#primrose whippleton

Autumn 1918

Dearest Mother,

The blasted war is over and I cannot sit in this grief any longer. I am bringing Prim home.

She has never seen California and that is frankly an embarrassment I intend to correct. She is nine years old and has never eaten a proper grape off a vine or gotten dirt on her shoes in the way that actually matters. England is very good at a great many things. Dirt is not among them.

The barony is stable. The new earl is being uncharacteristically amenable. I should remember to write Alaina and thank her.

Prim asks about you constantly. About Father and the vineyard and what California smells like in autumn. I have done my best to describe it but I find my words have been somewhat thin lately.

We will book passage as soon as it is practical. Do not fuss about the rooms. We will manage.

All my love to Father and Hector.

Algernon arrived unannounced, as he often did, with that practiced air of someone doing a kindness. Peg saw him from the window, his carriage rolling up the drive like he owned the place. He didn’t — not yet, at least — and she intended to keep it that way.

He greeted her warmly, as though they were dear friends instead of reluctant kin bound by a title neither of them truly wanted to discuss. “Margaret,” he began, removing his gloves, “how are you holding up? I do hope the child is well.”

Peg smiled tightly. “We manage. Primrose keeps me busy, and the house keeps me busier.”

“Yes,” he said, his gaze wandering to the portraits lining the hall as they headed for Nathaniel's office. “Quite the house. Nathaniel did well by you. Though, I imagine it must be difficult now, with… matters unsettled as they are.”

Peg’s hand tightened on her cane. “Unsettled?”

He turned back to her, feigning gentleness. “You know how it is, Peg. A title without a man to bear it — it can’t linger in uncertainty forever. The family only wishes to help. To ensure the barony is managed… appropriately.”

“I am managing it appropriately,” she said evenly.

Algernon smiled, that condescending curl she’d seen too many times before. “You’re a capable woman, of course. But a barony, Margaret — it’s an estate, not a household ledger. Primrose is but a child, and surely you don’t intend to keep it in her name? It would be far more secure if brought back under the family’s care. My care.”

Peg rose from her chair, slowly but with unmistakable intent. “Nathaniel left me trustee, Algernon. My funds restored the title. My management keeps it solvent. And I will not hand over my husband’s legacy — nor my daughter’s — to a man who sees us as an inconvenience to be tidied away.”

He studied her for a moment, his expression hardening just enough to reveal what the polite mask had hidden. “You’ve grown bold, daughter.”

“Necessity makes bold women,” Peg replied. “And widows most of all.”

He reached for his hat, offering a stiff bow. “You’ll find, Margaret, that necessity won’t protect you from the law. Titles are meant to be carried by men. It’s the order of things.”

Peg’s jaw clenched. “Then perhaps the order needs changing.”

When the door closed behind him, she let the silence stretch until the sound of the carriage wheels faded down the lane. Only then did she allow herself to breathe. Returning to the orangery to reclaim her peace, Peg took a seat among the plants Nathaniel had so loved.

Long past the day they laid him to rest, the visits became less about mourning and more about remembering.

Thunder rumbled, shaking the old windows as Nathaniel fastened his coat. Peg’s voice broke through the sound — steady but trembling. “Don’t go trying to be a hero,” she warned. “Just come back to us.”

He gave a soft laugh, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll try.”

Prim lingered nearby, stiff as the stone beneath her feet. They’d argued that morning — about lessons, or manners, or something that suddenly didn’t matter at all. When Nathaniel crouched and held out his arms, she hesitated… then let herself be gathered up, small arms wrapping tight around his neck.