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Epilogue

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Sybil Cronenworth grabbed her satchel and walked toward the convent's gate. She'd already said goodbye to those she viewed as her friends. She'd deliberately avoided speaking to the new Mother Superior. She didn't like the fussy shrew and was relieved to depart before too many more of her awful rules were implemented.

Eighteen years earlier, when the gate had clanged shut behind her, the sound had rung in her bones like a death knell. When a woman's husband locked her away, it was usually for the rest of her life. In fact, Harold's last words to her had been his caustic reminder that she'd never be released. As a convicted adulteress, she hadn't believed it would ever happen.

She was free to leave, the problem being that she had no one to assist her as she wandered out into the cold, cruel world. She had her daughters, and she'd have liked to write to them, but with how she'd abandoned them, she didn't dare initiate any contact.

In the lengthy period she'd been confined, she'd secretly corresponded—twice—outside the facility, with smuggled letters from Attorney Coswell. He'd promised to come for her when she was being kicked out, but she couldn't predict if he would show up or not. What if he wasn't waiting for her? What would she do then?

Well, the Mother Superior—witch that she was—had given her a pouch of coins, so she wouldn't starve after she left. It was enough to purchase coach fare to Edinburgh and, she'd decided, if Mr. Coswell didn't appear, she'd journey there, find a charity mission, and beg for aid. She was a survivor and she'd survive this disaster too.

There was a single nun assigned to escort her out and Sybil nodded to her. The Mother Superior had ordered everyone else to chapel, so the nun was the only one who would see her go.

The gate was heavy and rarely opened, and they had to fuss with the rusted bolt and latch. It took all their strength to tug it back, so Sybil could slip through. They didn't chat; the other woman simply smiled tentatively and waved her on her way. Sybil smiled too and ducked out.

She tarried, listening as the gate was closed and barred, then she spun and surveyed the surroundings, noting instantly that someone was present to greet her. An ornate coach was parked down the road. It was a massive vehicle, pulled by six white horses, that would definitely be comfortable for traveling. There was a large crest on the door, an indication that it belonged to an exalted family.

She possessed no information about Mr. Coswell, so she had no idea if he had prominent kin, if he would own such a lavish carriage. Was it him?

The occupants had climbed out and it was two couples: two tall, strapping men and two shorter, pretty women. She focused in and her pulse raced frantically. The females were about the age that she had been when she'd vanished with her scoundrel. They resembled her exactly, and she was rattled by a quick and bizarre notion that it might be Theodora and Charlotte, that they might have somehow learned about her from Mr. Coswell and arrived in his stead.

The prospect was so inconceivable that she shoved it away. She prayed, someday in the far distant future, that she might be able to catch a glimpse of them, but it wasn't possible that they would traipse to Scotland to rescue her.

Braced for anything, she started toward them, when one of the women said, "Oh, my! Look! There she is."

The other one said, "That's her. There's no doubt!"

They rushed to her, the men following at a more leisurely, more dubious pace. The females were practically running, but at the same time, they seemed to be barely moving, as if the universe had slowed them down to prolong the torture of the occasion.

Finally—finally!—they reached her and the first one said, "Mother! It's me! It's Theodora." She pointed to the other one. "And this is Charlotte. We're your daughters. Please tell me that you remember us."

Of course Sybil remembered them, but she couldn't force out any words. She was so stunned to see them, so grateful to see them, but she couldn't talk to explain herself. She simply studied them and they were so perfect, so beautiful. In her wildest dreams, she couldn't have pictured them as being quite so fetching.

The men joined them and Theodora said, "Mother, this is my husband, Jackson Bennett, Lord Thornhill."

"An aristocrat," Sybil murmured. "My goodness, how wonderful."

Then Charlotte said, "This is my fiancé, Winston Wainwright, Earl of Dartmouth. He and I are planning to marry, but we decided to delay the ceremony until you could attend."

"I would be honored," Sybil mumbled, "but where is it to be held?"

"In the chapel at Jackson's estate," Theodora said. "Then you'll stay with us there. What would you think of that? Mr. Coswell told us that you have nowhere to go and we couldn't bear to have you fret about it. We want you to live with us. Will you?"

Sybil's pulse had accelerated to such an agitated rate that she thought she was about to suffer a heart seizure. She gazed at her daughters, at the handsome men who'd chosen them to be their brides, and she began to cry. She couldn't help it. Eighteen years of shame, regret, and sorrow had been bottled up, and perhaps, she could let it out.

She hadn't expected them to come for her. She hadn't expected kindness from them. Could she ultimately hope for forgiveness? She didn't deserve it, but for the remainder of her days, she would work to receive it.

Her knees gave out, and as she collapsed, her daughters grabbed her, their men pitching in to keep her on her feet.

"Don't worry," Theodora said to her. "We've got you. We'll take you home and everything will be all right from this moment on."

THE END

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