Page 80 of Lady Diana's Lost Lord

Hannah firmed her chin, releasing Diana’s hand to plant her small fists upon her hips. “I don’t think I ought to,” she said. “My papa doesn’t like you.”

“No,” Father said. “I don’t suppose he does. It was very generous of him to bring you to meet me, all things considered.” He hesitated a moment. “Did you know that you share your name with your grandmother?”

“D’you mean Papa’s mama?”

“Yes. My wife, and your father’s mother. I have a portrait of her—and of your father, when he was about your age. Would you like to see it?” Slowly he extended his hand toward her, as if she were a child half-feral who might be tempted to bite it.

Equally slowly, Hannah set her hand in his and let him rise to his feet and guide her toward the far wall, where the portrait hung in its glowing gilt frame. A snippet of the past rendered in oils, still bright and perfect. Ben found himself drawn along in their wake. He hardly remembered it, this portrait. It had been painted in a happier time, a time that had been lost with bewildering swiftness. And yet, gazing upon the image, he could almost feel it again, that time which had been lost to them.

“That’s her,” Father was saying. “That’s her. My Hannah. Oh, how she would have loved you.” It was a wistful sort of statement, and Father placed his hand upon Hannah’s head and ruffled her hair—just exactly the way Benalways did. Had he been unconsciously emulating his own father? Or at least, the father he had once been before he had buried himself along with the past?

“Is that Papa?” Hannah pointed to indicate a figure within the painting, canting her head up toward Father.

“Yes. Of course, this was before—” Father broke off abruptly, stifling a sniffle. “Before we lost his mother. BeforeIwas lost.” A ragged little sound. “I’m certain he’s been a good papa to you,” he said. “Better by far than ever I was.”

“He’s the very best papa in the whole entire world,” Hannah said solemnly.

“I’m glad. I’m—so glad of it. I wasn’t a very good one, you know. But I think…one thing, I did exactly right,” he confided. “I chose the perfect wife for him. Don’t you think?”

An incredulous, startled laugh caught within Ben’s throat, and he might have argued—not to protest the point as it was, but to claw back the credit he had claimed—except that he was right.

Fatherhadchosen Diana. He might have chosen her for the wrong reasons, but hehadchosen exactly the right woman. As much as Father had been responsible for so much pain, so too had he, in a roundabout sort of way, been responsible for their present happiness. What other woman would have gone to the bother of seeking him out, of staying in a tiny rural village for the benefit of a small child in need? Was there another woman alive strong enough,braveenough, to track down a villain in his lair and make demands of him?

If not for the fact that Father had chosen Diana, then he and Hannah might well still be struggling to eke out whatever meager living he could manage to afford them, still hindered by the certainty that they would never truly be safe. Father might even now be stewing in his bitterness, ready to ruin whatever scraps of a life they might have managed to cobble together at the earliest opportunity.

Diana had saved allof them. This woman—this incredible woman—who had gone to such lengths to mend what had been broken decades ago, when it had been none of her own responsibility to begin with. None of them would be here at this moment, safe and secure and with the promise of that once-elusive happiness shimmering bright now within reach, if Father had not made the choice he had.

Diana’s hand slipped into his, fingers sliding through his own. He could feel it there pressed against his fingers, the ring that he and Hannah hadselected for her—not precious in the eyes of society; only a bit of silver with pretty etching, because he couldn’t yet afford better. But precious nonetheless to her, because it carried with it all the love that had grown between them, and it would carry all the love of every tomorrow still to come.

“Yes,” he said, and it felt just a little like the first moorings of a bridge to be built between them. “You chose exactly right.”

Epilogue

Hertfordshire

Christmas, 1828

Afresh blanket of snow had fallen during the night, and now, just at dawn, the untouched icy flakes refracted shimmery rainbow hues as the early light washed over them. The only tracks that marred the pristine white lawn belonged to Diana, who trekked across it toward the pergola in the distance.

They had unearthed it in the fall, and pruned back the tangled vines of the climbing wisteria that had swallowed it up. The vines were bare now, with the advent of winter, but in the spring it would bloom anew with a lovely cascade of blue and purple blossoms.

The snow had fallen through the aged slats of wood above, and with one gloved hand, Diana swiped away the fine layer of it that had accumulated upon the plaque they had had placed here a few months past.

Grace

Beloved friend and mother

“Good morning, Grace,” she said. “Merry Christmas.”

She wasn’t trulyhere, of course. Grace had been buried in France years ago, but there had been no ceremony to it, not even a grave marker that they had been able to discover, and it had seemed so cruel and disrespectful to let her fade from memory. So they had decided to revive it here on the grounds of the marquess’ estate, and it was here her memory would live on in the stories that Ben shared, so that Hannah might, in some small way, feel closer to the mother that had given birth to her.

“Hannah is growing like a weed,” she said. “She’s shot up at least two inches in as many months. She’s gotten quite good at maths, and her governess says she has a natural ear for French. She’s got a ginger kitten she’snamed Stockings, even though he hasn’t got any stockings, and every evening before supper, she reads to her grandfather.”

A light breeze drifted by, and a few flakes of snow danced upon it—and even if Grace was nothere, Diana thought that maybe…maybe just a bit of herwas. In the sigh of the wind, and the mischievous flutter of snowflakes. Like she might’ve popped down for a visit, just a brief chat in the spirit of Christmas, and perhaps she lingered now, listening but unseen.

Ben and Hannah would be out later for a chat of their own, she was certain. But just now, this quiet moment in the very break of dawn—this was just for the two of them. Woman to woman, mother to mother.

“Sometimes, she calls me mama,” Diana said. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m so sorry you couldn’t know her, because she is truly such a remarkable child, and I know you would be so proud of her. She’s got two uncles and an aunt who dote upon her, and a cousin who adores her. I wanted you to know that she is safe, and she is happy. I hope you’re watching over her still.”