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Two Years Later
The castle grounds were bustling with preparations for the harvest festival. From where Annie sat at her study, her most recent drawings spread out over the desk, she could see the men who were setting up the large tent.
They would be hosting the competition under the tent for the largest pumpkin, the prize pig, and whichever child could bob for the most apples in two minutes.
The tent would also be a place where the villagers could shelter if the rain started, but from what Annie could tell, it looked as if the weather was going to hold.
It was a bright, clear day, cold and crisp, the golden sunshine falling over the red, orange, and yellow leaves that blanketed the yard.
Other stalls were being set up as well. She could see a stall for roasting chestnuts, another for spun sugar—Margaret would like that one, she noted to herself—and another that was selling tartans.
And there, at the end of the row, was Mrs. O’Neill, her three children once more running circles around her, as she set up the stand where she would be selling her clay dishware. When Annie saw her, she couldn’t help but smile.
Her first friend in Culcross had helped her enormously in advocating to move some of the harvest festival’s activities onto the castle grounds. She had liked the idea of bringing more of the villagers into the castle and showing them around the estate.
Annie stretched, then checked the grandfather clock on the far wall. It was almost three in the afternoon, which meant that she ought to be getting ready to go out for the opening of the festival soon. However, she still had a few more things to finish up, including her latest commission from the Royal College of Physicians.
They had requested that she draw a comprehensive botanical survey of Scottish medicinal plants. It had taken her the better part of four months to finish all the drawings to her exacting standards, but now, she was finally done.
She had just bent over the final drawing and begun to fill in some of the shading when she heard a knock on the study door.
“Come in,” she called out, then turned to see a footman enter holding a tray with a letter on it.
“For you, My Lady,” he said, bowing and holding out the tray.
“Thank you, Boots,” she said, taking the letter and slitting it open. The footman left, and she unfolded the letter and began to read.
It was from her publisher in London, and the message was so curious and uplifting that she found herself starting to giggle by the time she was done reading it.
Dear Lady Campbell,
We wanted to write to you with such surprising news that we were sure you would find diverting. There is no urgency to this letter, and everything is still well on track for your manuscript’s publication, so fear not that we write to you of any delays. Nay, the reason we write is to inform you that we have recently been sent three manuscripts of illustrations by ladies, all three of whom credited you, in their letters, with giving them the bravery and courage to submit to us under their real names. All three of them, separately, informed us that they have been submitting illustrations to magazines for years under male pseudonyms, but that it was your recent publications and your forthcoming book that inspired them to submit their own books under their real names.
We thought you would be delighted with this news and honored to know that your hard work and determination has paved the way for other young ladies to pursue their careers and their crafts without adopting male pseudonyms. You are truly an inspiration, Lady Campbell, and we are very proud to be publishing your forthcoming book.
We wish you the very best tidings and hope that you are having a beautiful autumn in the Highlands.
Yours, sincerely,
Bertram Reed, Editor
Minerva Press
Annie was delighted to read that her work had inspired other ladies to publish their drawings under their real names, and as she stared down at the letter, her eyes filled with tears.
She could not believe that just two years ago, she had been so sure that she would not have a career unless Sir Geoffrey helped her have one. So much had changed in that time. She had worked hard, submitted everywhere, and never given up, even after she received rejection after rejection.
And it had worked. After what felt like the fiftieth rejection, she had finally received a yes from a magazine in Glasgow. After that, things had begun to snowball. She began receiving more recognition. She had published in several more prestigious magazines. And then she won a small award.
But while it was her botanical drawings that had first earned her attention, it was her drawings of the resettlements of Scottish soldiers that had finally won her acclaim—and which were the subject of her upcoming book, Our Highlands.
The drawings had begun as a whim, when she was accompanying Callum on his tours of the resettlement projects that he and the Duke of Argyll were implementing.
She had seen such moving images that she had felt she had to get them down—families reuniting after years apart, soldiers who had been wounded in war but were still working their lands with gusto, mothers teaching their children to milk cows and collect chicken eggs, and local villagers buying the soldiers’ goods in the town markets, welcoming them into their communities with open arms.
She had been inspired to draw these scenes, and they had won her praise and recognition she could never have imagined. Her book, which would come out early next year, consisted of these drawings and a small amount of text that she, Callum, and the Duke of Argyll had all written together, explaining the resettlement program and what it hoped to achieve.
It was the greatest project she had ever worked on, and it had helped her and Callum bridge the problem of the Chief Commissioner job taking him away for stretches of time. Instead, she went with him and documented all that she saw.
Well, she didn’t go with him lately. She was too occupied. But she had for the first year and a half he had been commissioner. But of course, these days, she was too busy.
There was another knock on the door, and the reason for that busyness entered the room, cradled in her father’s arms.
“We came to check on you,” Callum said, grinning at her over their daughter’s head. “We must leave soon for the opening of the festival.”
“Ahh, my favorite people in the world,” Annie cried, holding out her arms for her daughter, and Callum placed Margaret in her arms. “How are you, my little chestnut?” Annie whispered into her hair, kissing the top of her head. “I have missed you!”
Margaret giggled and reached out a chubby little hand toward Annie’s paintbrush, which was lying on the desk. She was only six months old, but already her golden-brown hair was long and curly, and she was showing curiosity about things that seemed far beyond her comprehension.
“Look, she wants to paint,” Callum said with a low laugh. “She is turning into you already!”
“I am not sure she could actually hold it,” Annie said doubtfully, and she kissed the top of her daughter’s head again. “But when she is a little older I will teach her.”
“We really ought to go,” Callum said, glancing at the grandfather clock. “Your parents just arrived as well, as did Alistair and Eliza. They are all eager to see you.”
“Very well,” Annie sighed. “I will finish this tomorrow then.”
She stood up, moving her daughter to her hip, and followed Callum out of the study and into the entrance hall, where her father, mother, Lieutenant Robertson, and Eliza were all waiting for them. Alistair was also holding their one-year-old son, and the moment Margaret saw him, she made a cooing sound and held out her hands. Just six months apart, the two were already very close.
Annie kissed her mother in greeting, then her father, who was discussing expansion plans for the resettlement with Alistair.
“The lands around Inverness are very fertile,” her father was saying enthusiastically. “I really think you ought to look there to find some arable spots for farms.”
“We have discussed it with Argyll,” Alistair responded, “but he fears that the lords there are still too intractable.”
“But there are public lands!”
“There are.” Alistair laughed. “And your enthusiasm for our work does you credit, Lord Rockwood. We wish every titled gentleman was as eager to see our soldiers housed as you are.”
“It is just common sense!” Annie’s father retorted, shaking his head. “Men need homes and land in order to provide for their families.”
As the men continued to discuss the resettlement, the ladies led the way out the doors and onto the grounds, where the harvest festival was now underway, the smells of roasting lamb, kettle corn, and pies floating toward them on the chilly autumn air.
Already the lawns were crowded, and it seemed as if the entire village had already gathered for the festival. Men were drinking from tankards of ale, ladies were sipping mulled wine, and children were running back and forth across the lawn, laughing delightedly.
“May I have a word, My Lady?” a voice whispered in Annie’s ear, and she looked up to see her husband had slipped over to her side. “Just the two of us?”
“How about the three of us?” she asked, gesturing at Margaret, and he laughed.
“Oh, but of course.”
He took her free arm and led her away from the festivities and toward an overlook, where they could see the Highlands spread out below them, while behind them, the cheerful sounds of the festival filled their ears.
“I wanted to show you something,” Callum said, and he pulled a small leather journal out of the inside of his jacket and handed it to her. “I had it made recently. I should have done it ages ago, but we have been so busy with the resettlement…”
“What is it?” Annie asked curiously, and Callum’s eyes twinkled.
“Open it,” he murmured.
She did, and what she saw nearly took her breath away. It was all her letters, the one she had written to him over the five years she had not known he was real, bound together in a beautiful book.
“Oh, Callum,” she breathed, her eyes filling with tears. “It is beautiful!”
“I even put blank pages in the back,” he said, smiling at her, “so that you could write more if you desired—tell the full story of our love, perhaps even illustrate it. Maybe it could be your next book.”
“I love that!” she gushed, and then she threw her arm around him and hugged him close. “Thank you, Callum. This is the most magnificent present.” She released him and glanced down again at the book. “Seeing this, and thinking about how far we have come, everything we had to overcome to get here, it almost makes me glad for Sir Geoffrey and Lady Ailis for bringing us together.”
Callum’s face clouded at once. “I know you are only joking, but I am not glad,” he said gravely. “I am very relieved that Sir Geoffrey is safely rolling in the colonies, while Lady Ailis has chosen a life of seclusion. They can’t harm us, nor Margaret, any longer.”
“No longer,” she repeated, pulling Margaret a little closer. “We are safe now, Callum. And our life is more beautiful than I ever could have imagined.” Margaret gurgled a laugh, and they both turned to admire their daughter.
“It is amusing to see these letters after so long,” Annie said after a moment. “I thought for so long they were my greatest fiction. But I have come to realize that the true fiction was believing I was not worthy of the love story I am now living.”
And, slipping her arm through her husband’s, she, Callum, and their daughter made their way back to the harvest festival and to their chosen family.
OFFER: A BRAND NEW SERIES AND 5 FREEBIES FOR YOU!
Grab my new series, "Noble Gentlemen of the Ton", and get 5 FREE novels as a gift! Have a look here!
Hello, my dear readers! I do hope you enjoyed the story of Annabelle and Callum . 💖 I would love to know your opinion on this extended epilogue. I can’t wait to read your replies here. Thank you! 💞
I enjoyed the whole book!!! Wicked evil hidden from people and love from both the Captain and Annabelle that was thought hidden but really wasn’t! Such a happy ending!!! The extended part of the book really extra Chapter. Was a great read also!
Thrilled to hear you loved it! I’m so happy the ending and extra chapter made it even more enjoyable.