20 - After the End
20
After the End
In novels, the happily ever after was generally the wedding. The heroine married the hero, and that was that.
Clementine had never cared much for the idea of a wedding, and that was understating it entirely.
Which wasn’t to say she hadn’t enjoyed hers. Allowing Olive to coo and fuss over her, to adorn her and generally treat her like a beloved doll had been rather enjoyable, once she surrendered to it.
And standing at the front of the chapel in Chiddington three weeks and two days after her visit to Mollybrook—Archie had spoken to her father and they’d had the banns called immediately after their reunion—had been surprisingly sentimental. There had been a moment, when she looked out into the pews to see the small but beloved crowd of guests, when she almost wept.
Father did weep.
Which, ironically, was what saved her from having to. In fact, it made her want to laugh. It did Olive, too, judging from the merry look her sister shot her at the sound of her father’s first sob. Olive was wearing that ridiculous hat they’d had made to entrap the fictional Mr. Ozymandias Macduff. It featured not one but two Scottish crossbills, handsome black-and-red birds the milliner had managed to make almost alarmingly lifelike, and as Olive shook her head to stave off laughter, Clementine could almost believe one or both of them might take flight.
The wedding breakfast had been pleasant. Archie had seen to it that there was plenty she could eat. In fact, she could eat everything except a ham that he had made sure was placed at the far end of the table from her—and she noticed he didn’t eat any of it, either. Archie’s mother wasn’t lucid during the meal, but she was calm and content, and Lord Marsden and Miss Brown took especial care of her.
But for Clementine, the real happy ending came that evening. She changed out of her wedding finery, donned her favorite blue dress and yellow shawl, and made her way outside.
“Lady Harcourt!” Lord Featherfinch called. “Huzzah!” She tried to tell him and Lord Marsden, who were scrambling to their feet, not to get up on her account.
Archie, by contrast, did not get up. He merely laid on the carpet they’d spread out under the big beech tree and gazed up at her with love that was so plain, and looked so long-standing, that she marveled again that she hadn’t seen it before. They really had been daft, the pair of them.
“May I make you a plate?” Lord Marsden asked. Archie had ordered up a vegetarian picnic dinner for them and their friends, complete with the pears everyone loved.
“I still can’t believe you’re spending your wedding night with us!” Olive exclaimed.
“Come now,” Archie, finally coming to seated, said. “It’s just dinner.” He shot Clementine an alarmed look. “It is just dinner, yes?”
“Yes,” she said laughingly. And to Olive, she added, “I couldn’t imagine anything I wanted to do more this evening than to dine al fresco at Mollybrook with my sister and my friends.”
Everyone made murmurs of appreciation and agreement.
“Olive,” said Archie, “we do have some post-wedding travel plans. We’re leaving next month for Italy.”
“Oh, are you?” Olive grasped her hands together beneath her chin. “How wonderful!”
“We should like you to come with us,” Archie added. “For neither your sister nor I speak Italian. We’ll enjoy ourselves ever so much more with someone who’s fluent.”
Olive burst into tears, and as Lord Featherfinch comforted her, Archie met Clementine’s gaze. Clementine had no particular interest in a honeymoon, but when Archie proposed a trip—and that Olive join them on said trip—she could not refuse.
“Yes,” Archie said. “We’ll go to Rome, of course, and Venice and such. But you shall also have to endure long detours through Lombardy, I’m afraid, for my wife . . .” He paused and shot Clementine a wink as if the phrase “my wife” were a private jest. “My wife is determined to get her feet wet in Lake Como.” He smiled. “And I am determined that my wife shall have whatever she wants.”
That stopped Olive’s tears, and she rolled her eyes, albeit affectionately. “Clementine, you are so lucky. I would almost hate you if I didn’t love you so.”
Clementine winked at her sister and said, “Oh, but you have Mr. Macduff, remember.” The sisters had continued to spin the tale of Mr. Ozymandias Macduff. It was a diversion that seemed to amuse Olive, and Olive, who had indeed found Ralph Scully’s grave with Clementine by her side, needed all the diversion she could get. “I’m sure you’ll be able to bring him up to scratch . . . if he ever shows up.” The sisters burst into laughter and waved away the gentlemen’s puzzled inquiries.
“Where will you gentlemen go for Earls Trip next year?” Olive asked. “And may I gate-crash again?”
“No, you may not, Olive,” Clementine said, just as Lord Featherfinch said, “Oh, would you?” Clementine had never told Olive about her eavesdropping in the corridor that night, but it seemed that her sister and Lord Featherfinch had indeed become bosom friends.
“I am in jest,” Olive said smilingly to the gentlemen. “I’d been meaning to propose to my sister that she and I take up our own tradition during that fortnight in September.” She made a silly face. “For I know that the year the sacred masculine tradition of Earls Trip was disrupted was but an aberration.”
“We could go on our own trip, now that I am a respectable married lady,” Clementine suggested.
“We could, but remember you are already—apparently—taking me to Italy! I suggest we hole up here at Mollybrook and tromp around in the woods while the gentlemen are gone.” Clementine started to protest. Happily, her entire life was henceforth going to be holing up at Mollybrook and tromping around in the woods. She needn’t impose such on her sister, who had gently told Clementine this morning that she planned to return to London after the wedding. But Olive cut off her objection. “I’m sure we can think of a mutually agreeable plan, Clemmie. I was merely teasing the gentlemen.” She turned to them. “But I do wish to know where you’re going next year.”
“We haven’t talked about it,” Archie said. “The next trip is Marsden’s to plan.”
“I’d been thinking I’d like to see the Royal Pavilion in Brighton,” Lord Marsden said. “I don’t know that it will be finished, but I understand it’s already quite the feat of engineering by Mr. Nash.”
“A fine idea,” Archie said.
“Ah, yes, staring at an unfinished building,” Lord Featherfinch said wryly. “At least we can go sea bathing.”
Clementine smiled and let the good-natured bickering of her friends wash over her. After they’d eaten and Archie, being none-too-subtle about it, had hinted that their guests should retire for the evening, she lay on her back on the carpet and looked at the sky. It was a deep, inky blue, navy fingers between the branches of the tree she lay under.
The tree they lay under.
Archie rolled over and started undoing her chignon. She had noticed, in the weeks they’d spent anticipating their marriage vows, that he liked to tangle his fingers in her hair.
She liked having them there, so she assisted with the removal of the pins keeping her elaborate wedding coiffure in place. When they were done, he laid her back down and loomed over her, adding his dark silhouette to that of the branches above him, which were now difficult to discern from the blackening blue of the sky. “Clem,” he said seriously, “we’re home now, you and I, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” she said, for they were.
* * *
A fortnight later
“My lord.” The new footman entered a parlor at Highworth where Effie was attempting to paint a gravestone.
Effie had been inspired by Olive Morgan’s embroidery and had a mind to send her the finished painting. Though unlike her creation, his did not depict a particular gravestone—it wasn’t her Ralph’s. That was why he’d thought he could paint from his imagination. But as the interruption prompted him to ponder his progress, he realized his efforts might have been improved had he taken his easel outside and found a model.
“What does this look like to you?” he asked the footman.
“It is a gravestone, is it not?”
“It is!” Effie was cheered. Perhaps his efforts were not as feeble as he’d feared.
“A gravestone against a chartreuse sky,” the footman added.
It was. Drat. Effie had intended for the painting to be somber. It was of a cemetery, after all. But then he’d decided perhaps a gravestone at twilight might feel a tad less oppressive. So he’d added some cobalt, intending to lighten the background ever so slightly.
And now, somehow, he had a chartreuse sky.
He sighed. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with him lately. It was almost as if he was . . . happy?
“My lord,” the footman said, “I am told that letters arriving addressed to a Miss Euphemia Turner are to be delivered to you.”
“Yes!” Effie stood so abruptly that he disturbed his easel, and the footman had to lunge to save the ridiculous painting. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes, thank you. That will be all.”
A letter from her. Finally.
He waited an eternity as the footman righted the easel, crossed the room, and bowed.
The moment the door shut behind the servant, Effie tore open the letter’s seal with hands gone inexplicably clumsy.
Miss Euphemia Turner
Highworth, Cornwall
From the desk of
Miss Julianna Evans, editrix
Le Monde Joli
October 20, 1821
London
Dear Euphemia,
You know I am economical with praise. (What did you call me? A “notoriously picksome nit-picker”? I still maintain that is an oxymoron beneath someone with literary capabilities such as yours.) So you will appreciate that when I say that your latest sonnet is very good, what I truly mean is that I wastransportedby it. While I’m ever so sorry it was inspired by the loss of your dear Sally, may I be so bold as to suggest that Sally’s demise has not been in vain? You have performed a kind of alchemy here: a transmutation of grief into beauty.
I am rather vexed, though, that I didn’t save your letter for the evening. The reading of your verse—and reading of it and reading of it and reading of it—positively ruined me for productive labor today. In fact, I canceled all the meetings I was meant to take—I even pushed off a visit to the printer to inspect the proofs for next month’s issue—except for my weekly tea with Mr. Glanvil, which of course I could not duck.
Which brings me to a tangent. (I shall return to the matter of the astonishing “Lamenter, Be Not Proud” momentarily.) You are aware that Mr. Glanvil is a source of endless frustration for me. And that since he isalsothe source of my wages, I must handle him with a delicate touch. You are not aware, because I have not cared to burden our correspondence with such fripperies, that he has cooked up a scheme by which the magazine is to print a regular column entitled “Advice for Married Ladies.” I have so far fended him off, reminding him that we are not the Lady’s Monthly Museum, but I fear he is insistent. And as he likes to point out, heisthe publisher. Alas.
I was having trouble paying attention to him—well, more trouble than usual—because of that dratted poem of yours. It would not loosen its grasp on my mind. But then it receded just long enough for me to be struck with the most brilliant idea. I told Mr. Glanvil that upon reflection, I agreed with him, that a column providing advice to married ladies on manners of decor, household management, and the achievement of marital harmony would, in fact, be just the thing—and that I knew the ideal lady to dispense this advice. Who is she? he asked. Oh, I responded, a married lady of some years, a gentlewoman with a spotless reputation, mother of six, overseer of a refined and happy household, et cetera, et cetera. He thought that sounded fine. Of course, I added, the lady would need to remain anonymous—her own marital harmony depended upon it. I expected him to object, but he was delighted by this twist. While Mr. Glanvil is intent upon stuffing my magazine with the most mawkish drivel, I must admit he does sometimes have an eye for the dramatic in a way that sells magazines.
So what say you, dearest? If I have to subject myself—and my readers—to a monthly dose of “Advice for Married Ladies,” how grand would it be for you to be at its helm? My motivation for asking you is twofold. First, I would be endlessly amused by the secret knowledge that my advice-giver is not at all who is advertised. Well, you are a lady, of course, but not a married one. Second, and all jesting aside, you have a clear-eyed yet compassionate outlook I truly believe will benefit our readers. It would benefit anyone; I know it has me. The job would pay two shillings a column, payable quarterly by bank note.
If you accept, I will of course continue to print your poems. (And to reject them; I do note your acceptance rate has been creeping up of late, and in case you were worried that our friendship has influenced matters, let me assure you it is quite the reverse. If anything, as the years slip by and my regard for you increases, my editorial standards sharpen, if only to avoid any occurrence of favoritism.)
Now, on to the matter at hand. You, my dear lady, my dear Effie, have a way of seeing the world that is at once buoying and devastating in its truth. I would be honored to print this poem as is, but I would not be myself if I did not have a few minor suggestions, which I enclose herewith.
Yours,
Julianna
P.S. I do hope you have fully recovered from your bout with that unfortunate patch of hogweed. I must confess, though, your account of such was amusing enough that I spat out my tea whilst reading it.
Effie set the letter down and smiled. He wasn’t remotely qualified to dispense advice for married ladies, but oh, what fun this was going to be.
He picked up his paintbrush. Who said the sky couldn’t be chartreuse?