A Baker to Sweeten the Earl’s Heart – Extended Epilogue

“Mama, down!”

The command came with all the sweet authority of a nobleman who had only just learned to walk. Charlotte glanced down at her son, who stood tugging at her skirts with wide, imploring eyes the exact shade of his father’s. His curls—golden as honey—bounced as he rocked back on his heels, lifting his arms expectantly.

“Down from what, my little lord?” she asked with a soft laugh, stooping to scoop him into her arms.

“Down now,” he repeated solemnly, though he made no move to squirm free.

She kissed his warm cheek. “You simply like the sound of it.”

From across the room, Alexander looked up from his correspondence and smiled, one brow arching. “That, or he’s already learning how to give orders.”

“An inherited talent,” Charlotte said, settling into the window seat with the boy in her lap. The morning sun slanted through the glass, gilding the soft curls on their son’s head and illuminating the quiet splendor of the nursery.

At just under two years old, Henry Alexander Mummert Hartley, styled Lord Dunham, had become the very soul of Dunham Hall. The servants doted on him. His grandparents argued over whose arms he would toddle into first. Even the hound, Thorpe, had conceded his dignity in exchange for following the boy around like a guardian shadow.

Charlotte leaned her head back against the window and watched the gardens below, where spring green had begun to creep into the hedgerows. Henry babbled contentedly to himself and patted her collarbone with his tiny palm.

“I think he’s trying to tell you he wants a biscuit,” Alexander said, joining her at the window.

“You think that’s what he’s always saying.”

“I’m not wrong.”

Henry perked up at the word biscuit.

Charlotte sighed in mock defeat. “He’s entirely his father’s child.”

“And yet, he’s got your smile.” Alexander crouched to ruffle his son’s curls, then leaned forward to press a kiss to Charlotte’s temple. “How did I end up with two such perfect people in my life?”

She smiled softly and touched her forehead to his. “You married well.”

They laughed together, a quiet sound that filled the room like birdsong.

Downstairs, the bustle of the household grew as preparations continued for the weekend’s celebration. Henry’s christening was to take place Sunday morning, followed by a country feast that Charlotte had insisted upon organizing herself. Her kitchen plans had already been set in motion—Mrs. Ellsworth had relinquished her reins with only minimal fuss—and Charlotte had spent the better part of the past week planning menus and pastry trays.

“Shall we take him to see the orchard later?” Alexander asked.

Charlotte nodded, wrapping her arms more tightly around Henry. “Yes. Let’s walk him beneath the blossoms.”

“Then it’s settled,” Alexander said, offering her his hand.

Together, they rose from the window seat—the countess, the earl, and the little lord between them—and made their way down into the sunlit halls of their home.

Charlotte walked a pace slower than usual, savoring the warmth in the corridor, the soft clatter of distant teacups, and the sound of her son’s delighted babble as Alexander lifted him onto his shoulders. Henry squealed with laughter, gripping fistfuls of his father’s hair.

“Careful, my lord,” Charlotte said teasingly. “You’ll go bald before your time.”

“I would surrender every lock if it brings him joy,” Alexander replied, adjusting the boy’s legs. “Though I shall take no responsibility when he grows to be a spoiled rascal.”

“He’ll only be spoiled with love,” she murmured, watching them both with full-hearted wonder.

Two years had passed since their wedding, and yet sometimes Charlotte still awoke with the startled disbelief that this was her life now: wife to the Earl of Beckingham, mistress of Dunham Hall, and mother to a little boy whose laughter made the chandeliers tremble.

But time had shaped her just as it had shaped the manor.

She had grown into her role with grace—reluctantly learning the finer points of precedence and peerage, and more enthusiastically learning how to charm every last member of the ton with sincere warmth and clever conversation. The older ladies of London whispered that she was the sort of countess they’d thought only existed in novels—dignified, yet delightfully down-to-earth.

She had not entirely relinquished her love for the kitchen. She still stole moments in the early morning to knead bread or blend herbs, and her cookbooks had their own dedicated shelf in the study. But Charlotte had found joy in other things too—managing the household, visiting the tenants, restoring the orangery in the west garden, and spending long afternoons with her father, who now came to stay for weeks at a time from Radcliffe.

“Has Father written to say when he means to arrive?” she asked, as they neared the main staircase.

Alexander nodded. “He sent word this morning. He’ll be here tomorrow by midafternoon.”

Charlotte smiled, relief softening her expression. Her father’s recovery had been slow and uncertain in those early months, but under the gentle care of Dunham’s physician—and with the added comfort of his old baronial lands being restored—he was stronger than ever. He had returned to Radcliffe just the year prior, a baron once more, but he never stayed away from Charlotte and Henry for long.

“And what of your mother?” she asked, unable to help her grin.

Alexander gave a long-suffering sigh. “Planning a wedding with all the enthusiasm of a second debutante.”

“I find it romantic,” Charlotte said.

“So does she, I fear,” he replied with a smirk.

Lady Beckingham’s spring nuptials had caused no small stir among the ton. That she had fallen in love with a widowed viscount who had once been her fourth cousin twice removed was less surprising than the sudden blush in her cheeks whenever he was near.

“She says she’s keeping the guest list small,” Alexander added, “but she’s invited half of Hampshire.”

Charlotte laughed. “Then it will be a lovely chaos. And I’ll bake the cake myself.”

Alexander groaned. “And you’ll outshine the bride.”

“Impossible,” she said with a wink, looping her arm through his.

Together, they descended the stairs—ready to welcome all that spring would bring.

**

“Will you hold him just for the photograph?” Charlotte whispered, adjusting Henry’s collar one last time.

“I always do,” Alexander murmured back, scooping their son into his arms and resting a gentle hand against the boy’s small back.

They stood at the doors of the village church, where the bells had just ceased their jubilant ringing. Inside, the christening had gone beautifully—Henry hadn’t cried once, only blinked solemnly as the vicar anointed his brow. Now, the sun shone down on Dunham’s villagers and titled guests alike as they gathered for the portrait that would forever mark the occasion.

Charlotte smoothed her skirts and turned her smile toward the painter, Henry cradled between them in a gown of the finest linen, embroidered with golden thread. Alexander stood tall and proud, one arm around her waist, the other securely holding their son.

The artist called for stillness.

From the corner of her eye, Charlotte could see Lady Beckingham—resplendent in periwinkle silk—chatting cheerfully with her soon-to-be husband, the Viscount of Lockhaven. The couple stood with Charlotte’s father, who looked every inch the restored baron in his navy coat and gleaming buttons. They were all beaming, as if this day belonged to them too.

And perhaps it did. Joy like this had a way of spilling outward.

The portrait finished, the crowd erupted into applause, and Charlotte curtsied playfully before beckoning everyone to the manor.

A procession formed behind them as they made their way along the road toward Dunham Hall. There were villagers in their Sunday best and nobility in trailing finery. Children skipped ahead while carriages rolled gently behind. By the time they reached the manor gates, the scent of roasted meats and honey tarts was already drifting into the spring air.

The feast had been her doing, mostly.

Though the housekeeper had arranged the tables and the staff had done the heavy lifting, Charlotte had overseen every detail. She had risen early that morning to fill pastry shells with fresh raspberry preserves, kneaded bread with her own hands, and personally arranged the tiers of golden sponge cake that stood beneath the white tented pavilion.

Guests spilled onto the lawn, settling beneath satin banners and garlands of yellow flowers. Laughter rang out as champagne was passed and violins began to play.

“Charlotte,” Alexander said, stepping close to her side as she gazed over the joyful scene. “It’s perfect.”

“Not yet,” she said, handing him a plate. “You haven’t tried my almond tarts.”

He accepted it with a grin. “Then I shall withhold judgment until the moment I have.”

They meandered through the guests, pausing to accept congratulations and share fond words. Lady Angelica, arm in arm with Lord Wesbrook, declared Henry the handsomest child she’d ever seen. Howell, ever the bachelor, threatened to steal the baby entirely.

Charlotte laughed, cheeks flushed, and leaned into her husband’s shoulder as she watched Henry toddle ahead of them, clutching a sugared biscuit.

The sun was warm, the food abundant, and every heart at ease.

It was, she thought, the finest day of her life.

Until, of course, the next moment came.

Henry stumbled forward into a cluster of daisies, his biscuit forgotten in the grass. Charlotte stepped toward him, but Alexander beat her to it, sweeping their son into his arms with a proud laugh that echoed across the lawn.

“Ah, my little adventurer,” he said, brushing petals from Henry’s curls.

Nearby guests turned at the sound and chuckled. Someone raised a glass. “To the future Earl of Beckingham!”

Laughter rippled in response, and Alexander, always one to rise to a challenge, stepped up onto a small platform meant for the musicians.

“Since you insist,” he called, his voice warm and confident, “I’ll offer a proper toast.”

Charlotte, caught off guard, turned with a mix of delight and apprehension. Alexander with a glass in hand and something heartfelt in mind always left her just a little breathless.

He raised the glass high.

“To my wife,” he began, his eyes seeking hers in the crowd, “who has brought more joy to this estate than I ever thought possible. Whose heart is larger than this house, and whose love has filled every empty place I never knew I had.”

Charlotte’s hand fluttered to her heart, and she blinked hard to keep her vision clear.

“To my son, who toddles through life with the same fearlessness his mother has shown since the moment she walked through our kitchen door. May he inherit her kindness and stubbornness in equal measure.”

A cheer went up from the crowd.

Alexander grinned. “To family—by blood, by marriage, and by friendship. To new beginnings. And to a future full of good food, good fortune, and the kind of love that transforms everything it touches.”

The glasses rose, and a chorus of “Hear, hear!” swept through the guests like a breeze.

Charlotte clapped with the others, but her smile wavered with emotion. As Alexander stepped down, Henry reaching gleefully for his father’s hair, she met him halfway and wrapped her arms around them both.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to do that,” she whispered.

“I didn’t know until I saw you smiling just now,” he murmured, kissing her brow.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and watched the guests eat and laugh and dance beneath the broad blue sky. The land that had once felt so imposing to her now felt like home. Dunham Hall was no longer simply a place of duty or title—it was where she had built her life, brick by brick, loaf by loaf, moment by cherished moment.

She had once stood behind the kitchen door, dreaming impossible dreams.

Now, they were real.

“My lady?” Alexander murmured.

“Yes?”

“You’re crying.”

She laughed softly, swiping at her cheek. “I’m happy. That’s all.”

Henry tugged her sleeve. “Mama?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Dance!”

Charlotte looked up at her husband, who extended his hand with a gleam in his eye.

“Shall we, my love?”

With a smile that held her whole heart, she nodded. “Yes, my lord. We shall.”

And as the music swelled, they danced—together, always—beneath the sunlight and love they had made.

THE END