A Cinderella for His Tormented Heart – Extended Epilogue

The house was brighter than Matilda had ever seen it, alive with laughter and the patter of quick feet across polished floors. She paused at the top of the stairway for a moment, taking in the sight below. Frederick’s eleventh birthday had arrived, and though it was only a gathering of family and their closest friends, the air carried the kind of merriment that once had been foreign to these halls.

Frederick himself stood at the center of it all, taller than she remembered him being only months before, with the awkward grace of a boy quickly growing into a young man. He was directing the placement of his gifts with a solemnity that made Hugh chuckle, and Matilda’s heart swelled as she watched the boy’s eyes light up at every kind remark. So much had changed in the three years since that terrible night. Not the least of which was her marriage—now stronger than ever.

“Matilda,” Prudence said cheerfully, drawing her from her reverie. Her sister, having done away with the word’s prefix, ‘step’ the same week Eleanora fled London, swept toward her with a baby nestled in her arms, and Caleb trailing faithfully at her side. Prudence’s cheeks glowed with the kind of joy Matilda had always wished for her.

Matilda bent to kiss her niece’s round cheek, delighting in the small coo that followed. 

“She grows prettier every time I see her,” she said, smiling at the sweet infant.

Caleb puffed out his chest, the proud grin unremovable from his features. “She will know she is adored before she can even walk,” he said with dry amusement, though his hand brushed Prudence’s arm as he spoke, betraying his own affection.

Prudence laughed softly. “She deserves it,” she said. “Do you not agree, Hugh?”

Matilda glanced at her husband, who was watching Frederick with that subtle pride that so often made her chest ache. Hugh turned toward them, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. 

“Indeed,” he said. “But if the little one grows up with too much adoration, I fear she will be quite impossible to manage.”

Prudence dismissed Hugh’s jest with a playful wrinkle of her nose. “She will have a father to keep her grounded,” she said with mock haughtiness, rocking her daughter gently.

Matilda’s smile lingered as she glanced about the room once more. Near the fire sat Mrs. Crale, her posture straighter than her years ought to have allowed, though retirement had softened her in the best of ways. She lived now in the small stone cottage on the Wexford land, near the orchard, a place Matilda visited often with her own daughter. That the older woman still chose to remain close filled Matilda with gratitude. She could not imagine their household without her presence.

The former housekeeper looked up just then, her eyes catching Matilda’s, and the warmth in them was enough to stir a lump in her throat. She had a true family now.

“Lionel will not be pleased if you keep him standing alone,” Prudence said, directing Hugh’s and Caleb’s attention with her gaze.

Indeed, Lionel was leaning against the sideboard, cup in hand, watching the proceedings with an expression both fond and faintly amused. He was as much a fixture in their lives as ever, though unlike his other friends, he remained unwed. Despite Matilda and Prudence’s best efforts, Lionel had refused every gentle push toward matrimony. Still, it was not like Matilda to give up. Even if she only meant to playfully continue to cajole the man who had quickly become one of her dearest friends, as well as Hugh’s. She crossed to him with a light step. 

“You appear far too content to be solitary, Lionel,” she said, biting back a giggle. “Would it not suit you to have a wife to chastise you for your habits?”

He arched a brow, his lips twitching. “What habits do you imagine I possess, Lady Matilda?” he asked, adding extra sardonic dressing to the playfully assigned, unnecessary title added to her name.

Matilda glanced briefly at his glass, which was appropriately filled and being acceptably consumed.

“An unreasonable fondness for brandy, for one,” she said with a smug lift of her chin.

Lionel laughed, recovering quickly to feign horror and insult. “And you possess an equally unreasonable fondness for meddling, if I might say,” he said, his smile deepening.

She laughed. “Perhaps so,” she said good naturedly. “But you would do well to admit that Prudence and I only wish to see you happy.”

Lionel’s glance flicked toward his friend, who was now crouched beside Frederick, offering advice on how best to assemble the miniature soldiers he had received. His expression softened, and his smile lost its jest.

“I know, Matilda,” he said warmly. “I am not ungrateful. But I will wed when I am ready. Right now, the joy of my friends is all the marital bliss I need.” 

Matilda nodded, unwilling to press further. She had learned that beneath Lionel’s light wit lay a firmness that not even their combined schemes could shift. Still, she hoped one day he would stumble upon the companionship he pretended not to need.

The room rang with Frederick’s laughter then, and Matilda’s attention was drawn at once. He was holding up one of the soldiers triumphantly, showing it to Hugh.

“Do you think I could arrange them as you once did with your regiment, Uncle Hugh?” Frederick asked eagerly.

Hugh crouched to his side, his voice patient and warm. “You may,” he said. “Although you must first learn discipline. Soldiers are not toys to be scattered. But I will teach you, if you wish.”

The boy’s answering grin pierced Matilda’s heart with a mix of pride and tenderness. He had endured so much sorrow in his young life, yet here he stood, surrounded by love, growing into himself with every passing day.

Her own daughter toddled across the rug just then, her blond curls tumbling into her eyes. She fell into Frederick’s arms, and the boy gathered her up with easy affection. 

“She thinks herself my shadow,” he said, announcing the proclamation proudly to his party guests with laughter dancing in his voice.

Matilda beamed at the children lovingly. “Because she adores you,” she softly. She caught Hugh’s eye, and the look they shared was one of unspoken understanding. This was their family, stitched together through loss and trial, yet whole in ways neither of them could have ever anticipated or dared to hope.

A sudden pang struck her as she thought of Eleanora, who had chosen exile rather than reconciliation. Once, that woman’s shadow had loomed over both her and Prudence, influencing every choice they made and every fear they possessed. Now, she was far away, scarcely a memory. Matilda could not mourn the loss, and she was sure that Prudence did not, either. Nor did she mourn her father. Bertram remained in prison, his name forever blackened and his release impossible. The knowledge still carried marginal shame, that she could be related to such a monster, but she had decided years prior to not allow her father’s lineage to impact who she was. She had chosen differently and become a far better person than he ever was, and she had been blessed for it.

“Matilda,” Prudence said gently, slipping beside her. “Are you content?”

Matilda glanced at her sister, whose eyes shone with joy that Matilda once believed unattainable. “More than I ever thought possible,” she said, linking her arm through Prudence’s.

Prudence reached for Matilda’s hand through their intertwined arms, patting it warmly. “Then so am I,” she said, giving her a soft kiss on her cheek.

Matilda let her gaze drift over the room again, each beloved face illuminated by firelight and candle glow. Contentment is too small a word for it, she thought with a warm tingle in her heart.

The laughter in the dining room eventually mellowed into gentle conversation as the evening wore on, the happy chaos of Frederick’s birthday winding into something more intimate. Candles had burned low, their wax spilling down silver holders, and the fire had sunk into a muted glow. Matilda sat at Hugh’s side, their daughter curled contentedly against her lap, listening to Prudence relate some small mischief her baby had performed earlier that week. Caleb laughed, Lionel teased, and Mrs. Crale shook her head with all the fond severity she had once employed upon Matilda and Prudence in their girlhood. It was in that comfortable hum that Hugh, who had been silent for a while, finally spoke. 

“I should tell you something I learned in town last week,” he said, his gaze sweeping the table before settling upon Matilda. “I came upon Percy.”

The name drew a moment of tense silence. Even now, old shadows lingered when that man was mentioned, though not with the same bitterness as years past.

“Oh?” she asked, studying her husband’s expression to search for an indication of the conclusion of the encounter. There was none, except that Hugh’s eyes did not darken.

“He was not alone,” he said, leaning toward Matilda in a conspiratorial fashion. “He was with his wife. And it gladdens me to say that he appeared entirely taken with her. If I have ever seen a man in love, it was then.”

Prudence clasped her hands together with a pleased smile. “Oh, I am glad of that,” she said. “He deserved some measure of peace after everything. He was not a bad man. Just a misguided man who made mistakes as a result.”

Caleb nodded. “A settled home can do wonders for a man,” he said.

Lionel raised a brow at his friend. “Spoken like a man with a settled home of his own,” he said wryly.

Caleb chuckled, conceding the point, but Hugh’s expression remained thoughtful. 

“I never thought I would say it, but I hope Percy has found true happiness. I cannot undo all that lies behind us, yet I wish him well.” He glanced at Matilda then, the sincerity in his tone unmistakable.

Matilda felt entirely warm at his words. That Hugh, who once carried such enmity in his heart, could now speak so with grace, told her more than anything how much happiness could change someone. Their family was no longer haunted by past bitterness. They were building something new, free of it.

Prudence raised her glass, her eyes shining. “To new happiness,” she said with a smile. “Wherever it may be found.”

The conversation flowed easily after that with tales of Frederick’s studies, Lionel’s latest excursion into the countryside, and Mrs. Crale’s careful but affectionate admonishments about Matilda’s little girl’s spirited nature. Each voice overlapped with another, and Matilda found herself laughing more than she had in months. This was family. Not the cold halls of her father’s house, where duty and fear reigned, or a home that offered nothing but an awkward, arranged marriage—but a true home, sewn together through loyalty and affection.

Later, when the night had quieted and most of the gifts had been tidied away, Matilda followed Frederick upstairs. He was slower now, weighed down by both excitement and exhaustion, yet he held himself with that curious dignity of a boy who thought himself nearly a man. She lingered in his room as he pulled his new books close, reluctant to leave his side too soon.

“Matilda?” he said softly as she tucked the blanket under his chin.

She smiled down at him, stroking his cheek. “Yes, my dear?” she asked.

He hesitated, his young face serious in the candlelight. “Thank you,” he said, offering no further explanation.

She smiled, brushing back the hair from his forehead. “For what?” she asked.

The boy shrugged. “For marrying Uncle Hugh,” he said, his voice trembling. “You made him less frightening.”

The words struck her with unexpected emotion. She sat on the edge of his bed, her hand lingering on his arm. “Was he so very frightening before?” she asked.

Frederick nodded, though void of malice. “He always seemed so serious,” he said. “It was like he carried heavy things no one could see. But you make him laugh. And when you smile at him, he looks lighter. It makes me feel lighter, too.”

Matilda bent to kiss his brow, her throat tightening. “Oh, Frederick, you cannot know what that means to me,” she said warmly. “I did not think I could ever be someone’s light.”

Frederick smiled sleepily at her, yawning as he gently poked her arm. “You are mine,” he said drowsily, his eyes fluttering shut. “And his.”

She remained there until his breathing deepened, as she had so often when he was younger. As she stood watching him, she marveled at how quickly he had gone from the frightened child who once clung to shadows, to this brave boy who could speak his heart so honestly. He was not her son by birth, yet he was hers in every way that mattered.

When she finally slipped from the room, she found Hugh waiting for her in the hall, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He straightened as she approached, his eyes soft.

“He is asleep?” he asked, barely whispering.

She nodded, giving him a sheepish smile as she recalled the boy’s heartwarming words. “Yes,” she said softly. “Peacefully.”

They walked together down the corridor, neither one speaking until they reached the quiet of the drawing room. There, with only the fire for company, Hugh turned to her.

“You know,” he said. “I do not believe I ever thanked you properly.”

She tilted her head, confused for the second time that evening by the same words her nephew had said. 

“For what?” she asked yet again.

Hugh studied her with a slow smile for a moment before continuing. “For saving me,” he said.

Her breath caught. “Hugh,” she said, but her husband held a gentle finger to her lips.

He shook his head, his expression earnest. “Do not mistake me,” he said. “You saved Frederick, as well, which will always be more important to me. You gave him back his laughter. But you also gave me back myself. I was not aware how much of me had been buried until you brought it to light.”

Her heart swelled at his words. 

“I only did what I felt was right,” she said shyly. “I wanted to care for him, and for you. It is nothing more than love.”

At that, his green eyes glistened as they held hers. “And I love you for it,” he said.

She gasped softly, tears stinging her own eyes. Though he had spoken those words before, each time was like the first, a revelation that seemed too precious to be real.

“And I love you,” she whispered.

For a long moment they stood in the golden glow of the fire, the quiet of the house enfolding them. Then he reached for her hand, pressing it to his lips with reverence before drawing her into his arms. Their kiss was tender, sealing once more the bond that trials had forged and time had strengthened. As she rested her head against his chest, Matilda thought of the years yet ahead, of birthdays still to come, of laughter and trials and joys they would face together. She no longer feared the future. She embraced it, certain that whatever came, she would not face it alone. None of them would, ever again.

THE END