Page 83 of A Night of Secret Surrender
As they came up the driveway to Langley, she leaned forward, watching the windows above the portico and positioning herself to move the second the conveyance came to a halt.
‘Are you expecting someone?’ He asked this because he so plainly could see that she was.
‘When the carriage stops we will go into the house and straight upstairs. I have to tell you now. I don’t want to wait.’
‘Very well.’
He could not for the life of him understand what might be awaiting him but, if it was important to Celeste, then it would be important to him, too.
She smiled at his answer and for the first time since last night touched him gently on his hand.
‘I am not mad or delusional or whatever you may be thinking. It will all be explained when we go upstairs. But we must hurry.’
The second the conveyance ceased moving she was out, hurrying for the front steps, the front door, the tall and winding staircase, a darker passage and then another door.
‘Stay here for just a moment. Please.’
He heard quiet voices inside and then the door reopened and a maid scurried away, curiosity bathing her homely face as she glanced across to him.
A second later Celeste was there, her hand held out waiting for his.
‘He needs to see us together.’
The cot was small and beautifully decorated with Brussels lace and the finest lawn. When she pulled back the blankets a child lay there watching them. A light-haired child with eyes the colour of his own and a nose and mouth that reminded him so forcibly of something he sought to put a name to.
The picture in his bedchamber in London. The one done in red chalk and fine lines. Himself as a small baby all those years before.
‘He is ours, Summer. His name is Loring, which means son of a great warrior in old French. He is almost five months old.’
‘My God.’ He came closer and the movement had the baby’s eyes following him. ‘My son. Our son.’
‘Yes.’
Happiness and joy were imprinted upon Celeste’s face as she lifted him up and cradled the baby against her, one hand behind his head and the other tight beneath his bottom. She kissed his hair with reverence and relief and pure utter delight and then kissed him again.
‘You restored my honour, Summer, and Loring restored my hope. So the answer to your proposal is, yes, we will marry you, if you can accept us together.’
At that he placed his arms about them, a circle of love and protection, a circle that would never be broken, not today, not tomorrow and not, God willing, in all the years of their marriage.
‘I love you both, but I never expected a gift like this. A son. Our son.’
At that she handed the little bundle over, showing him how to hold up Loring’s head and keep him safe. Small fingers rose and clutched at his own, the nails with perfect crescents of white.
For the second time in two days he felt undone, he who in all his years of warfare had barely shed a tear.
It was the end of a long and lonely journey. He had finally come home.
* * *
Lady Faulkner met them as they walked down the stairs, her face alight with interest.
‘Luxford?’ Her glance went to their joined hands and then to the baby. ‘He is the father, I presume?’ She looked straight at Celeste. ‘The resemblance is there for anyone with eyes to see.’
‘He is, Grandmère, and it was not impossible, after all.’
At that, the years on the older woman’s face fell away, the creases of tension softening.
‘It could not be more marvellous,’ she said finally. ‘If I could have conjured up someone for my granddaughter, Summerley, the man on the top of the list would have been you.’
