Epilogue

September 1817

T he End. George scrawled the words with a flourish. Though, on closer inspection, the flourish looked more like an illegible blot. What did that matter, though? He was done with Midnight Secrets ! He glanced over to the small secretary desk in the corner, where Belle painstakingly copied his handwriting into something legible. He no longer had to worry about whether Mr. Sherman could read his chicken scratch writing. Plus, Belle had a good memory, so she noticed if he accidentally changed a character’s given name or hair color over the course of the manuscript.

“How is it shaping up?” he asked anxiously. His wife was a tougher critique than half the reviewers in London. If she thought the novel was any good, he could be confident about it. And he knew she would never lie to him about his writing. If it were bad, she would let him know.

She looked up at him and smiled wryly. “It’s just as good as the last time you asked that. The last time this afternoon, I mean.” She crinkled her nose, turning her crooked grin into a mischievous one. “There are some parts that I suspect your editor will want you to condense, but apart from that, it’s the best of your writing I’ve seen.”

The tense lines in George’s face relaxed into a relieved grin. “I’m glad to hear that. I hope my readers agree.”

She opened her mouth, then paused, a question in her eyes.

“What is it?” he asked warily.

“Have you decided what you’ll tell your father?” she asked. “If you really do publish this under your own name, it will be impossible to keep him from knowing.”

George nodded. “I know. Believe me, I’ve thought about it.” No matter how many times he went over the pros and the cons, he always came back to the fact that this novel was so markedly different from his earlier ones that it did not make sense to publish it under the name “Alec MacPherson.” Readers of the earlier books would merely be confused by his departure from his previous style.

And if he had to choose a new name under which to write, why not use his own? Or rather, part of it. He intended to sign the book “G.W. Kirkland.” He did not actually have a middle name, but he had chosen “W” to honor Uncle William. It seemed fitting, since the fortune Uncle William had signed over to George was what gave him the time to write this novel.

“My plan is to tell my father in person rather than writing to him,” he explained. “I’ll sit down and talk to him about it when we visit at Christmas. All the eggnog will put him in the right frame of mind for the news.”

“Maybe our other news will keep him from dwelling too much on his disappointment.” Belle spoke in a whisper, though there was no one nearby to overhear. A faint blush rose on her cheeks.

“Are you even going to be able to tell people?” George teased. “Or will you expect me to break the news? Because I don’t think the pregnancy will be visible yet.” He might have been wrong about that, though, since he knew very little about childbearing. He supposed he had some studying to do in the months ahead.

She shrugged. “Maybe not. I plan to tell my mother and let her tell everyone else, so I won’t have to keep repeating the news myself. But you can tell your parents. Tell them right after you tell your father you’re a novelist. Then he can’t scold you.”

“Brilliant,” George said. Then he went back to work. He did not pause for a break until someone put a plate down on the desk some hours later. “Hmm? What’s this?” He looked up and rubbed his eyes. Too late, he realized he’d had ink on his hand. He’d probably just spread it all over his face.

“Mr. Hastings says the golden apples are ripe,” Belle explained. “He wanted you to try one.”

George scrunched up his face in disgust. “The apples from this orchard were always sour.”

“That’s probably because you were eating baking apples,” she said patiently. “They’re supposed to be tart! And Hastings says the orchard wasn’t properly maintained when you were a child. These are from trees Hastings planted himself, a few years ago. They aren’t the sour apples you remember! I already tried one, and it was good. You ought to give them a chance.”

He picked up the apple and sniffed it cautiously. At least it smelled good. That boded well, didn’t it? “If you’re wrong, you will owe me,” he warned, deliberately not specifying what she would owe him.

Belle rolled her eyes at him. “You’d think by now you would trust my judgment!”

“About writing, yes,” he granted. “But about the apples at Dogwood Cottage? I’m not so sure. I’ve had too many bad experiences in the past, you know!”

But he supposed he owed it to Hastings to try one of the apples, given how much labor the gardener put into the orchard. Truth be told, even the sour green apples tasted fine when baked in one of Mrs. Hasting’s desserts.

George closed his eyes and took a tiny test bite. And wouldn’t you know? It really was sweet!

The End