Epilogue
EPILOGUE
June sunlight spilled across her small writing desk, warming the neat stack of papers beneath Ella’s hand. The window was open, letting in the scent of fresh summer roses from the garden below and the distant clatter of carriage wheels on Pennsylvania Avenue. From the window in their small apartment, the Capital dome was just visible. The scars from nearly two years prior, now nearly indiscernible.
She dipped her pen, taking a break from composing a dull article comparing quality of silks, to respond to her dear friend now returned to Philadelphia.
My Dearest Annabelle,
Your last letter arrived only yesterday, and as always, I read it twice. It seems that your time has been so positively spent, I am both proud of you and ashamed in my more selfish pursuits. You have borne more than your share of disappointment, yet you give your heart so openly to others. Your new friends Mrs. Murray and Father Branagh seem to be sharing experience, we fortunately rarely had opportunity to see. Also, it seems you are spending much time with Dr. Adams, please tell me more on that subject. He sounds rather interesting.
Ella punctuated, no doubt that her implication would be understood by Annabelle.
Mama is managing as well as can be expected in her new diminished societal role. If I am being honest, I think she is more content than she expected in relinquishing the role of head matron. The settlement of Papa’s estate has occupied much of her mind. She seems almost grateful to have something practical to command again.
Betty has begun no less than six novels. Each starting instantly with balls and true love. I have tried to guide her, but she assists that I would not know how to write such things as I only compose dull articles on politics.
My aunt and uncle have sent for Anastasia, urging her to return home. But being that our collective social standing is quite in ruin, she has refused with a stubbornness that continues to impress even me. I hope London is kinder to her than Washington proved.
I did want to confess something else of import
Ella hesitated, when she heard a light knock at the open door.
“Still writing?” Grant’s voice carried that familiar mixture of teasing reproach and fondness, “You haven’t finished your article?”
Ella shook her head, “I find I cannot summon the least enthusiasm for composing a treatise on the moral character of silk. I have taken refuge instead in a letter to Annabelle.”
Grant made a small sound of disapproval. “And what of your deadline?”
“You need not concern yourself with my deadline,” she replied calmly. “It will be in the box by morning.”
“Then when, pray tell, am I to correct your syntax?”
Ella glanced up at him, eyes bright with warning. “My syntax is in perfect order. Plus you have not even read a paragraph.”
“I do not need to,” he replied, plucking her pen from her fingers with outrageous ease. “I know how your mind works.”
She turned to him, (annoyed) “Oh? enlighten me.”
“It gallops, ahead of itself. Brilliantly, but without coordination. A bit like Betty running downhill.”
“If you touch one more sheet of my work—” she warned, rising to face him.
“What?” He stepped closer, smile tugging at one corner. “You’ll banish me? Outwrite me? Lecture me into submission?”
“Tempting,” she said, trying to look stern.
She stepped toward him, hand out for return of her pen, making a futile attempt at looking bothered.
He took the advantage of her closeness and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him.
He lowered his head and kissed her lightly, as if it was a penance to return her instrument.
“There,” he said softly. “Returned. Entirely unedited.”
“Touch my syntax,” she said coolly, “and I shall write you into a very unflattering editorial. The Unnecessary Influence of Husbands.”
Grant laughed. “Then I will look forward to reading it.”
Ella remained quietly in his embrace for a moment.
“Have you told Annabelle of our intention to move west?” He finally asked, his tone more sober.
Ella glanced down,“Not yet.”
Grant watched her closely. “You are certain? About leaving Washington, your mother, Betty….”
“Yes,” she said simply. “I want work that matters. Writing agreeable pieces on roasts and the proper shades for one’s complexion is not exactly ?. Perhaps, if the Democratic Observer still existed… In the territories there is space—and the freedom, I hope of us being able to voice our own thoughts. Perhaps even offering a voice to the voiceless.
“Dangerous aspirations,” he said lightly.
She smiled. “You married me knowing this.”
“I married you because of it,” he replied, then added, more carefully, “Just be certain you are not doing this for me. I followed you into a burning city. I could remain just as easily in a settled one.”
Ella hooked her arms around his neck. “I go because I wish to.”
Their mouths met, at first small. The kiss deepened, his grip tightening as she leaned into him, her pen slipping from her fingers to the floor. He kissed her with intent, before his mouth traced along her jaw and down.
“What of my deadline?” Ella asked, breathless now.
“I should think,” Grant murmured against her throat, “you might request an extension. Editors are notoriously vulnerable to well-argued appeals.”
She tilted her head, granting him better access. “You are abusing your position.”
“I intend to,” he said, unapologetic.
Then, a sharp knock sounded at the door.
Grant stilled, his forehead resting briefly against hers. “Damnable timing,” he muttered, “That’d be the firewood.”
Ella continued kissing him along his jaw, “Let’s ignore it.”
Another knock—polite, insistent.
Grant stepped back at last, reluctantly releasing her waist. “The last time we did that, we had cold tea for two days.”
Ella sighed releasing him. He brushed a thumb once along her jaw before retreating. “I will return.”
“Is that a threat Mr. Dashwood?” she teased, returning to her desk.
He stole her pen as he passed, then set it deliberately back into her hand before opening the door.
Ella looked down at her unfinished sentence.
I did want to confess something else of import
The words would not settle. She stared at the page a moment longer, then, slid the letter to Annabelle aside atop the neatly stacked article on quality of silks.
Her gaze drifted instead to the opposite corner of the desk, where a thicker sheaf of papers, its title written boldly across the first page:
The Democratic Rights of Women
Ella reached for it without hesitation.
Starting where she had left off, she dipped her pen again and began to write. This time not carefully, not cautiously, but with intent.
Some things, she had learned, could not wait for permission.
