Epilogue
What a terrible waste.
That was the first thought that crossed Oliver Quincy’s mind as he alighted from his hired carriage and glanced about the palatial country estate of the Duke of Ravensworth.
Why in the name of all that was right and proper had His Grace turned this grand monument to his and England’s glory over to a parcel of artists of unknown parentage?
But then, the Duke had improvidently married a Windermere, so the curious workings of the Duke’s mind would ever remain opaque to him.
Quincy quite conveniently put it from his mind that he himself had, in fact, proposed marriage to Lady Delilah Windermere—more than once.
A young laughing fellow dressed as a donkey pressed a leaflet into his hand.
Emblazoned in bold lettering was Warrior of Earth and Skye by The Right Honorable Viscountess Kilmuir.
He squinted and kept reading only to find the music had been composed by Lord and Lady Archer, both of whom would be performing it, as well.
The set design and painted backdrops had been created by the Duke and Duchess of Ripon.
And in the lead role of the maiden warrior Scáthach would be none other than the Duchess of Ravensworth.
A mild frisson of shock traced through Quincy. He’d hoped now that the Windermeres were illustriously married and titled, they would’ve settled a bit. But it was clear for all to see the Windermeres were still very much the Windermeres. Shocking, indeed, but not altogether surprising.
Along with scores of other guests possessed of the low look of local villagers—not a single silk dress or proper accent amongst the lot—Quincy followed the indicated granite path, all manner of colorful bunting and streamers flapping riotously about.
This was precisely why one didn’t leave the running of a grand estate to artists.
All dignity and sense of station flew out the window.
He sniffed and pulled himself up to his fullest height. Still, it was a duke’s estate, and Quincy’s invited presence here said something about his rising status in Society—local villagers in attendance notwithstanding. One must placate the locals. As a duke, Ravensworth would understand as much.
The granite path ended, and Quincy stepped onto the top landing of the amphitheater that everyone was talking about. A summons to view a performance at Wimberley Hill was one of the most highly sought-after invitations in the ton.
Of course, he’d received one.
His gaze cast about, on the prowl for other Society luminaries such as himself.
A few rows down, mingled amongst the commoners—truly, there might be more commoners than nobles—he struck gold.
There stood a statuesque lord and lady of middling-to-late years whose graying hair picked up the pinks and purples of the sunset in the distance.
Or…were they wearing dyed wigs? One wouldn’t put such a thing past the Earl and Countess of Cumberland if the fancy took them.
After all, their progeny had inherited their wild, scandalous ways from someone.
Seeing no one else in the crowd he recognized, Quincy sidled closer to the Earl and Countess, crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded at every conversational pause as if he had the slightest understanding of what they were on about. Something about theater structures.
Truly, these Windermeres.
Lord Francis Windermere, the Earl of Cumberland, watched his countess Augusta give the unfamiliar young-ish gentleman who had quite unaccountably joined them a cursory once-over before continuing.
“I’m simply saying that I’m not sure we can call this theater a true amphitheater.
It does have the sloping seating and is built into the side of a hill, but it doesn’t fully encircle the stage, like the one at Pompeii. ”
“Ah, Pompeii,” said the strange gentleman on a knowing nod. The man appeared quite settled in.
“I would posit,” continued Augusta, “that this stage is actually more similar to an English one from the era of Queen Elizabeth.”
“A mongrel stage, if you will,” said Francis with a mischievous smile. He ever flashed his wife that smile when she rode on her purist high horse.
She swatted his arm playfully. “Oh, Francis, you’re having me on.”
“A bit,” he conceded. Someone had to guide his countess into the forest when she was lost amongst the trees.
A high-pitched laugh sounded at their side. As one, Francis and Augusta shifted their attention toward the gentleman who seemed to have barnacled himself onto them. “And who might you be?” she asked, ever direct with a point. Francis loved that about his countess.
Self-satisfied, the gentleman rocked from heel to toe. “You’ll know me as Mr. Oliver Quincy, of course.”
A confused beat of time ticked past. “Who?” asked Augusta.
Again, Mr. Quincy laughed. “No one will doubt where Lord Archer gets his sense of humor.”
Vague recollection came to Francis. “You’re the fellow who proposed marriage to Delilah.”
Augusta’s brow crinkled. “Two…or was it three times?”
“Ah, the japes of youth,” said Mr. Quincy, utterly unabashed.
Undecided as to how to manage this curious social interaction—truly, it was a first—Francis offered Mr. Quincy a shallow bow, which the gentleman accepted as his due with a gracious nod of the head. “Now if you will excuse us,” began Francis, “we must—”
He’d never been any good at delivering an untruth. It was a fine thing he ever had his countess with him. “We must go stand over there,” she said, pointing toward a patch of ground twenty feet away.
Well, she wasn’t much more skilled at it.
However, the excuse did land them in a spot of good luck, for over there stood Delilah and the unlikely man who had become her husband—the Duke of Ravensworth.
Delilah, a duchess…
Amelia as a duchess aligned with what he only expected of his eldest daughter, but Delilah…
Francis gave his head the subtle shake he always did at the unlikely outcome.
From the corner of his eye, Sebastian noticed Delilah’s parents approaching.
But it was Delilah who needed him at this moment.
She was a bit of a thoroughbred, his wife—always requiring some shushing and soothing before a performance.
“All is under control,” he said. “Would I have it any other way?”
For the dozenth time in as many minutes, she dug her watch from her dress pocket, which was no simple negotiation given that she was presently eight months gone with child.
He only just refrained from rubbing his hand across the tight drum of her belly.
It wouldn’t be appreciated in this moment.
But really, their first child was nearly here.
Familiar twin feelings of joy and anxiety streaked through him.
Having checked the time, Delilah settled. “You’re correct, of course.”
“Now, Ravensworth,” said his mother-in-law by way of greeting. “What would you say was the primary influence for this amphitheater? More Roman? Or Elizabethan?”
Sebastian smiled. The Countess wasn’t one to be fobbed off with a shallow answer. That in mind, he said, “You’ll have to ask the architect, who is two rows down.” He pointed toward said gentleman. “Would you like an introduction?”
Delilah saw her opportunity to duck out and seized it. Her parents could keep a conversation about ancient structures going until the wee hours of the morning—and she had other fish to fry. Like the fact that she was to take to the stage in fewer than fifteen minutes.
She made her way along the periphery of the seating, and her nerves began to fall away when she joined the other actors and crew.
It was an atmosphere that ever enlivened her—even at eight months along with child.
If she were being dead honest, she might prefer to be lounging on a cushy settee, feet propped atop an ottoman.
But then she would miss this—the energy and chaos in the moments leading up to a performance.
And she wouldn’t miss it for anything.
One happy coincidence about her swollen belly was that it provided a convenient shelf for reading material. She utilized it now as she ran through lines with the talented young actress who would be playing her daughter, Uathach.
“Has anyone in the history of pregnant women ever been as pregnant as I?” she asked, not expecting anyone to answer.
“Me,” came a voice behind her.
She turned and found Juliet approaching, one arm linked with Valentina, who said, “And me.”
It was true. Juliet and Valentina’s bellies might have rivaled even hers. They were, indeed, three of the most pregnant women to ever walk the face of the earth.
Amelia, ever her busy self, approached, paintbrush in hand which she’d been using to touch up the backdrops. “Well, Amelia,” said Delilah, “at least for once you find yourself without child.”
A smile twitched about one corner of Amelia’s mouth. The particular secret smile she’d developed since meeting Ripon.
“Amelia…” began Delilah, a feeling about the root of her sister’s secret smile quickly gaining momentum.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m without child,” she said, rubbing her palm across her subtly rounded stomach.
“No!” gasped Delilah.
Amelia’s smile broadened, not so secret anymore. “Oh, yes.”
Juliet laughed, and Valentina reached out and squeezed Amelia’s hand in congratulation.
“Your third child in four years, Amelia,” said Delilah. “Are you trying to set a breeding record? You always were competitive.”
“I happen to enjoy babies,” said Amelia, simply, and no one could refute the honesty.
“How many children do you plan on having?” asked Valentina.
Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but it was Ripon who stepped forward and answered. “When we have enough to field a cricket team.”
“Eleven?” asked Juliet with the lift of a dubious eyebrow.
“Perhaps we could include cousins, Tristan,” said Amelia, who herself looked doubtful about the prospect of eight more pregnancies in her future.
“I’ll consider it.”