Chapter 10 - The Queen of Blackwood
Five years later.
The summer sun shone brightly over the high ridge overlooking Blackwood Hall. The vast estate was thriving as never before; the iron mines had created a prosperous town in the valley, the tenant farms were famous across England for their rich yields, and the name of Blackwood was synonymous with justice, wealth, and enlightened management.
Sitting on a colorful wool blanket spread over the green grass of the ridge was a small, happy family.
Levvenia sat resting against a carved wooden bench, dressed in a comfortable yellow summer gown. In her arms, she held a laughing, eight-month-old baby girl with dark, silky curls and bright, curious dark eyes.
Playing near the edge of the blanket was a robust, four-year-old boy with black hair and striking silver-gray eyes, fiercely defending a wooden toy fortress from an imaginary dragon.
Marcus walked up the hill, carrying a basket of fresh peaches and cold lemonade. He had traded his military coats for comfortable shirtsleeves, his face tan from spending his mornings riding through the mines and fields.
He dropped down beside Levvenia, wrapping a strong arm around her waist and pulling her gently against his side. He kissed the top of his infant daughter's head, then leaned over to kiss Levvenia's lips softly.
"How are my favorite administrators doing today?" Marcus asked with a warm, rumbling laugh.
"Your daughter has just decided that she prefers eating grass to her porridge," Levvenia smiled, leaning her head against his broad shoulder. "And your son has declared that he intends to audit the bakery accounts tomorrow morning."
Marcus laughed heartily, pulling his son onto his lap and ruffing his black hair. "Good lad! Just like your mother. Never let a baker double-invoice you."
Down in the valley, the faint, comforting chime of the clock tower at Blackwood Hall struck four o'clock.
Levvenia looked out over the sweeping, beautiful landscape—the ancient hall, the green pastures, the thriving town, the wild moors, and the warm, deep love that surrounded her like an unbreakable shield.
She remembered the faded blue dress. She remembered the cold stone terrace at Ashcroft Manor. She remembered the night she had walked into the dark alone, with thirty-four pounds in her bag and a heart full of silent grief.
She reached out, her fingers entwining with Marcus's strong, calloused hand.
"What are you thinking, my love?" Marcus asked softly, sensing the deep, reflective quiet in her soul.
Levvenia looked up at her husband—the man who had seen her, fought for her, loved her, and elevated her to the heights of the world. She looked at her happy children playing under the golden sun.
"I was thinking," Levvenia murmured, a soft, radiant smile touching her lips, "that doing everything perfectly is no longer cruel. Because this time... I am doing it for a life that is truly my own."
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Marcus squeezed her hand, pulling her closer under the warm, endless sky.
And there, high above the thriving valleys of North Yorkshire, Lady Levvenia Vance—the queen who had built her own crown—lived happily ever after.
