued, “when I learned of Count Orlov’s intentions, I took immediate action.”

“By locking me in my room?” Gemma suggested sweetly.

“By providing additional security,” he corrected. “Which proved prescient when the Count attempted to scale the garden wall with a rope ladder.”

“No!” Charlotte exclaimed, delighted by this development.

“Oh yes,” Gemma confirmed. “It was all very dramatic. The poor man made it halfway up before your father’s ‘security’ spotted him.”

“What happened then?” Thomas demanded.

“I had him escorted from the premises,” Jameson said.

“After dangling him by his ankles from the top of the wall,” Gemma added.

“He was not dangled,” Jameson insisted. “He… lost his footing.”

“While being held upside down by your men,” Gemma countered.

“A misunderstanding,” Jameson said firmly. “In any case, the Count received the message and departed for Russia shortly thereafter.”

“With a newfound respect for English marriage customs,” Christopher added with a grin.

“And so,” Helena continued, “the matrimonial ceremony proceeded as planned, despite numerous obstacles and your father’s best efforts to sabotage his own happiness.”

“I did no such thing,” Jameson protested.

“You were an hour late to the ceremony,” Gemma reminded him.

“French spies?” Thomas guessed.

“Indeed,” Jameson confirmed gravely. “A matter of utmost urgency.”

“He overslept,” William corrected. “After spending the night before playing cards at White’s.”

“Celebrating my last night of bachelorhood,” Jameson defended. “A time-honored tradition.”

“And losing a small fortune to Lord Pembroke,” Christopher added.

“A reparation for the punch bowl incident,” Jameson admitted. “Though entirely worth it.”

“The wedding itself was lovely,” Abigail said, steering the conversation back on track. “St. George’s in Hanover Square, filled with flowers and all the ton in attendance.”

“Despite predictions that I would jilt your mother at the altar,” Jameson added.

“The betting books at White’s were heavily favoring that outcome,” Christopher confirmed. “Five to one against you showing up.”

“You bet against me?” Jameson asked, outraged.

“I bet on you,” Christopher corrected. “And made a tidy profit.”

“As you should have,” Jameson sniffed. “I am a man of my word.”

“When it suits you,” Gemma murmured.

“Always,” he insisted, meeting her eyes. “Especially when it matters most.”

Something in his gaze softened her expression.

“Yes,” she agreed quietly. “When it matters most.”

A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the soft snores of the twins, who had fallen asleep against their parents.

“So when did you fall in love?” Charlotte persisted, returning to her original question.

Jameson and Gemma exchanged another glance.

“It was the night of the fire,” Gemma said finally. “Three months after we were husband and wife.”

“The east wing,” Jameson nodded. “Lightning struck during that terrible storm.”

“I had been staying there,” Gemma explained to the children, “while your father and I were… adjusting to matrimonial life.”

“Arguing,” Christopher translated.

“Establishing boundaries,” Gemma corrected. “In any case, I awoke to smoke and flames. The corridor was already impassable.”

“I was in London,” Jameson continued, his voice tight even after all these years. “When the messenger arrived, I thought…” He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.

“He rode through the night,” William told the children. “Thirty miles in a storm so fierce that trees were uprooted and bridges washed away.”

“Arrived looking like a drowned rat,” Christopher added. “Half dead from exhaustion, his horse nearly foundered beneath him.”

“I was not there,” Jameson said simply. “When my wife needed me most, I was not there.”

“But you came,” Gemma said softly, rising from her chair to perch on the arm of his. “Through flood and fire, you came.”

“Too late,” he said. “The east wing was already engulfed when I arrived.”

“And yet,” she continued, taking his hand, “there you were, fighting your way past your own servants, determined to find me.”

“You had already escaped,” he reminded her. “Through the servants’ stairs.”

“And instead of waiting safely on the lawn with the others,” Christopher picked up the tale, “my foolish friend charged into a burning building.”

“Because,” Jameson said, looking up at Gemma, “I did not know you were safe. And in that moment, I realized nothing else mattered. Not Brokeshire, not the shipping contracts, not all the wealth of England. Nothing mattered if you were not here to share it.”

“And I,” Gemma continued, her voice soft with the memory, “having reached safety, discovered that instead of feeling relieved, I was terrified—terrified that you would arrive and do exactly what you did.”

“Charge headlong into danger without a thought for your own safety,” Helena supplied. “A family trait, I’m afraid.”

“I couldn’t bear it,” Gemma said simply. “The thought of losing you. And that’s when I knew.”

“Knew what?” Charlotte asked, though her tone suggested she already understood.

“That I loved him,” Gemma said. “Despite all the arguments and misunderstandings. Despite everything.”

“And I,” Jameson added, “discovered that a life without your mother was no life at all.”

“So you see,” Gemma told the children, “sometimes love comes not in grand gestures or at first sight, but in the quiet realization that your life is irrevocably bound to another’s.”

“And sometimes,” Jameson added, “it takes nearly losing everything to recognize what truly matters.”

“That’s when you stopped arguing?” Thomas asked hopefully.

A ripple of laughter spread through the adults.

“Good heavens, no,” Gemma said. “We still argued constantly.”

“But differently,” Jameson clarified. “With more understanding. More…”

“Love,” Gemma finished for him.

“Precisely,” he agreed, raising her hand to his lips.

The children looked between their parents with varying degrees of satisfaction and disgust.

“And then you had me,” Thomas said, bringing the story around to what was, in his opinion, clearly the most important part.

“Indeed,” Jameson agreed solemnly. “And a finer son no man could ask for.”

“And me!” Charlotte insisted.

“A perfect daughter,” Gemma assured her.

“And Henry,” Thomas added, not to be outdone.

“The finest children in all England,” Jameson declared. “Though admittedly biased in my assessment.”

“A fortunate outcome,” Lady Belinda observed, “from such an inauspicious beginning.”

“Indeed,” Helena agreed. “Who could have predicted that my stubborn son and Sir Edward’s equally headstrong daughter would forge not just an alliance, but a genuine love match?”

“I predicted it,” Christopher claimed. “Hence my successful wager.”

“You predicted our matrimony,” Jameson corrected. “Not our happiness.”

“I predicted both,” Christopher insisted. “I am remarkably insightful about these matters.”

“You’re remarkably lucky at gambling,” Abigail corrected fondly. “There’s a difference.”

“And speaking of gambling,” William interjected, “I believe it’s time to collect on our latest wager, Penelope.”

His wife looked up from the sleeping infant in her arms with a small smile. “Must we do this now?”

“No time like the present,” William replied cheerfully. “Unless you’d prefer to concede?”

“Never,” she declared. “Very well, let us settle it.”

“Settle what?” Thomas asked curiously.

“A small matter of domestic contention,” William explained. “My wife believes she can recite, from memory, the precise terms of the original contract between your father and grandfather. I maintain that such a feat is impossible, given the document’s notorious complexity.”

“A contract?” Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “That sounds dreadfully dull.”

“Not at all,” Penelope assured her. “It’s quite the most entertaining legal document I’ve ever encountered. Listen: ‘Whereas the party of the first part, Sir Edward Harrington, having found himself in considerable financial distress due to circumstances both unforeseen and imprudent, hereby agrees to the following terms as set forth by the party of the second part, Baron Jameson Sinclair of Brokeshire…'”

As Penelope continued her recitation, demonstrating a truly remarkable memory for legal minutiae, Jameson leaned close to Gemma.

“Not exactly the romantic tale the children were expecting,” he murmured.

“I don’t know,” she replied thoughtfully. “There’s something rather poetic about it. Whereas the party of the first part agrees to surrender his only daughter in matrimony to the aforementioned Baron…”

“I believe the actual wording was ‘to permit the union between his daughter and the aforementioned Baron,'” Jameson corrected. “I was not quite the villain you paint me as.”

“No,” Gemma agreed, her eyes soft as she surveyed their children—Thomas now engaged in a spirited debate with William about the precise nature of ‘consideration’ in contract law; Charlotte drowsing against her father’s shoulder; Henry still contentedly building and destroying towers on the carpet. “Not quite.”

She leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. “But you were arrogant, high-handed, and insufferably sure of yourself.”

“And you,” he replied, catching her hand, “were stubborn, defiant, and determined to thwart me at every turn.”

“A perfect match,” Helena declared, overhearing.

“A miracle,” Jameson corrected, his eyes never leaving Gemma’s face. “That’s what you are. What all of this is.”

“Not a miracle,” Gemma disagreed gently. “Just life. Messy and complicated and utterly, wonderfully ours.”

Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing Brokeshire in pristine white. Inside, the fire crackled, the children drowsed, and the family that had begun as a business arrangement celebrated another Christmas—together, imperfect, and completely, unexpectedly happy. And it was more than enough. It was everything.

The End