“Mama did not steal it,” Edmund says. “She borrowed it. Papa also borrowed sweets, which we have eaten, and as we cannot return them, I suppose that is theft.”
William spins on August. “You ate Bronwyn’s candies? God save you, man. The car is one thing, but I cannot help you with that.”
William claps Edmund on the back. “We will have to enlist your mother’s help replacing those treats with bakery goods. A few dozen scones should do the trick. I hear you are becoming quite the expert baker yourself.”
“I am,” Edmund says. “But what about the car?”
“Oh, the car is fine. It’s home in the garage, though I suppose I will now need to call the police and tell them we were mistaken, and it was not stolen and abandoned. That will be embarrassing.”
William peers at Edmund. “Perhaps we can turn in your parents as the thieves. They should be out of prison in a few years. You’ll be fine until then, won’t you? Running Courtenay Hall on your own?”
Edmund knows Lord Thorne well enough to only giggle and shake his head.
William sighs. “Fine, I will tell them it was a misunderstanding, and the miscreants have been apprehended and sentenced to a half day of hard baking labor.”
“While I do hate to interrupt when you’re having so much fun,” August says. “May I point out that Edmund is not exactly dressed for this weather?”
“And whose fault is that?” William says. “Did I not already give you proper hell for dressing him like that?”
William looks down at Edmund. “That coat is rather fetching on you, though. I see you have inherited your father’s sense of style.”
“Are you mocking my son for wearing a girl’s coat?” August says.
William’s brows shoot up. “Never. I am a Thorne. I have at least two great-uncles who preferred women’s attire. My commentary referred to the size, which is rather small for him and looks quite uncomfortable, not unlike much of what you wear yourself.”
“At least I am not wearing those.” August points at the blue jeans. “They have a hole in the knee. Do you even realize that?”
“It is the fashion, although, admittedly, that is not how I bought them.”
William reaches down for Edmund. “May I offer you a ride, young sir? In light of your parents’ terrible negligence, dragging you into a winter wonderland while woefully underdressed.”
Edmund lets William lift him onto the horse. Then William points to the left. “Head that way and take the first right. I’ll get the other car and come round to fetch you.”
William climbs onto the horse, and they are off, bells jangling in their wake.
12
We are back at Thorne Manor. All of us, right down to baby Grace. Amelia runs off with Edmund, needing to show him all her toys and her pony, because the daughter of William Thorne didn’t just have one pony before she was old enough to walk—she had one in each world.
I settle in to coo and cuddle the baby as August relays our adventure to Bronwyn. The new mom sits on the sofa curled up against her husband, who is feeding her scones, insisting she must revive herself after that difficult birth ordeal. Bronwyn might roll her eyes at that, but she doesn’t turn down the scones.
“And how are you doing, Rosalind?” Bronwyn asks. “It can’t be easy for you, being back in this world.”
I grimace, and before I can say that I’m fine, August does it for me, mimicking my tone, which has both Bronwyn and William laughing.
“Yes, silly question,” Bronwyn says. “Of course, she is fine.” She takes a nibble of scone. “Or so she says.”
I sigh. “I have already had the PTSD talk from August, and yes, I know I need to . . .” I fidget, adjusting my position as I shift the baby. “I need to stop ignoring what happened to me. I did not plan to come back to the twenty-first century, but now that I have—safely—I should like to do so more often. This world has its marvels.”
“It does,” Bronwyn says. “As does yours.”
“I think I find it difficult to admit there are things in this world I miss. I can joke about stand mixers and good chocolate, but there are other things, too, and to admit it feels as if . . .” I sneak a look August’s way. “As if I am saying it wasn’t so bad, being here.”
August says softly, “Just because an experience is not uniformly terrible does not mean you didn’t suffer. I have some wonderful memories from the last four years. Memories of life with Edmund. Of life with friends. Of things I did that I enjoyed. Would you prefer I didn’t?”
“Certainly not. I wanted you to be happy while I could not be there.”
“I had moments of great happiness, along with grief and anger and everything else. I expect you had the same, Rosie. Just because you were desperate to return does not mean you spent four years in abject misery. I’d be horrified to think you did.”
I nod, and we sink into the comfortable silence of understanding. The baby wakes, and I get to make faces at her and ooh and aah over how tiny she is before I finally relinquish her to August so he can have a cuddle.
We’ve resumed talking—this time about the baby’s early arrival and the panicked trip to York—when the doorbell chimes. William goes to open it, and I hear two feminine voices. I glance at Bronwyn, who’s smiling and getting to her feet.
“Freya dragged Del up,” Bronwyn says.
I have only a split second of confusion—from the voices—before William brings the couple in. Bronwyn has never mentioned that Del is a transgender person—why would she?—and I’m relieved that my surprise doesn’t last long enough to show on my face.
I’m equally relieved that, despite being from a very different time, August makes the mental leap in a blink and is right there, baby in his arms, introducing us and saying how much he has heard about them, as they say the same about us. Or Freya does. Del only glowers at his wife.
“I told you they’d be too busy for a social call.” He looks at Bronwyn. “I swear, she’s been perched in the front window like a tiny hawk. I practically had to tie her down so she didn’t come up hours ago.”
“Oh, that’s the story, is it?” Freya says. She turns to Bronwyn. “We saw you drive by this morning, and he says, ‘Hmph, they’re early. Figures. Should probably head up, see if anything needs doing.’ I’m the one who said we should wait. And we aren’t here for a social call—we’re here to see what you need.”
“So you don’t want to see the baby?” August says, arms tightening around the little one. “All right then. I’ll just put her in her cradle . . .”
“Only if you want this one tackling you,” Del says, hooking a thumb at Freya.
Freya is white-haired, plump, walks with a cane, and seems the least likely person to tackle anyone, but there’s no mistaking the determined glint in her eye as she cuts off August’s retreat and holds out her arms. He passes Grace over, and as we all head into the living room to chat, I try not to stare at Freya, to study her, to figure out whether she might be descended from me or my sisters or another relative. I want to say more—to take her aside and talk, just talk—but that is a conversation for another time. For now, I am only glad to have met her at last.