Epilog

On their way to London and the great auction houses, Ivy tried Jake a bit when she insisted they stop in Brierton so she could make amends with her parents, and hopefully retrieve more of her wardrobe, since their destination was Baltimore. He would happily have avoided meeting what he knew would be irate people, certain he had ruined Ivy’s relationship with her parents. At least hanging, drawing and quartering had mostly been abolished in England.

Arriving at Brierton in mid-afternoon, they stowed their luggage with the obliging innkeeper, who grinned when Ivy showed him her wedding ring, newly purchased in Carlisle. Before they started a slow walk to the Pritchard estate, the innkeep gestured them close and spoke in whispers, after looking around.

“There’s been a real to-do at the Baldwins, and at your home, Miss, er, Mrs. Frost,” he warned. “That’s all I know, but I hear it ain’t pretty. Have a care, you two.”

Jake held Ivy’s hand as they walked the two miles. His arm went around her as the Pritchard manor came into view. She had grown quiet and turned away out of habit, something he never wanted to see again. Ah, well. Better face the music.

She hung back when he boldly banged the door knocker. To his relief, Larch opened the door. He gasped and yanked Jake inside, then coaxed Ivy after him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Larch said, after making sure they were alone.

“How bad is it?” Ivy asked.

Larch grinned. “Follow me!”

The Frosts exchanged glances and joined hands again. Larch opened the sitting room door and announced, “The Frosts, sir and madam.”

Jake’s dread vanished when Mrs. Pritchard, dignified woman, shrieked, cast aside her needlework, and leaped up from the comfortable sofa that had lured him into deep sleep only weeks ago. She ran to Ivy and hugged her, laughing and crying. Jake began to relax.

Mr. Pritchard moved more slowly, but in a moment he was pumping Jake’s hand, “Thank God!” he exclaimed. “By eloping, you saved my daughter from worse condemnation!”

Jake and Ivy stared at each other. Slowly, then with remarkable velocity, it dawned on Jake Frost that Dame Fortune had smiled again. Or perhaps St. Nicholas had a wicked sense of humor. How was a simple surgeon to know?

Mrs. Pritchard gestured to the sofa and they sat. Ivy looked at Jake, since he was the husband and designated brave man. He cleared his throat. Might as well brazen it through, in case he was wrong. “Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard, I owe you an enormous apol….”

Mr. Pritchard raised his hand to silence Jake. “We owe you such a debt, sir,” he said. “Not three days after Ivy bolted from the premises, who should arrive at the Baldwins’ house than…than…I can’t describe her.”

Mrs. Pritchard took up the narrative with some glee. “She even called herself Elsie Baldwin!”

Ivy Frost gasped. Ah, the testing point. Was he, Jacob Frost, man enough to admit that he had sent a message and money to Elsie? In that moment, Jake decided, no, he wasn’t. Some confessions were better left alone since the whole matter had been a last-ditch effort.

“She called herself Elsie Baldwin?” he asked, feigning innocence. He somehow managed to stop from bursting into hysterical laughter.

“Such a blowsy frump, from what we heard,” Mr. Pritchard said. “All bad grammar and making demands. What could George Baldwin have been thinking ?”

Mrs. Pritchard fanned herself with her embroidery hoop. “And to think our Ivy would have been married to a …a…bigamist! We can’t thank you enough, Mr. Frost.”

“What happened next?” Ivy asked.

“Daughter, there was such a scene at the Baldwins,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “We heard it all from the Baldwins’ butler, who told it to Larch.”

Jake smiled inside to see his mother-in-law enjoying the whole thing. Perhaps life had been too boring for her lately. “We hear that General Baldwin paid her a huge sum of money to vanish.” Mrs. Pritchard giggled. “Apparently she stole Grace Baldwin’s Apostle spoons, too.”

“And Captain Baldwin?” Jack asked. “The invalid?” (He couldn’t resist.)

Mrs. Pritchard leaned close to him like a conspirator. “Apparently he showed a clean pair of heels and dashed away in a different direction. Rumor has it he is sailing to America. I suppose he wasn’t as ill as he seemed. You must be an excellent surgeon, Mr. Frost. You cured a scoundrel! We’re so delighted with how things turned out.”

Poor America. Hopefully, George Baldwin would never appear in Baltimore. There was so much Jake Frost could have said. Instead, he looked at his wife, so pretty and kind, then his in-laws, eager to admire him now. He wondered at his remarkable good fortune and knew his war was over. Christmas was going to be the holiday remembered, loved and cherished.

“Happy Christmas, Ivy,” he whispered to his lady, who looked him full in the face, then thrilled his heart by winking her sleepy eye.

“Happy Christmas, Jake,” she replied.