Beside me on the lawn rug, Audrey cheers on her brother, adjusting her bonnet when it threatens to fall back. What a lovely young woman she is becoming. At thirteen, she is nearly my height, and her face has lost its childish roundness. Something tells me that when Amos Tugwell returns from school next term, he shall finally take notice of her.
Audrey bends low and tickles the infant lying on a soft hare rug before us, enjoying the warm breeze on his skin and cooing happily. Our son—Edward’s and mine. We named him Avery S. Bradley. The S standing for Simon or Stanton, depending on which grandfather asks the question.
From behind, I hear a tap on the window glass and turn toward Brightwell Court. There at the library window stands my father. How handsome he looks in his clerk’s coat and neckcloth. Sober as a Quaker. A flash of Titian red hair appears behind the wavy glass, and there is Felix, holed up with my father and Walters, learning all he can about the running of an estate.
My father lifts a hand in greeting, and I wave back. It does my heart good to have him here, to see him doing so well.
My mother is not numbered among us this afternoon, for she is busy at the school Edward built for us on the outskirts of Arlington, where she is proprietress and headmistress. How she loves the work and her pupils. I taught beside her the first year, until my Avery was born. Then, as unbelievable as it sounds, we hired Miss Ripley to assist her. The former governess is so pleased to have a place and be spared the workhouse that she follows my mother’s edicts and manner of teaching, never once reverting to the harsh discipline she once described to me.
I still call-in at the school at least once a week, to teach arithmetic and to hear how the pupils are getting on. Becky attends there now, as does Dory’s younger sister. How satisfying to see them learn and gain confidence as young women of worth.
To reach the school, I must pass by the village lockup. Whenever I do, I cannot help but look at that little place and remember. How long ago it seems. Thankfully so!
Shaking off thoughts of the past, I look at the riverbank once more and watch them—these men of my son’s family. Mr. Croome, Lord Brightwell, Edward, Andrew. Great-grandfather, grandfather, father, and adopted brother. And a second grandfather inside. How blessed our Avery is. How blessed we all are.
As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, Edward, line in the water, looks over his shoulder, and our gazes catch. His knowing smile gladdens my heart.
Suddenly his line pulls taut and is nearly jerked from his hand. “I think I have one!” he calls, his voice as excited as a little boy’s. Instantly, Mr. Croome is there beside him—hand on Edward’s shoulder, leaning near, encouraging, and instructing him on how to land the prize. My heart aches and my eyes burn to see it.
And then the fish, a very tiny fish, is brought to shore to the cheers of Audrey and Andrew. Mr. Croome, his scowl noticeably absent, claps Edward on the back, and says in a hoarse voice, “Well done, lad. Well done.”
When Edward looks across at me once more, there are tears in his dear blue eyes, and answering tears fill my own. I breathe another prayer of thanksgiving for all God has done in our lives.
Well done indeed.