Epilogue

Dublin Port, Ireland 1855

T he little girl tilted her head up to Harry and wrinkled her nose. "I thought it would look different," she declared pensively, squeezing her father's hand to punctuate her disappointment. "I thought…" Her sentence trailed off as she scrutinized the squat, rough-hewn buildings and jutting piers that meandered closer as their steamship waded cautiously into Dublin Bay Port.

Harry pulled his gaze away from the unassuming site, smiling at the five-year-old. "And just what did you think, Cara?"

His eldest daughter scrunched her brow, inspecting the landscape shrewdly, her jet-black hair whipping against her pale pink cheeks. "I'm not sure," she replied with a forlorn exhale. "I suppose I thought it would be grander, more exciting. But it looks just like Liverpool's port…only smaller."

Harry nodded. "Most ports look the same," he said, "and everything is a little smaller in Ireland. Not worse, mind you, just smaller."

Cara glanced at her father once more, her mischievous smile displaying a missing front tooth. Harry could look at the empty space now without shuddering, even find it adorable, but he hadn't initially thought so when the girl had tripped over the edge of their carpet and flew headfirst into the drawing room's marble fireplace three weeks before. Harry had never expected to have children—let alone at his age—and his three girls were hellbent on shaving years off his life.

"But you're from Ireland, Papa," Cara pointed out with a chuckle. "And you're not small."

Harry's smile faded, his expression turning winsome. "Oh, but I left Ireland a long time ago. I was barely older than yourself."

"But you always tell people you're Irish."

The wind picked up, surrounding Harry with the telltale aroma of rosemary. He hadn't noticed how tense his shoulder had been until the anticipation of his wife's presence instantly soothed him. "That's because he couldn't bear anyone thinking he's English," Ruthie said, coming up beside him with four-year-old Hannah's hand clasped in her own and Eva on her hip.

Harry kissed her cheek and took the one-year-old out of her arms, settling her against his chest. He would still rather cut off his hand rather than touch another person, but that didn't apply to his wife and children. Holding their hands, tucking them into bed at night, grazing their cheeks with his palms—they felt like the most natural things in the world.

Eva sucked on her fist greedily, her green eyes lighting up the moment she saw him. Harry and Ruthie laughed about it, but there was something wildly odd about all of his daughters sharing his black hair and green eyes. Ruthie often teased that if she hadn't carried the babies in her belly she wouldn't even know they were hers. But Harry knew all too well. Their personalities, their cleverness, their quickness to laugh, and their steely determination were all from their mother, and Harry couldn't be more grateful or prouder.

"Is it so bad to be English?" Hannah asked, nudging Cara out of the way so she could hug her father's leg. "We're English."

"You're half English," he replied, caressing his middle child's silky hair on the top of her head. "And that's enough."

"But what about Mama?" she returned, a hint of panic in her sweet voice. Of the three, Hannah was his worrier—which she also got from her mother.

Harry met his wife's eyes. Countless conversations had been spoken this way, with just a look and a wink, a purse of lips or an arched brow saying everything.

When Ruthie's mouth widened in amusement, Harry remembered that his daughter had asked him a question. "Your mother isn't English or Irish," he replied, speaking to his wife. "She's mine. Always was and always will be."

Harry caught Cara rolling her eyes with a silly grin, and he followed her attention back to the shoreline. It was a dismal sight. All weather-worn, faded wood and meandering rock walls. And yet something still struck Harry in his chest, making it tight and fluttery, apprehension and excitement sparking like lint on stone. He rubbed his lips against the baby's head, back and forth, inhaling the heavenly, powdery scent of her newness.

Ruthie leaned against the side of the ship. She wore a bonnet today, but it was small, barely there. Her freckles popped off her creamy skin. A mother of three, she still had the look of a girl he'd first met in her, up for anything, ready to conquer whatever she wanted.

"Is it how you remembered?" she asked, her gaze forward. A rush of activity heightened on the docks as workers readied for the steamship to glide into its berth.

Harry shrugged, causing Eva to gurgle and drool even more on his black jacket. "I'm not sure," he replied. "To be honest, I don't remember much, only…what I felt." He hugged his daughter, and she pushed against his chest, insisting on more space. "I remember being scared. So scared." He cocked his head to his wife, forcing a self-deprecating grin. "I'd never been on a ship before. And it felt like the journey took days—months, even."

Cara hmphed . "That's how this journey felt!"

"Oh, my little love." Harry laughed. "You have no idea. At least you got to ride on a steamship. This trip was only seven hours! My mother and I had to rely on the wind, and it took twice that time to get to Liverpool." Harry shivered at the memory. "You girls don't know how lucky you are."

Ruthie snorted. "And whose fault is that?"

Harry didn't bother to respond. He was a smart man and knew when to keep silent. Besides, his wife wasn't wrong. He did spoil his daughters. He spared no expense. They had the best of everything, and they always would. The best tutors, the best food, the best opportunities in life. They would have everything they ever wanted—even tea with the queen. He would make it happen. All they had to do was say the words. Ruthie allowed his indulgences, though she didn't always approve. For instance, she wasn't too happy about Harry buying Cara five horses for her fifth birthday. Looking back, he conceded that might have been a little too eccentric. What five-year-old needed more than four?

Ruthie lifted an eyebrow at his taciturn response and stifled a smile. "Will we go directly to the hotel, or do you want to stop at the house first? I'm sure you're as anxious to see it as I am. And it would be nice to be there when all the supplies are delivered."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. The house she referred to was Holmes House, the charity they'd begun two years before. They'd planned to purchase a small building to provide the soup kitchen and sleeping quarters for those left suffering from the famine, but in the end, Harry bought an entire warehouse. The space was needed. Contributions were coming in from all over the world to help the Irish, but it still wasn't enough. In his more pessimistic moments, Harry wondered if anything ever would be.

At first, he'd dismissed the idea of putting his name on the charity. Harry had given up believing he wouldn't be accepted into heaven anymore—his wife was going to be there, and he wouldn't spend eternity apart from her—so having his name on the charity seemed needless and sounded a bit too pretentious; however, his wife would not be swayed. Holmes House it would be, she'd declared, and her reasoning shook him. "I want people to see your name and immediately think of hope," she'd told him one night while they drifted off into each other's arms in bed. "No more fear."

Harry had made love to her then because he didn't want her to know he was incapable of speech. His wife continued to surprise him, and, he figured, she would probably never stop.

He leaned in and kissed his wife. It was hungry and sweet, and he caught the spice of her shock in his mouth, savoring the taste that was forever Ruthie. He could hear the girls tsking and giggling from his impulsiveness, and, again, Eva pushed at his chest to create more space for her arms to wave.

Harry pulled away slowly, enjoying Ruthie's eyelids hanging heavily over her clear, loving eyes. "Let's go to the hotel," he said firmly. "It's been a long day, and we all need a good sleep."

Ruthie's gaze narrowed. "Sleep?"

Harry winked at his wife. "Well… The girls need a good sleep. We'll sleep when we're dead."

*

Harry remembered the roads, especially how bumpy and uncomfortable they made traveling all distances, long and short.

"Are we almost there?" Hannah asked the following morning, her black curls bobbing every time the carriage hit a divot in the road. She hugged her tiny stomach. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Harry pushed the curtain out of the way and looked out the window. Kilkenny had felt like a metropolis when he was a child, but with its medieval architecture and Norman roots, he considered it quaint now, even magical.

"We're almost there," he assured her, reaching across the carriage to pat her hand. "Only a few more minutes…I think."

Harry couldn't recall exactly how long the drive had been from the town center. It had felt like ages when he was younger; however, that couldn't be the case. His mother would walk him from the cottage to the River Nore on occasion when she was in one of her better moods.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Ruthie asked him softly. She entwined their fingers tightly, as if trying to imbue him with all her strength. "It's been so long."

Harry's jaw clenched, and he merely nodded. It had been a long time. Over forty years. And that was long enough. Besides, it was the whole reason for the family trip. Sure, he'd said he wanted to visit Holmes House, witness all the good it was hopefully providing, but that had only been an excuse. This day was what he'd been waiting for. This was his moment.

Ruthie sighed. "I can't believe he's still alive. I'm sorry your grandmother isn't. Are you sure he received the letter? He didn't respond. Is it right to just show up?"

"I'm sure," he said. Of course his grandfather had received the letter. Harry had paid the messenger to come back and tell him that he'd delivered it right into his old, wrinkled hands. But the sullen bastard naturally didn't respond. Fine. Good. Harry hadn't expected him to. He was going to show up anyway and knock as hard as he could on that damn door. The one that Harry hadn't been allowed to cross while his mother cried and pleaded for help so long ago.

Ruthie's voice was gentle, breaking Harry from his thoughts. "Do you know what you're going to say?"

"Yes."

He'd always known. He'd played the conversation over and over in his head his entire life. The only thing that would be missing from the picture was his grandmother, who, he'd learned, had died two years before. Harry would miss not seeing her astonished face as he stood outside the house, but he would settle for the old man's. That would be enough.

He wiped his palms on the front of his thighs. The urge to tap overwhelmed him, and his fingers started to move. Harry could sense Ruthie watching them, though she didn't say anything. It so rarely happened anymore. He hadn't outgrown the twitches and tics, but it was like he'd outgrown obsessing over them. Once he'd stopped giving them so much attention, so much power, they'd all but disappeared. Or maybe Harry just stopped noticing them now that he spent so much worrying about more important things, like his girls.

Ruthie leaned into his side. "It's going to be all right," she whispered, her breath brushing along his cheeks, forcing his eyes to shut as he let out an audible exhale.

"I know that," he said gruffly, perhaps with a little too much force.

Harry had to contain himself. It would be all right. Everything would be all right after this was done. He just had to see the old man and then this would finally be done.

But that wasn't completely true. Harry didn't just want the old man to see him—see the successful, confident, rich man he'd become—he wanted him to listen to every blistering word he said. Harry needed this closure. He needed this part of his life to die along with all the animosity and regret he'd held for his mother. Now, he saw her as a tragic figure, one whose life hadn't turned out the way she'd planned. A woman who shouldn't have been a mother; a girl who shouldn't have been deserted by her man and forgotten by her parents.

Harry would look his grandfather in the eye and ask him how he'd done it, left his only daughter to fend for herself with a bastard in tow. Now that Harry had children of his own, he couldn't fathom such callousness, such blatant disregard. He'd ask the old man how it felt to live alone in his miserable cottage with no family or joy. He'd ask the old man if he was proud that he would die alone with his misery and stubbornness.

He'd ask if it was worth it. Was it worth losing your child just because the church declared her wicked and her bastard child an oddity? Harry hadn't been an oddity; he hadn't been an abomination. He'd been a little boy who deserved love. Every child did.

The carriage stumbled to a halt. The girls all clapped even as Hannah's complexion had turned a dismal green. Harry opened the door, fanning it to get the poor girl some air. "I want you all to stay by the carriage," he said pointedly. "I won't be long."

"You promise?" Cara asked.

He held her gaze. "I promise."

"And then we can visit the castle?"

"And then we can visit the castle."

Cara nodded. Hannah smiled as she craned her neck out the door to suck in more air.

"Good luck," Ruthie said. She squeezed his hand one more time before letting it go. "I'll—we'll—be right here if you need us."

Harry forced a smile, trying for nonchalance. "This won't take more than a second. I'll be back before you know it."

Ruthie's lips slid into a tight line, but she said nothing. What more was there to say?

Leaving the carriage door open, Harry turned toward the cottage. Small and efficient, it looked exactly as he'd remember it—almost. The whitewash on the bricks had dulled with dirt and age, and the thatch of the roof was thin near the top. Flowers that his grandmother had once tended were overgrown and meandering, and the smell of lavender clung heavily, drowning out everything else. Harry's steps were measured and purposeful. He only allowed himself a small moment of pause to let his fingers trace along a clump of blue flax growing wildly along the path.

He couldn't hear anything inside, but the chimney smoke meant someone was there. His grandfather must have seen the carriage. Whether the old man answered the door or not was up to him. Harry hadn't taken him for a coward—a bastard, but never a coward.

Harry knocked on the door. Five times. He tried to stop at three, but it couldn't be helped.

A rustling sounded through the thick wooden door. Feet shuffling. "Who the hell is it?"

Harry waited patiently, bringing his shoulders back, lifting his chin. He allowed himself to acknowledge he was nervous. He was forty-eight years old years and had been transported to being five again.

Harry had lifted his fist to knock once more when the door cracked open. A rheumy eye peeked out from the sliver with an avalanche of white eyebrows almost blocking its view.

The eye grew rounder, and slowly, very slowly, the man opened the door. Was it the shortness of his grandfather that made Harry stretch his spine even more? He'd once thought the man a giant, but the years had warped him, shriveling his body into a curved shape, with his eyesight square to Harry's chest. He had to be close to ninety. How had he survived so long? Out of spite, no doubt.

The pathetic creature appeared like a sad caricature of his former self. His skin was chalky and hung loose on his face, and his hair—once so black it carried shades of purple—was gone, with only white wisps shooting up like skinny seedlings. He wore only a shirt and pants, both tattered and old, badly in need of a wash.

Nevertheless, when his grandfather lifted his face, Harry could find the man he once was, the shrew, confident man who'd probably thought that age and dying would happen to everyone but him. Didn't we all?

"Yes?" the old man said, almost resigned, as if he were ready for Harry's speech.

Harry cleared his throat, searching for the words he'd practiced more times than he could count. He raised his chin higher. It was the same chin as his grandfather's. "Do you know who I am?"

The words came out soft—not weak, but non-threatening. Harry searched for his anger. He attempted to pull it up, not understanding why it had sunk to the deepest parts of him. It had always been right there in his reach, right on the surface of his very being. It resisted him now, evading his hold, spilling out from between his long fingers like water.

Maybe it was the way the old man looked at him. The recognition in his eye, the flash of…embarrassment, or was it shame? Guilt? His grandfather blinked quickly, and his shoulders slunk lower down his withered body.

"Do you?" Harry asked with more force, but that force took effort, and his voice broke. He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated at the childishness that was overtaking him, the desperation.

But Harry wasn't the only one affected. The old man's mouth began to quiver, his throat wobbling like he was trying to suppress a sob. His glassy eyes filled and glinted against the late morning sun. He inhaled and then let it all out in one long breath. "I know…who you…are," he said finally, his tone thin, his words skipping like a rock along a pond.

A sob lodged itself in Harry's throat. All his control and anger were slipping away in front of this feeble man. It felt like his tics. Like them, the obsession Harry held with his family was unnecessary, unhelpful. He'd given it too much power over his life.

He turned to look over his shoulder. Cara and Hannah were out of the carriage now, chasing one another around it while Ruthie and Eva watched with amusement. They were his family. They were all he needed. Why had he brought them here? What was the point of all of this?

Harry shook his head, coming back to his grandfather, who continued to watch him with curiosity and a little fear. "I'm sorry to bother you," Harry said. He nodded one last time and spun to rejoin his family.

But the words stopped him. "You're Harry Holmes," his grandfather announced, louder than he'd spoken before, as loud as his frail body would allow him. Harry paused, looking at the ground for a beat before eventually raising his gaze back to the old man.

His grandfather clutched the edge of the door, using it to stand straighter. "You're my grandson. My grandson…Harry."

The sentence struck Harry like a bolt to the chest. And yet he didn't feel any different. He was the same. Nothing had changed. And nothing would ever change if he continued to stand in front of that cottage wishing his grandfather would have been a different man. Because then, maybe, Harry would have been a different man, with a different life, with a different woman and different children to share his love.

And a reaction finally came from that thought, a visceral reaction that almost brought Harry to his knees.

He could go now. He had to go now.

"Thank you. Thank you for answering me," he said. And Harry returned to his family. He kissed his wife soundly on the lips and tickled his two oldest daughters back in the carriage. Harry didn't need his grandfather to tell him who he was. Harry knew who he was. He was fucking Harry Holmes. A father. A husband. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The old man's hearing wasn't as good as it used to be, but he could hear laughing and chatter as the carriage rolled away. And for the first time in a long time, he felt a weight lift. And when he closed the door, he rested his head against it and smiled.