Page 99 of Atone, Adonis

June, 1863

Three Years Later

The first thing Julianna noticed, each time June returned, was how quickly the world forgave winter. The hedgerows that had once been skeletal with frost were now thick with leaves, so green they looked as if they’d never been bare-limbed a day in their lives. Buttercups brightened the ground, scattered bits of sunshine beneath every step. The air smelled of warm earth, and sap, and the faint sweetness of the striped Galician roses that bloomed brighter this year than last.

It had been exactly three years since she had walked down the aisle of St. Oswald’s in her mother’s gown and chosen her husband for the second time. Three years since Fred’s voice had steadied itself on the word truth, and hers on the word forgiveness.

And six months since her brother had finally succumbed to tuberculosis.

Life, she knew, was not kind. But it could be beautiful all the same. Farrow Cottage sat at the bend in the lane as it always had, but it did not feel like the same place. She spent a great deal of time here in the spring and summer, tending the garden beds that still gave her so much delight. Hurling a stone at a fox every now and again, too.

Spring had come early this year, unlike the interminable winter of the last few years. She’d already cleared the beds of their tangle of weeds and last year’s crops. Herbs grew in fat abundance. And peas twined up their supports with their tender green shoots she couldn’t help but pop into her mouth instead of harvesting them. The lettuces were small, green rosettes, tender and sweet for a few more weeks. And the strawberries—her pride—had begun to blush red.

The cottage windows were thrown open, the curtains moving lazily in the breeze. Inside, the oak table held a basket of bread still warm from the kitchen at Sedgewick Manor, a jar of butter, and a bowl of early cherries Fred had procured. No doubt he’d stolen them from their chef, who had certainly had other plans for them.

Julianna sat at the table and waited. When the latch turned and the door opened, she knew who it was.

“I thought I might find you here,” Fred said.

His voice had changed over the years—subtly, but unmistakably. The Chester sneer only showed itself now when it was useful. At all other times Fred spoke with the earnestness she remembered from their youth. And with her he retained the softness he always had when they were together.

She glanced over at him and smiled. “Hello, my love,” she said.

He came to stand beside her, murmuring, “Hello, dearheart,” into her ear before he laid a kiss on her head.

He was in his shirtsleeves, his hair untidier than propriety would allow for an Earl, and his hands bearing the faint stains of the morning’s work in the churchyard. His sleeves were rolled, his forearms sun-browned, and he looked, absurdly, more like an Adonis than he ever had before.

He held something behind his back.

Julianna narrowed her eyes. “Are you hiding something, Fred?”

“I am not.”

He brought his hands forward and revealed a small bundle of wildflowers he’d gathered: Oxeye daisies, buttercups, a sprig of lavender, and—tucked in among them—a few pale bluebells that had no business blooming so late, stubborn little things.

“I saw them along the lane,” he said, reaching for the little glass vase they’d brought over to the cottage for just this reason. “And I thought both Farrow siblings deserved a little something beautiful.”

Julianna took the flowers carefully and set them in the middle of the table. “Thank you.”

He watched her with that steady blue gaze as he so often did now, waiting for her reaction. She reached up and brushed her thumb over his knuckles, a small grounding touch between them.

“I’m alright,” she said, before he could ask.

His shoulders eased by a fraction. “I know, dearheart. But it is all right, too, if you’re not.”

She looked down at the flowers again. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said, quietly. “Because I’m also not alright.”

He gathered her in his arms and held her close and she treasured that, his quiet, supporting strength. A balm against life’s everyday pain. A bulwark against the loneliness that could creep into the edges of any life, even those already filled with duty and responsibility and other people.

Outside, the garden hummed with life. A bird called from the hedge. Somewhere not too far away, the sea ebbed and flowed against the shoreline.

“Did you visit him today?” she asked.

Fred nodded. “This morning. I brought him his bouquet just as I’ve brought you yours.”

She was so glad then that Fred and Thomas had repaired their relationship before her brother had died. Thomas had been his friend first—his brother in all but blood. And Thomas had died with the knowledge that, in the end, he had forgiven and been forgiven.

Fred’s voice was careful. “The headstone is set properly now. The mason did good work.”