She moved closer to him, until the tips of their boots touched and she could breathe him in. “How,” she whispered, “how would you say it in your own words?”
His eyes bore into hers. “I miss you,” he said. “Come home.”
She buried her face in her hands.
Through her fingers, she saw his still starched and folded handkerchief. She took it and pressed it to her nose just to gorge on his scent.
“I’d wait another eight years and a half for you, too, ye ken,” she heard him say.
Her head whipped up. “No. Please, begin wooing me posthaste.” She pulled at the silver necklace she never took off, lifting the wedding ring and the love spoon from her bodice.
Lucian’s eyes widened.
“Posthaste,” she repeated.
“Well then,” he murmured. “There’s a tavern at the road junction. It’s romantic. There’s flowers in baskets and carved hearts on the window shutters.”
The first tear was already rolling down her cheek.
He held her face and brushed gently with his thumbs. “Mo chridhe. Would you accompany me to a lunch?”
She clasped a hand around his nape. Felt his warmth and strength beneath her fingers, and the loosening of some tension at her center which would forever come with touching him. They could not turn back time, but they could begin again.
“Yes, Mr. Blackstone,” she said, and leaned in.
Epilogue
“It’s …” Professor Ruskin hesitated; he was making a production of studying the projector apparatus Hattie had installed at the center of the darkened exhibition room. “I say, it’s …”
If he said lovely, she’d defenestrate him right out of the upper floor of the Shoreditch gallery, no matter that it would be witnessed by two dozen of London’s most influential people and a hundred visitors with an interest in photography. As predicted, her opening day had attracted a crowd. Entry was free of cost for workers, but the expensive tickets had sold out like hot scones the same date her exhibition had been announced in the papers. “They come to see the scandalous Greenfield-Blackstone, not your photographs,” Mina had assured her, but her sister’s eyes had sparkled with good humor.
Mina and her knightly husband were studying the children’s photographs on the east wall, where each picture was illuminated by a miner’s safety lamp. The lighting was low enough to not interfere with the heart of her installation: on the north wall, tapestry-sized portraits of the people of Drummuir flashed and lingered in tireless rotation thanks to the small coal-fueled engine turning the cranks in the magic lantern. The coal fumes were transported out a window through a metal pipe, but the air still smelled faintly of colliery. Reporters circled the small engine with notebooks in hand.
“Modern,” Ruskin finally pronounced. “Very modern.”
“Thank you,” Hattie said, distracted. Somewhere in the crowd were her friends.
“A terrific concept, Mrs. Blackstone.” Ruskin added, “We are pleased to have you back at Oxford this term.”
She should have felt ardent elation at his words, but it was at best a lukewarm glow. Ruskin’s opinion had lost its teeth. She was no longer working for his praise. She was no longer working for praise from a nebulous audience, either. Her work here was dedicated to people she knew, and hopefully it contributed toward the changes she wished to see in Britain. She was quite content with her execution, too. These were the things that mattered.
“Are you all right, dear? Are you too warm?”
Annabelle had appeared by her side with a drink in hand, her feline green eyes searching Hattie’s face. Hattie touched her heated cheeks. “I’m fine. Does my face look red? How could you tell? It’s so dark in here.”
Her friend smiled. “Your expression was very wistful, when you should be rejoicing,” she said. She leaned closer, filling Hattie’s nose with a delicate jasmine scent. “Apparently, the director of the Royal Academy is interested in acquiring your work.”
“Oh my.”
Just then Lucie joined them, her arm linked through Catriona’s. “Fantastic work, Hattie,” she said. “I understand nothing about art, but some of the dullest people in attendance here are muttering disapprovingly under their breath, which means you did well.”
Hattie sipped her tepid champagne. “I just wish Mhairi and Hamish Fraser could be here.”
After her return from France, she had settled in the Drover’s Inn for two months. Lucian had stayed with her the first weeks, to discuss a possible communal mine ownership experiment with Boyd and to oversee the new railroad tracks designed to improve the mining infrastructure of Fife. Hattie had spent her days with Rosie Fraser’s family, and on the coalfields and in tunnels to understand what she needed to know. In the end, Hamish had directed her lens as much as her artistic intuition. “You should take a few,” she had told him after the first week. “I shall teach you.” He had laughed and said he’d rather pull out his eyeballs and pickle them than squint at wee upside-down images all day long. He had taken his mother’s portrait, however, and it was comforting to know that the original plate currently graced Rosie Fraser’s kitchen wall. Perhaps one day a representative from Drummuir would follow her invitation and come to London. Perhaps when Hamish sent his finished novel to London Print. Apparently, he was still editing.