Philip scooped up their little ones and set them on their mother’s lap. He leaned forward and kissed her quickly, playfully. “I think it is time for an adventure.”
“I think it is past time.”
He slipped behind her chair. His eyes met Artemis’s. He mouthed a “thank you” before taking hold of the back of his wife’s chair. “Hold fast to the little ones, General Sorrel. We’re going to see how fast this chair can go.”
Philip pushed her chair along the terrace toward the decline at the far end. The giggles of their children joined his laughter. After a moment, Sorrel joined as well. The little family was soon on the flagstone path beyond and making their way around the side of the house.
“One ought never to outgrow a bit of silliness,” Artemis said quietly. Papa’s boys embodied that bit of wisdom. She loved Papa all the more for it.
“I don’t know how you managed it, Artie, but I feel as though I’ve just watched a miracle.” Charlie put his arms around her.
Artemis leaned into his embrace. “I didn’t do it entirely alone. Your father helped.”
“I am amazed at how often he still does,” Charlie said. “I’ve felt these past years as if he had abandoned us, but I’m realizing he’s with us more than we know.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The leave-taking at Lampton Parkhad been more emotional than Artemis had expected. Mater had held her as closely and fiercely as she imagined her own mother would have. Sorrel had insisted she come visit soon. Philip, whose dandified absurdity had subsided a bit, had told her in tones of utter sincerity how pleased he was that his father’s Princess had found her way home. She had cried at that; she couldn’t help herself.
The journey home to Brier Hill would require a few days, just as the journey from there had. They stopped at the same inn their first night at which they’d taken supper in their room during their journey to Lampton Park. The proprietress recognized them and welcomed them back, offering a dinner tray without the request needing to be made.
They talked of both significant and unimportant things as they enjoyed the hardy repast. They were far more at ease with each other than they’d been on their previous stay in this very room.
After the tray had been fetched and the candles lit, Artemis settled beside Charlie on the bench, leaning into his embrace. It was a posture they assumed often, one of comfort and caring and tenderness.
“Do you think Papa would be pleased to know we’ve found each other?” Artemis’s thoughts often turned to him.
“I think he would be ecstatic.” Charlie pulled her in more closely, then popped his bare feet onto the ottoman placed there for that purpose. She had discovered he liked having his shoes off. It was an endearing oddity in him, one she found she didn’t mind, no matter that it wasn’t particularly fashionable. “Linus gave me the letters Mater entrusted to him, the ones that you weren’t ready to read when he tried to give them to you. I think you should read them, Artie.”
She curled against him. “Who wrote them?” Linus had offered his theory on the matter. She was ready to know for certain.
“Your Papa.”
She had suspected as much. “To whom?”
“They are addressed to ‘My Princess.’ Mater never knew to whom they ought to be given, but she kept them safe on the off chance that someday she would discover the identity of the little girl he’d told her of.”
“He wrote to me.” The truth of it warmed her through.
“My father was a prolific letter writer. I don’t think any of us were truly surprised that he’d written and left us letters as his last gesture of love.”
She remembered so well how much Charlie had struggled with his father’s offering to him. “Have you read yours yet, Charlie?”
“I haven’t.” He didn’t sound as heartbroken as he had the day the will had been read.
She sat upright. “I will read Papa’s letters to me if you will read your father’s letter to you.”
He set his fingers beneath her chin and softly kissed her. “You are good for me, Artemis Jonquil.”
“We are good foreach other.”
Charlie retrieved her letters from his traveling bag while she pulled from hers the letter and book his father had left him. They resumed their spots on the bench and exchanged their precious handfuls.
She held the small stack, brushing her fingers over the faded ink. Each was, indeed, addressed simply to “My Princess.” She had wondered for years if he had forgotten her. Though her heart still grieved, there was comfort in knowing he had thought of her.
With a breath of determination, she untied the bundle and broke the seal on the first letter.
My Princess,
