Epilogue
All bodies whatsoever are endowed with a principle of mutual gravitation.
—Isaac Newton
you Are Cordially Invited
to
A Novel Experience and Grand Celebratory Ball
At the Collective
Pall Mall, London
I stared down at the white-and-gold invitation, immense pride filling me at what Tarik had achieved at long last, four long and challenging years later.
After many setbacks with property acquisition as well as the process of getting funding into place; working with architects and master builders; finding dependable tradesmen for various parts of the contruction, including carpenters, masoners, plumbers, and painters; and sourcing materials like stone and timber, we were finally ready for the big day.
The grand opening of the official clubhouse for The Collective had arrived at last.
Feeling much too emotional, I sat in my dressing room, allowing Anna, who was still my lady’s maid but also now a proud multi-published poet, to do the finishing touches on my hair.
She and Henry had married soon after Tarik’s proposal, and Henry continued to work for my parents, though he did drive us occasionally into town.
He and Anna lived in a small cottage on the property Tarik and I owned, which wasn’t too far out of London, in the Westminster area.
Ironically enough, our home was in Datchet near Windsor Castle, where Caroline Herschel had once lived with her brother for a few years.
Sadly, she’d moved back to Hanover, Germany, after he died two years ago.
Continuing to be inspired by her, I was now the proud discoverer of several more comets, star clusters, and nebulae and was in the process of composing my own book, called A Treatise on Celestial Bodies, featuring a graphic representation and history of the various constellations visible in the night sky.
It was a work in progress.
“How do I look?” my husband asked from where he stood at the bedchamber door. He was so tall and handsome that I had to force myself to start breathing again.
I grinned as Tarik crossed the distance between us. “Like the gorgeous new owner of the most exclusive club in London.”
“Co-owner,” he said, those blue eyes sparkling like jewels when he bent to kiss my cheek. “My wife, the singular Lady Rosalin Chen St. Clair, also shares that title.”
“She sounds quite stubborn,” I teased, smiling and thanking Anna, who was accustomed to our spontaneous displays of affection and left the room with a playful eye roll.
“I prefer tempestuous,” he countered, offering me his hand.
Taking it, I rose as he moved to stand behind me, nuzzling my nape, which was on display with the updo Anna had fashioned.
“I love your hair like this, where I can admire this elegant, graceful neck of yours. After your clever brain, it’s my favorite part of you. ”
“We’re going to be late if you keep doing that,” I said breathlessly.
The more he nibbled and planted tiny kisses along the length of my throat, the more said clever brain decided to go on hiatus.
His eyes met mine in the mirror, so much love in them, it made my heart swell.
“And it’s your special day. We cannot be late. ”
“Our day, chérie.” His gleaming gaze swept down my figure, from my crown to the tips of my slippers. My gown for the opening was a rich purplish blue that matched his eyes almost perfectly. Clearly, he approved. “Toujours si belle, plus que toutes les étoiles dans le ciel.”
No matter how many times I heard my scholar tell me that I was more beautiful than all the stars in the sky in his velvety French accent, it never ceased to make me weak in the knees.
Tarik reached in front of me and draped a glittering sapphire necklace over my collarbones before fastening the clasp at the back.
The deep blue gems caught the light and shimmered.
“What is this for?” I asked with a gasp.
“Do I need a reason to shower my beautiful wife in jewels?” he said, knuckles turning to graze my cheek as I spun in his arms.
“Tarik, I don’t need extravagant—”
He cupped my face between his hands and kissed me, silencing my protest. When I was blissfully compliant, he continued, “I wanted to mark this new chapter in our lives. You’ve given me everything I could ever want and more.
When it felt like I would never get here, you stood by me, encouraged me, believed in me. Loved me.”
“And I always will.”
Gracious, my heart felt like it was ten sizes too big for my chest. I threw my arms around his neck and sealed my mouth to his once more. What felt like an eternity later—we were most certainly going to be late to our own party—my husband led me down the stairs to the waiting carriage.
Tarik and I had gotten married three years ago in a small ceremony, and while our lives had not been easy—high society had had many choice things to say about Lady Rosalin Chen marrying a commoner so far beneath her station—we had survived the gossip.
With careful planning, my substantial dowry had served us well.
Some of it we’d used to live, and the rest we’d invested into our joint venture.
Just like the first comet we had named together, The Collective was ours.
My very stubborn husband had absolutely refused to claim it as his own.
Though he had started The Collective two years ago, using a rental property in Westminster in order to guage interest and membership for his idea, particularly as it related to a space for intellectual discussions as well as entertainment, the unique concept had taken off, and by the end of the first year had a thousand members, with a six-month wait list.
With my father’s powerful connections as well as those of the Duke and Duchess of Harbridge—Zia’s parents—we had many founding members in the aristocracy who had been excited at the prospect of a club that celebrated the arts, sciences, and engineering.
The idea of a nonpartisan club was revolutionary…
where membership depended on achievement rather than circumstances or birth or personal connections.
Tarik had methodically curated the statistics and sought reliable investors to fund the final construction.
As we pulled up in the carriage on Pall Mall, which was already crowded with members and guests arriving for the inaugural ball, I smiled in awe at the palatial structure.
The four-story building was designed in a clean, symmetrical neoclassical style—featuring Roman and Greek aesthetics—with pale stone, large windows, marble columns, and a decorative frieze, featuring the gods and goddess of wisdom and knowledge from all around the world, including Athena, Saraswati, Minerva, Ganesha, Thoth, Ahura Mazda, Omoikane, Mimir, Quetzalcoatl, and Nabu.
The latin quote “hypotheses non fingo—I frame no hypotheses,” by our favorite mathematician, from Principia, stood proudly above the entrance.
The inside was as impressive as the outside.
The dining and drawing rooms with plush, elegant furniture had multiple fireplaces and pleasing views over the extensive landscaped back gardens.
Lavish kitchens completed the ground floor.
In addition to numerous well-appointed discussion salons on the second floor, there were separate music rooms for concerts and a window-filled massive ballroom.
The next floor featured the gaming rooms, with tables for whist, faro, quinze, and hazard; the adjacent billiards and smoking rooms; and a stocked library and an art gallery.
But the pièce de résistance was the private observatory dome constructed on the topmost floor of the building—yet another of my darling husband’s gifts to me—the St. Clair Observatory with telescopes donated by my friend Caroline.
Suffice it to say that The Collective had been a labor of love.
“Are you ready, chérie?” Tarik asked softly, threading his fingers through mine.
“Yes.” I squeezed his hand and stalled him with a palm to his chest. “Before we go in, I want you to know how very proud I am of you. Even with all the dissent on admitting female members, you did not waver. You did exactly what you envisioned and you never compromised the integrity of your dream.”
Those crystalline blue eyes glistened with emotion. “Thank you, mon coeur. Je t’aime.”
“I love you, too. Always.”
Hand in hand, we exited the coach up the marble steps and into the grand foyer for the first official ball of The Collective, to celebrate the opening of the club’s permanent location.
As we entered the opulent ballroom, the welcome cheers were deafening.
I had tears in my eyes as I saw our family and friends, older, wiser, and still living their best lives.
Keston and Ela, the Marquess and Marchioness of Ridley, had twin girls three years ago.
They were a rambunctious handful. Pregnant again, Ela was absolutely glowing, and her dashing marquess could not be more besotted with his wife, who also led one of the largest charitable organizations in London, dedicated to protecting girls and women who needed legal assistance.
Rafi and Zia, now Viscount and Viscountess Hollis—Rafi’s uncle had passed last year from gout—were a renowned composer and sought-after artist. Parents to a handsome two-year-old boy who seemed intent on following in his daredevil mama’s foosteps, they were performing in music and art exhibitions at the club over the next few weeks.
Zia also ran a foundation for education and literacy with her finishing school friends, Greer, Lalita, Blythe, and Nori—the latter two were still happily in love—called the Reformed Lady Knights, which provided free educational resources and books to children across England.