Lord Of The Sea (33 page)

Epilogue

Damon de Wolfe, the Marquess of Morninghall and one-time holder of the Black Wolf persona himself, was pacing the floors of his great Cotswolds home as his wife, screaming in agony as the pains of labor seized her once again, struggled upstairs to deliver his firstborn.

“If I didn’t have you to thank for saving my life, Connor, after that whole Black Wolf business, I swear I’d have more than a little to say to you for compromising my ward in Barbados. Is the world not safe from you?”

“No, my lord. I’m afraid not.”

“Got the paper this morning. The
Times
. Some damned American privateer was harrying and harassing our shipping in the Channel right under the noses of the fleet as recently as last Sunday. Took a few prizes and made off with them, and in broad daylight as well. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, I suppose.”

Connor’s grin was completely innocent. “I suppose I wouldn’t, my lord.”

“Stop with the my lord nonsense. I’m Damon to you, and you know it.”

“Yes.” Connor’s grin spread. “My lord.”

Upstairs, there was another loud cry from Gwyneth, and Damon got up and resumed his pacing. “It was good of you to get Rhiannon back here so she could be with her sister during this. And that dog of hers was howling for her constantly. You’ll have to take him back with you, my nerves are shot. Shot. I thought that having a baby was supposed to be the most blessed event in the entire damned world. All rainbows, bliss and light. By God, I’m a wreck. I’ll be damned if I ever put myself through this kind of hell ever again.”

Connor, smirking, poured a measure of the rum he had brought from Barbados into his brother-in-law’s glass. “Here. Drink this. I thought I was restless, but you give new meaning to the word.”

The marquess snatched up the glass and downed it on one gulp.

“What’s taking that baby so long to arrive?” he snapped. “For God’s sake, you’d think the women would let a man into the room if only to ease his own suffering. This worry is bloody well killing me.”

“I think, Damon, that they are managing very well without you.” He refilled his brother-in-law’s glass. “Here. A toast to your coming heir.”

“A toast,” the marquess said, and drank.

Connor looked out over the beautiful English countryside, alive now with the bright virginal greens of early spring. He was thinking about a certain several ships in the English Channel. Ships that were, at this very moment, being sailed as prizes back to Newburyport. . . .

“. . . Don’t ever get your wife pregnant,” Morninghall was saying, beginning to pace once more. “Oh, she’ll tell you how her back hurts and her stomach’s upset and that she can’t get comfortable at night and that her shoes no longer fit, but I tell you, Connor, her grievances are nothing,
nothing
, compared to the absolute
hell
that I’m in right now. Absolute hell, I tell you!”

“Everything will be fine, Damon. Here, have some more rum.”

The marquess grabbed the glass, but at that moment Rhiannon suddenly appeared at the doorway. She was smiling, unable to contain her own delight.

“Come upstairs, Damon,” she said. “You have a baby son.”

*     *     *

The child was named Philip Edward Antony de Wolfe, given some English courtesy title that Connor couldn’t remember and which meant little to him anyhow, and
oohed
and
aahed
over by the entire household: the ancient butler, the housekeeper, the servants, the staff, even Rhiannon’s elderly dog Mattie, who sniffed at the newborn in curiosity then gave his red, wrinkled little cheek a swipe with his tongue.

“I hope you like dogs, Connor,” Rhiannon said as afterward, they skirted a newly-planted field bordered by trees, new in leaf, whose branches waved in the breeze. “It was good of Gwyneth and Damon to take care of him for me while I was away, but I think they’re going to have their hands full for a time.”

“Well, since we’re starting our own zoo, why not?” Connor said, thinking of the two cats that his father, he’d been told, had handed down into the boat as
Kestrel
was foundering and which, of course, had ended up on
Rapier
.

His mind tracked back to the marquess’ uncharacteristic angst as Gwyneth had been in labor and he wondered if he, when and if the time came, would handle the event with at least a little more calm.

His wife reached out and put her hand in his, and together, the two moved toward the beautiful Cotswold hills that commanded a view for miles around, the fields newly tilled and planted and divided by ancient hedgerows. There was a decided nip in the air today, a last little reminder that spring was still in its infancy, and Connor was glad that he’d remembered to bring the black cutaway coat he’d bought in Barbados.

Not that he, far more comfortable in more casual wear, had bothered to wear it since he’d stuffed the thing in a trunk and promptly forgotten about it several hours out of Carlisle Bay.

“How are you feeling today, Rhiannon?” he asked, as he watched her elderly bird dog, Mattie, trotting far ahead of them, nose to the ground.

“I feel fine. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, maybe you’re carrying a baby, yourself.”

“Well, if I am, it’s early days yet, Connor. And when the time comes, I’m sure you’ll give me much to smile about and take my mind off my own discomfort when things start to get a little uncomfortable.”

The memory of Gwyneth’s screams came suddenly back to him.
A little uncomfortable?

He had a feeling she wouldn’t be smiling.

Mattie, far ahead, was waiting at the top of the grassy knoll, tongue hanging out, the wind blowing his long, floppy ears back as he turned his face into the breeze.

Hand-in-hand, they continued their walk and eventually caught up to the dog, who, with a groan, lay down and let the early spring sunshine soak into his fur.

“Pretty up here,” Connor said, sitting down. “You can see for miles.” His smile was a little rueful as the wind came up and played with his tousled curls. “Though I confess, it’s a bit constraining, even so.”

“And why is that?”

“Because we’re too far inland. I can’t see the ocean. I
need
to see the ocean.”

“It’s in your blood, isn’t it?”

“Aye, my love. I guess it is.”

Rhiannon sat down beside him and happily leaned into the warm strength of his shoulder as his arm curled around her. “Lord of the sea,” she murmured.

“Hmm?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking out loud. About Gwyneth and me . . . how we each married noblemen, in our own way. She, the lord of Morninghall . . . me, the lord of the sea.”

Connor’s green eyes glinted, and he laughed, a rich, all-encompassing sound that warmed her very soul.

“I love you, Rhiannon,” he said, touching his forehead to hers and then letting his lips drift down until they lingered at the side of her mouth. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“I love you, too, Connor. You’re the best thing that ever happened to
me
.”

He shifted position in order to kiss her better, and as he drew back, anticipating spending the afternoon, perhaps, back in bed with her, he felt something in his coat pocket. Frowning, he dug a hand inside and felt it close on a folded piece of vellum.

“What’s this?” He pulled it out. “Oh, right, of course. I’d forgotten it, all this time.”

He started to put it back into his pocket, thinking, only, of pulling his lovely young wife to her feet and finding some place a little less exposed in which to make love to her.

“What is it?”

“Oh, just a letter from Liam. Probably full of sentimental Irish balderdash or some such thing.”

“You haven’t read it?”

He just raised a brow and looked at her.

“Here,” she said. “Give it to me. I’ll read it for you.” She looked up at him. “If you want.”

“Aye, sure.” He handed her the letter, grinning. “Go ahead.”

Rhiannon opened the paper, and immediately, her heart seemed to stop in her throat. She looked up at Connor. “It’s not from Liam,” she whispered. “It’s . . . it’s from your father.”

The carefree smile faded, and he took the letter from her. Yes, it was his Da’s beloved, familiar hand. Sudden anguish welled up behind his eyes, and swallowing hard, he began to put the letter back in his pocket. “I . . . I’ll look at it some other time,” he said, turning away to hide the sudden gleam of tears.

“I understand.”

She took his hand, but the letter, like the person himself who had written it, was now a presence there with them, between them, demanding to be heard, unwilling to let itself be forgotten or laid aside for another day.

His hand went back into his pocket.

Emerged with the carefully folded vellum.

“Go ahead,” he finally said, and gave her the letter. She slowly opened it, and a shaft of sunlight came down through the drifting clouds above and made the paper seem to glow in her hand.

My dear and beloved son,

As I write this, it is late in the afternoon and time weighs heavily on my hands, though perhaps, for others, it is passing faster than it should be. By the time you read this, the inevitable events that I foresee happening will have transpired and, because of that, I know that this letter will bring you a sadness that I certainly do not intend for you to feel.

Your mother is dying, Connor. I pen these words from
Kestrel
’s cabin, a place where she and I spent many a happy moment, a place that brought us together, a place where so much of our early lives transpired. I did not tell you just how ill your mother is, perhaps because I knew you needed every resource at your command to deal with the demands of running a ship, perhaps because I did not want to upset you, but more so, if I am to be truthful, because confessing it in writing or in the spoken word only confirms what I know in my heart to be true, and that has been something I have been unwilling, and unable, to face.

Aside from my beloved children, your mother—along with
Kestrel
herself—has been the great love of my life, and I will not leave either of them. There is not enough room in the boat for us, but even if there were I would not take that seat, and your mother, I know, would not survive hours out on an open craft, waiting for rescue. I know where she would wish to spend her last moments, and I know where I wish to spend mine. God knows I never wanted to spend eternity confined to a plot in the dirt behind St. Paul’s Church back in Newburyport, and neither, I daresay, did your mother. I am where I want to be, with the two women I loved most in this world, and the three of us are together as, I believe in my heart, we were always meant to be.

Do not grieve for me, my son. I have lived a rich, full, blessed and wonderful life. I have seen and done things that most people only dream about, watched my three beautiful children grow into strong, loving adults that any parent would be proud of, welcomed that greatest treasure of all, grandchildren, into the world and known that through them, a part of me will always remain. I do not welcome death, but nor do I fear it, and never have; I know, with the certainty of my heart, that life goes on in ways that remain forever mysterious to us all.

I am proud of you, Connor. As proud of a son as it’s possible for a father to be. You are so much like I was at your age, and I see you struggling to find acceptance and acclaim while doubting everything that you are. (You should know that had I been the young man I once was, I, too, would have attacked that ship. Stop blaming yourself, as I know you’ve been doing. She would have caught us, anyhow.) Your mother and I have never doubted you, and I know that through your trials, you will become stronger. Keep your beautiful and loving Rhiannon close by your side, and nourish each other with your respective strengths. Comfort each other through life’s sorrows, love each other through all of it. You could not have found a better woman to stand at your side as you walk through your life, and I could not be prouder, and happier, to call her my daughter.

In closing, I leave you with this. When you get back home to
Newburyport
you will find, in my office at the shipyard, a set of drafts that I drew up for you. They were originally meant to replace
Merrimack,
but this war won’t go on forever, lad, and I foresee, in this coming new age, American-built ships, Newburyport-built ships, becoming the reigning queens of ocean trade—there will be great fortunes to be had there, and the ship whose design awaits you will be the first of this new breed to ply the seas, ships that are going to be bigger, longer, leaner, and most of all, faster, than anything that has come before. The world is changing, my dear son, and you are on the verge of an exciting new era. Take the drafts, and have Uncle Matt build her for you.

I have no regrets and neither, my beloved son, should you. Live your life to the fullest, as you already know how to do, and leave guilt, self-recrimination, and grief behind you. You have made me proud. You have made me happy. You have given me the greatest blessings that it’s possible for a son to give his father.

I love you.

Until we meet again,

— Dadaí

Rhiannon slowly looked up and handed the letter to her husband, who sat gazing far out over the English countryside, his eyes distant. He took the letter, looked at the words that his father had written, and pressed the paper to his lips for a long, long moment.

And then he folded it, carefully, and slid it back down into his pocket.

“Grandchildren,” he murmured, with a watery smile.

“It’s what they always wanted.”

He stood up, pulling her to her feet, watching the sun play through the high, fluffy clouds as the earth thrust its adoring, seeking face skyward in this yearly ritual, this timeless resurrection of life.

“Guess we’d better go work on giving them some,” Connor said, and hand in hand, the two of them headed steadily back toward the house.

—
the end
—