Page 17 of The Elusive Earl (The Bad Heir Day Tales #3)
EPILOGUE
“Are you managing?” Morna asked as seagulls wheeled and cried, and children darted up and down the quay.
Graham wished he and his lady weren’t wearing gloves, but an earl and countess on an occasion of state must dress the part—and Morna was his countess. Had been for nearly three deliriously happy, occasionally exhausted, and thoroughly loving months.
Sometimes he held her hand out of sheer affection. Sometimes he held her hand because any excuse to touch her was a good excuse. Today, he held her hand because he needed her steadiness and calm.
“The occasion is not sad,” he said as the guest of honor arrived from the inn, Hamlet and his consort trotting along with him on the end of fine leather leashes. “Seeing Brodie onto the transport ship was worse in a way, but also a relief. The sea can do with him as it pleases, and Scotland gets the same bargain where I’m concerned. I am more than content with that arrangement. This is a happy occasion, and the River Clyde is not Cape Horn.”
The River Clyde was in fine fettle, sparkling beneath the summer sun, the picture of riparian beauty. Peter and Lanie were, as usual, in deep conversation, with Peter gesturing up and down the quay, and Lanie listening intently. They held hands too.
Perhaps all newlyweds were prone to the habit.
“MacIver is truly leaving,” Morna said. “How did you talk him into it?”
“Home is where we’re loved, and John MacIver loves his family and his hounds. The first batch of canines is probably already gamboling about the fields of Nova Scotia, and his royal highness and friend will found a dynasty there under MacIver’s watchful eye.”
“Who is to be our gamekeeper?”
“MacIver’s youngest nephew, who also has a way with a hound. I believe you’re supposed to make some sort of speech, Countess.”
MacIver strutted down the quay with his canine retinue, shaking hands and tolerating hugs. The whole village had turned out to see him off, and Graham had put every farm wagon, cart, and carriage he possessed at their disposal, lest they walk the distance from the castle.
“The speech to be made is yours,” Morna said, easing her fingers from his grasp. She glided forward, kissed MacIver’s leathery cheek, and murmured briefly into his ear. The kiss hadn’t mortified him in the least, but Morna’s parting words had the old man looking bashful.
Graham strode forward, his hand extended. “A cheer for our John MacIver, off to the New World to see that his family’s stewpots are always full and their woods free of the presuming coney. You take our thanks, our best wishes, and a piece of our hearts with you, MacIver, and if you don’t send regular reports, my countess and I will know the reason why.”
“Mind you lot look after the puppies,” MacIver said with mock fierceness. “And keep an eye on his lordship and her ladyship too. They are new to their honors and will want careful minding.”
Hoots and laughter followed as MacIver’s hounds sniffed the gangplank then made their way onto the ship, MacIver muttering to them and pausing for a final wave from the rail. The requisite roar went up in response, and the moment was over.
“I’m standing a round in honor of MacIver,” Graham called. “All hands to the Happy Hare!”
Morna leaned close. “Generous of you.”
“Strategic. They will linger, drinking, reminiscing, and laughing, while we make an early escape and have the road to ourselves. I could do with a pint first, to be honest. I will miss MacIver. He was the first to truly welcome me home. Perhaps we should name our firstborn after him.”
Morna gazed out over the sparkling river. “John is a family name and worthy of respect. I like Joanna as well. I expect we will need to have settled on a name by about the first of the year.”
The sunlight, or something, shone too brightly in Graham’s eyes, or maybe the breeze chose then to pick up. “Morna?”
“Possibly by Yuletide. Why do you look so surprised?”
“Stunned, pleased, agog.” Right there before the milling crowds, the seagulls, and the River Clyde, Graham scooped up his beloved and wheeled with her in the morning sun. “By Yuletide, she says, or at the New Year. Ah, Morna.”
He pressed his nose to her cheek, and a fierce, mighty joy settled upon him, a homecoming, a peace, a rightness. “I’m glad you told me here and now. We begin a voyage, you and I. One I undertake with hope and love. Thank you.”
Morna repaid his thanks in her own way, and for reasons best known to the occupants, Lord and Lady Dunhaven’s coach made only leisurely progress on the return journey to the castle, where in accordance with custom, the earl and his countess found the pennant flapping merrily in the summer breeze.
They named their red-haired first born Joanna, and she had the most uncanny knack with hounds, rabbits, cats, and horses.