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They finally did arrive and Serenity had been rather taken aback by their destination. She’d not had any firm ideas of what a fishing lodge might look like, but she had imagined something very modest where they might cook their own food in the fireplace.

She supposed that was never going to be a duke’s idea of a lodge. The place was exceedingly large and well appointed, and housed a bevy of staff. Those staff were rather grim-faced when they arrived, though they’d had notice of it. At least, they were grim-faced to her. They rather doted on Thorpe.

He finally explained that they would be prejudiced against her on account of her being a lady from London. They imagined she would think herself above them and a Scot did not believe they were below anybody at all.

It was always Serenity’s nature to be kind and courteous, but once apprised of that idea she redoubled her efforts.

Any request she made, even for just a tea tray, she spoke of as an outrageous favor.

They did finally warm to her once they were convinced she was not going to swan around the place acting like she was better than them.

As well, they were a discreet group of people and gave Thorpe and Serenity plenty of privacy.

That privacy was well taken advantage of.

Early nights and late mornings in the best suite of rooms that overlooked the river became the schedule, and so dinner was early and breakfast late to accommodate the couple.

The staff of the house also did not seem to find anything amiss in the master and mistress wet-eyed over sunrise, sunset, the mist rolling in on the river, the local otters playing in the river, or really nothing at all.

They had been used to the marquess’ rather sentimental temperament and were approving of him bringing a bride who was even more sentimental.

It was a deal better than the nose-up London lady they had feared.

They could meet weeping in all equanimity, it was anybody forever pointing out their rank that would have set them off in a revolt.

Far in the future, their children would race through those corridors and delight in the local otter pair and defeat the staff with their good-heartedness.

For now, though, a month had gone by very much faster than they’d imagined.

Thorpe sent a letter to the duke informing him that they were delayed and would stay another fortnight.

After that, they really did need to go. The Scots were not shy about hinting that they’d had enough for one season and looked forward to minding an empty house where nobody needed a tea tray.

A stop of some weeks was made in the Dales so that Thorpe and the duke could switch their carriages.

It was an enlightening time for the marquess and he got a clearer picture of how the family became so original in their views.

The lone individual in the vicinity of the estate that seemed to disapprove of their modes of living was the vicar, but as he owed the duke his living, his protests were rather half-hearted.

They were their own kingdom, and the duke ruled as absolute king.

Unless challenged by one of his daughters, as he could not hold up against them very well at all.

Lady Valor did begrudgingly allow them to leave the house at the end of the visit, though that was only because she was so taken up with Sir Galahad.

The pup had grown while they were gone, but not by much.

He was a pug after all. He was roly-poly and full of fun, though the duke commented that he looked as if he’d taken a hard run at a closed door and hit it face first. Lady Valor ignored that comment on Sir Galahad’s scrunched features, and congratulated herself on the pup’s survival, for as she said: “He really was on the brink of death. I nursed him back to health.”

When Serenity and Thorpe arrived to Mariton Hall nobody could have greeted them more warmly than the Duke of Mariton.

He did not keep it a secret that he’d waited for this day for years.

He was a rather jolly fellow, and so he was willing to admit that his new daughter-in-law had been worth the wait.

The couple made a pilgrimage to the beehives to carry on the tradition of telling the bees of a wedding.

There, Serenity was entirely relieved to note the slatted skeps.

It might be imagined that a couple going to a hive to tell the bees of their union would make short work of it.

“Dear bees, we are wed, we ask for your blessing and thank you to spread the news.” There would not be much to be said beyond that, as the bees would not hold up their end of the conversation.

However, it was not to be supposed that this momentous meeting would be done in such an offhand manner by Serenity, who had been thinking of the bees since she was six years old.

Her apology went on long, she eventually wept, then Roland went wet-eyed on account of his bride weeping, and then a groom ran across the field to discover what was wrong.

Considering the disposition of the marquess and his bride, the poor fellow had assumed they’d been attacked by footpads or otherwise experienced a terrorizing event.

He was sent away scratching his head after he was informed by the new marchioness that they were paying their respect to the bees.

Over the next months, Roland would have a proper crypt built for any dead bees turning up in the gardens.

It was a large stone edifice with an enormous bee, fashioned from iron, plated in gold, and suspended over the doorway.

Inside was a small fireplace where ash might be produced to dry out a dead bee and there were shelves where any bee might comfortably experience eternity.

Serenity’s box of already long-dead bees, which she had carefully carried from London to Scotland to the Dales and finally to Suffolk, was placed in it with solemnity.

Roland’s father found himself befuddled by the whole palaver, but he’d demanded his son wed, and his son had wed.

He’d never thought to put any stipulations on it against a strange affection for bees.

In any case, he grew very comfortable with Serenity’s brand of sentimentality and care.

Especially when he grew older and she saw to his every comfort and read to him at night.

The marquess and his lady would go on to become exceedingly doting parents, but perhaps not very steady when steadiness was called for.

Any time one of their children was ill enough for the doctor to be called, the two distraught parents spent most of their time pacing, wringing their hands, and weeping.

Their very no-nonsense nurse had once been so exasperated she’d said, “For the love of all that’s holy, stop planning funerals over head colds.

” That practical woman had presumed she’d be dismissed on the spot, but both the marquess and his marchioness found her scolding rather comforting.

The children Serenity brought into the world were of varying temperaments.

The eldest, a girl, was not at all like her mother and father and was forever sighing over whatever they were wet-eyed over.

She’d been named Margaret, though they would call her Daisy.

Their son, Roland, was a copy of his father—a strapping lad with a sensitive nature who would do right by all the world.

Daisy and Roland, though so very different in their temperaments, would get on well.

She would act as a bracing starch when it was needed, and he would act as a calm salve when it was needed.

What they both had very much in common was their adoration of Dales ponies.

Serenity’s Jupiter and a lovely Dales stallion named Winter’s Night had produced two fine specimens for them, named Sixes and Sevens.

Quinn would go on to become a steadying force on the premises. When the household was reaching an uncomfortable pitch, he might suggest deep breaths and chamomile tea. He would remind the couple that they often set each other off—one would be struck, which would strike the other.

They were just as sentimental regarding various animals on the estate, which seemed to increase their number with regularity.

Somehow, injured or otherwise not perfect specimens were forever making their way there.

Cats and dogs had the run of the house, horses were forever being fussed over.

Havoc and Nelson made themselves very comfortable on the estate, roaming it at will.

Havoc got in the habit of shortening his stride to allow his little friend to keep up with him.

They were often to be found in the small wood, as locating a fallen branch and running with it to keep it away from the other became a favorite pastime.

Charles eventually did what Thorpe had predicted he would do—he’d spent some months on the continent and then returned as if nothing at all had occurred.

His life, and his attitudes, were not to go on as they always had, though.

Upon returning to Town, Charles was introduced to a certain Lady Mary Helderburton.

His first impression of the lady had been as if he’d been hit on the head with a pile of bricks.

For the first time in his life, Charles put another person on earth ahead of himself.

As Lady Mary was both practical and genial and not willing to contend with nonsense, Charles’ habit of complaining over being the second son was speedily stopped by that lady.

As he talked about it less, he began to think about it less.

Over time, Charles and his brother would develop a cordiality of sorts.

They would never be the best of friends, but Charles gave up his self-pity and bitterness in order to have Lady Mary by his side.

All that was to be, but for now, the couple must make plans to attend the next London season. Verity would take her place amongst the ton and they would be on hand to assist. They would be on hand very close by, too, as they were only two doors down on the square.

It was to be supposed that Verity would need all the assistance she could muster. She’d been in the habit of claiming to know things she certainly did not. A certain intellectual, Henry Foster, Baron Wembly, and esteemed member of the Royal Society, was poised to catch her out.

The End