Epilogue

Sixteen years later

T amsyn had the window of the ladies' parlor open to the sunlight, so that she, her daughter, and their visiting friends could enjoy it on this sweet spring afternoon. Patricia had come up from the village, and Evangeline and her daughters from the steward's college.

They were sewing, the three girls with less enthusiasm than the adults, but the Easter festival was early this year, and they had all promised to support the school's stall.

The older two boys had gone down to the village, but Evangeline's Rick was somewhere about the estate with Bran and Jowan.

Being closest to the window, Tamsyn was the first to hear the ponies coming up the lane, and the boys shouting encouragement to the ponies and insults to one another.

"Will those boys ever grow up?" sighed Tamara, despising the two twelve-year-olds from the lofty age of fifteen. She had recently persuaded her mother Evangeline and a reluctant Bran that she was old enough to let down her skirts and had immediately given up any pursuit that might be regarded as childish.

Janet, Tamsyn's daughter, rushed to the window. "Joe is in the lead," she reported. "He will win, for Tom has stopped to speak to Papa and Uncle Bran. Now he is off again, but too late, for Joe is already here. He is waiting for Tom, though." Jowan and Tamsyn had named their children after the hero and heroine of the folk tale that had given them one another.

Eva, who was only a year older than Janet's seven and was Janet's dearest friend, joined Janet at the window. "Now they are both waiting for Da, Uncle Jowan, and Rick."

"The boys must have heard some news in the village," Evangeline said. "I do hope it is not the king."

"Oh, I hope not," Patricia agreed. "We do not want the Duchess of Kent as regent. Or that man."

Tamsyn agreed. Everyone in the realm knew that the king was not long for the world, but they would all be better off if he lived until the princess, and his heir, Victoria, turned eighteen. But they would not have long to wait to find out. She could hear them talking as they approached the open door, the two boys cheerfully bickering.

"You got there first, Joe. You tell her." That was Tamsyn's older child, her darling Tom, bending over backward to be fair. An image of her beloved Jowan, he patterned himself on his father in all things. He could not do better, in Tamsyn's estimation.

"She is your mother, Tom. I think you should do the honors." Joe, after the triumph of victory, was prone to give away any spoils to please his friends. Jowan Artos Hughes had been born to Evangeline five days before Tamsyn gave birth to Thomas Branoc Trethewey, and they had been dearest companions ever since.

"Do it together," suggested Jowan, following the boys through the doorway, and ruffling the hair of his namesake.

Tamsyn waited, smiling as Bran and Rick entered to join the rest of the family. The little parlor where the women had been sewing and chatting seemed suddenly even smaller, but there were seats enough to go around, and Tamsyn would ring for tea and the food that the growing children seemed to need in huge quantities.

"Mama," Tom said, after a look at his cousin and best friend, "we have collected the mail and you have a letter."

He nodded to Joe, who continued, "It is from London, Auntie Tamsyn. From your publisher."

"It is a thick one," Tom commented, handing it over. "We think it must have a contract in it, Mama."

"Of course, it does," Joe said, stoutly. "Auntie Tamsyn's music is beautiful."

"Your concertos are wonderful, Mama," Tom agreed.

Tamsyn read the envelope and confirmed it was from the publisher in London who printed and distributed her music. Was it what she hoped?

"Open it, Mama," Janet said.

"Yes, Auntie Tamsyn, open it," agreed Eva.

"Girls," warned Evangeline, but her eyes said, "Open it."

Jowan came to her side and put a hand on her shoulder. "Shall I put it away and give it to you later? Or not at all?" he offered. His grin hinted that he made the offer to tease the children, who rewarded him with a groan.

Tamsyn appreciated the effort to distract her from her uncertainties. She had started writing music for her students years ago—simple but pretty tunes that a beginning pianist would find pleasurable to play. Jowan had suggested other people would enjoy them and find them useful, and his friends in London had found her a publisher and distributor.

One book after another had followed, as she wrote for more and more accomplished students. Different types of music: etudes, preludes, polonaises, nocturnes, waltzes, ballades. Music for the piano and the harpsichord. Music for instruments and for singers. Music by T. Trethewey was being used all over Britain and its foreign territories.

Then three months ago, she had finally sent the man her concertos, scored for a piano and all the other instruments of a typical orchestra. She had received a letter enclosing a draft contract and saying he was sharing them with other musicians to get their assessment. Then nothing. Until now.

"I will open it," she told her anxious family, and they all beamed, but stayed silent as she used the letter opener Jowan offered her. It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. A covering letter. A bundle of printed copies of what proved to be her concertos. And two more documents on thick paper, folded and tied with ribbon. She opened one. It looked like a contract.

Her family were all waiting to find out what she had received. She passed out the copies of the music. "He has printed the concertos," she said.

Tom led a cheer, and even the adults joined in.

Tamsyn barely noticed. She was reading the letter. "Jowan?" She put out a hand, and her beloved husband was right there, ready to offer his support, as he always had.

"What is it, Tamsyn?"

"A contract," she told him.

"For the concertos," he said.

"Yes, but a second one." She handed him the letter.

He managed to read both pages without letting go of her hand, and he looked up, his eyes bright with pride and love. "The United States of America, Tamsyn. They have sent you a contract to have your music published in the United States of America."

Tamsyn nodded. She could hardly believe it.

Tom let out another cheer, and Joe said to Tamara, "Play us a triumphal march, Tam. Come on everyone! A march in honor of Auntie Tamsyn."

A march! In her little parlor! In moments, Tam was pounding out a march on the square piano that had once graced her cottage, and even the adults were on their feet, miming instruments or swinging their arms like soldiers as they marched in and out of furniture, shouting "Hurrah," in response to Tom's "Hip, hip," and in time to the music.

The celebration spilled over to the servants and spread through the house, and cake and cider appeared to fuel the festivities, as all of Tamsyn's nearest and dearest took their turn to peer at the letter and admire the contract.

The visitors ended up staying for dinner, which was early in the Trethewey house so that Janet could be included. Afterward, Patricia had to go home. "I have books to mark before the morning," she insisted.

Patricia still lived in Tamsyn's cottage. Tamsyn had given her a life tenancy when Patricia agreed to take over from the innkeeper's wife as a permanent teacher. A much younger assistant teacher had moved in five years ago, and Patricia was talking about cutting back her hours, but Tamsyn would believe it when she saw it.

"I'll send you down in the gig, Patricia," Jowan said. "You shouldn't be walking in the dark." He had a word with Tom, who rushed away with Joe to organize it.

"It is time for us to be off home, too," said Evangeline. "I am so proud of you, Tamsyn, I could burst." She gave Tamsyn a hug. "Tell Joe to head home when he gets back from taking his Auntie Patricia back to Apple Cottage."

"Time for bed for you, Janet my love," Tamsyn told her youngest. "I shall be up in a few minutes to give you a kiss.

The large entry hall at Inneford House rapidly emptied, until only Tamsyn stood there, Jowan having escorted Patricia to the gig. She turned in a circle, her arms out and her head back, and so Jowan found her when he stepped back inside.

"Happy, darling?" he asked, kissing her fingers where her wedding ring nestled next to the signet ring he had given her so long ago.

"Happy. I am the most fortunate of women, beloved, and that is even without contracts from America. You, our two beautiful children. Work that I love. Wonderful friends. A village full of neighbors."

"We have been greatly blessed," Jowan agreed. "Tamsyn, Tom asked if he could stay with Joe tonight, and I said he could go straight there after they return the gig to the stable."

"Let us say goodnight to Janet and go to bed ourselves," Tamsyn suggested.

As always, her husband's gaze heated. "Two minds with but a single thought," he said.

Sometime later they lay, as they often did after physical loving, in one another's arms. "I am," said Tamsyn, "perfectly happy." Even as she said it, she realized she had given her husband the opening line for one of his favorite jokes, and sure enough, he pasted on a mournful look.

"I have just one niggling fly in the perfect ointment of my bliss," he told her, sadly.

She rolled her eyes, but said, "And what was that, my love?"

"Who is Mac?" Jowan asked. "And what does he know?"

THE END