Matilda’s hands bunched into fists. “This is your salvation, you dolt.” As Harry’s wife, she would never have addressed her husband so disrespectfully. As his not-quite-widow, she barely refrained from profanity. “Esther never gave up on you, Harry. She would not allow your uncles to declare you dead and divide up your share of your father’s estate. You are a wealthy man by most people’s standards, and you have at least a sibling willing to claim you.”

Harry, glib under all circumstances, was quiet for a moment. “Papa mentioned me in the will?”

Esther Merchant shifted to stand before her brother. The resemblance was strong, though Esther radiated hope, while Harry seemed genuinely bewildered.

“Papa eventually regretted the rift between you. He put notices in the paper, Harry, and I have a letter he wrote to you on his deathbed. He blamed himself, and rightly so, in my estimation. You were little more than a boy, and he was all stubbornness and pride dressed up as moral conviction. I’ve managed your share of the estate, and you are indeed quite prosperous.”

Tremont took the place at Matilda’s side. “Prosperous enough to buy yourself a theater, Merchant, if that’s what you please to do, and to produce all the bawdy farces and comedies you please.”

“The tragedies have the better speeches,” Harry murmured.

“Harry,” Matilda said, wanting to shake him until his teeth rattled, “you can write whatever blasted speeches you please. You can hire London’s finest thespians to give benefit performances. You can do as Mr. Sheridan did at Drury Lane and pay urchins and pickpockets to be your extras. You have a prodigious imagination, and now you have an equally impressive opportunity to use that imagination for worthy purposes.”

“Come home,” Esther said, taking her brother’s hand. “Please, Harry, come home. I’ve missed you and prayed for you and cursed you, but I need you to c-come home.”

“Don’t you dare cry, Esther,” Harry said, eyeing the door. “Don’t you dare, don’t you even think… Blasted hell.” He wrapped Esther in his arms and buried his face against her hair. “I’ll come, just don’t cry. You’ll hate me for it, but I’ll come back to Bristol.”

MacKay picked up a decanter from the sideboard. “We’ll be in the formal parlor, celebrating—or fortifying ourselves for the next act, or some damned thing or other.” He offered his arm to Dorcas, and Matilda and Tremont followed him out the door.

Epilogue

Tommie was riding atop the box with John Coachman, and Copenhagen lay forgotten on the opposite bench.

“Our son is growing up,” Tremont said, and even those simple words filled him with a quiet wonder. “Poor Cope can’t hold a candle to the prospect of taking the actual ribbons.”