Chapter 24
Chapter 24
Half a day to acquire a special license.
Two days, at Mrs. Whyte’s insistence, to prepare for the wedding breakfast.
Another day on top of that for the modiste to finish the new dress.
Julia tapped her toe impatiently, making the scalloped hem of her gown ripple.
“Only a few minutes more,” the modiste insisted around a mouthful of pins. “I’m almost done.”
With a frustrated sigh, Julia stopped moving her foot and folded her arms across her chest instead—which earned her a gentle scold from Mama. “Stand up straight, dear. You’re going to be a countess!”
I don’t give a fig about that, she wanted to retort, but didn’t.
Because it wasn’t entirely true.
She understood that with the title came awe-inspiring responsibilities and a very different sort of life, far away from this one.
It was lovely to think of being addressed as Lady Dunstane.
If a bit strange to think that she would never again be Miss on Scene.
Immediately after the wedding breakfast, she and Graham would leave for Scotland and might not return for some time. The plays at Covent Garden, Haymarket, and the rest of the London theaters would be out of her reach.
She had explained her reasoning for stepping down from the magazine to Lady Stalbridge when she delivered her final column.
“Do not say final, my dear,” Lady Stalbridge had replied. “Miss Burke—Lady Deveraux—continues to contribute, for example.”
It was one thing to pen an advice column in Hertfordshire, Julia had pointed out. Quite another to review performances on the metropolitan stage from the Highlands.
But she could not muster much regret at the change in her circumstances. Once, she had viewed country life, and the consequent loss of her favorite amusement, as a sort of punishment. But she knew now that life anywhere with Graham could never be dull.
Lady Stalbridge’s reply had been accompanied by the sly smile of a woman who understood a great deal more than most people imagined. “Distance is an obstacle, Miss Addison. But you have too much to say to be forever silent.”
That conversation had only increased Julia’s excitement to discover what Graham might have meant by sharing the pen with her.
A new playwriting identity? Something else entirely?
But in the days since he’d said it, it had begun to feel as if she might never find out.
Since the lovely morning in which she had woken up in Half Moon Street, wrapped in his arms, everyone seemed to have acquired a sudden obsession with propriety. She had been allowed to see him exactly twice, and only in company. And each time, his scowl had been carved so deeply into his face, she despaired of ever seeing anything else written there.
The first visit had been to announce his possession of the special license. “Now, as to the matter of when and where the ceremony will take place—”
Graham’s choice, whatever it might have been, had gone unheard.
Mama had spoken in favor of adjourning to Jeremy’s estate in Wiltshire for a family celebration. Aunt Mildred had countered with a plea—in that feeble voice both Julia and Laura knew to be false, though remarkably effective at wheedling others into granting her wishes—that Julia be allowed to marry “from home,” which was to say, the Hayes home. Jeremy, alive to the delicacy of his sister’s reputation given all that had transpired, had spoken in favor of whatever was closer.
Clearly, he had meant “wherever the marriage could be solemnized with the most expediency.” In any number of London churches, they might have been married yet that day, without delay. And without delay she had understood to be Graham’s wish as well. Certainly, it was hers.
But Aunt Mildred had clapped her hands in glee and declared, “Holy Trinity it is.” Thus, the matter was decided in favor of Clapham, and the date was set—upon consultation with the rector, Mrs. Whyte, and the dressmaker—for Friday morning. Graham had departed with a bow—and two new furrows in his brow.
The only other time she had seen him in the past four days had been at dinner on Wednesday. The evening had begun well enough. Graham had brought with him the good news that Mr. Essex had changed the dressings on his hand that morning and had seen no sign of infection.
Then, after dinner, when the ladies had withdrawn so that the gentlemen might enjoy their port, raised voices could be heard from the dining room. “There’s some slight disagreement over the marriage settlements,” Laura had confided. “Jeremy wouldn’t tell me anything more.”
That was a detail guaranteed to alarm Julia, particularly when Graham had left shortly thereafter, his frown lifting only slightly as he wished her good night.
“Really, miss,” the modiste pleaded.
Julia glanced down to discover she had crossed her arms and resumed tapping her toe. Friday would surely never come. And if it did, she was beginning to feel nervous about how it might end.
Friday did come, however, and exactly when it was expected. Julia awoke to see the modiste’s completed handiwork hanging on the back of the door to her little bedroom. From below wafted the delicious scents of baking, proof that the final stages of Mrs. Whyte’s labors were already underway. This chilly, gray last day of November would end with Julia in Graham’s arms at last.
Jess was the first to arrive, with a canister of steaming water and an offer to help her dress. Julia, who was almost afraid to touch the delicate white muslin, was grateful for the assistance. The gown floated over her head and down her arms, its puffed sleeves and shallow bodice trimmed by silk ribbon of palest lilac, chosen to match her ring. White silk embroidery and tiny pearls had been stitched into a subtle pattern over the narrow skirts.
The fabric and trimmings had been frightfully dear, but Aunt Mildred had insisted on purchasing them and waved away every protest. “Only the best for my niece,” she had insisted, with a wink and a hug.
Laura was the next to arrive, with a paper of pearl-headed pins that had belonged to her grandmother. “They’ll look lovely in your dark hair.” With a quick curtsy, Jess took over the arrangement of Julia’s heavy locks, while Laura perched on the edge of the bed to watch.
The smallest bedchamber in the house was already rather crowded when Mama appeared on the threshold, nervously pleating a lace-edged handkerchief. “Oh. I hadn’t expected . . .” She cleared her throat, a delicate ahem. “It is usual, my dear, on such an occasion, for mothers and daughters to talk privately about . . . certain matters—”
At once, Julia’s cheeks were aflame with mortification. “It isn’t necessary, Mama, for you to distress yourse—”
But her mother pressed on with the speech she had obviously rehearsed. “Well. Marriage can be the source of new enjoyments—”
Even Laura, who’d been wed two years, began to squirm. Jess was struggling to contain a laugh.
“Though, of course, a gentleman may feel a sense of reserve with his bride, and a lady will naturally be reluctant to—”
Julia refrained from pointing out that she was not really a lady. Perhaps, depending on whom one asked, by birth, but certainly not by inclination. And she already had ample proof that Graham was not always a gentleman.
“Really, Julia,” Mama scolded. “I should think you might approach the event with a bit more decorum.”
“Yes, Mama.” She managed to choke out the words. “But I—I only wished to spare you the trouble. Because . . . well, as it happens, I haven’t any need of a lecture on . . . mechanics.”
“Mechanics?” It was her mother’s turn to blush, and as she was as fair as her children were dark, the color was visible to the roots of her hair. “My dear, I’m not a fool. But I did think that, well . . . Lord Dunstane seems a very stern gentleman, and I thought perhaps you might be worried that in marrying him, all your girlish amusements would be at an end. But he is a good man—the right one for you, of that I’m certain, even after just a few brief meetings. And the happiness you’ll make together, well . . . I assure you, nothing can compare.” Her blue eyes were soft, the corners wrinkled with a gentle smile. “I married a stern gentleman, too, you know.”
“Mr. Remington?” He could, on occasion, call forth a certain stiffness of posture, a certain stuffiness that belied his humble origins—part sergeant, part valet. But stern?
“No, dear. I was referring to your papa. Of course, you do not remember him as stern, because by the time you knew him, he had softened. He had you, and your brother—a family—love—”
All the things Graham had so long been denied.
Tears stung Julia’s eyes as she contemplated the transformation. “Thank you, Mama. I believe you are right. Lord Dunstane and I shall make one another very happy.”
Jess’s lips were wobbly, and Laura dabbed surreptitiously at the end of her nose, which was pink. When Nelly arrived on the scene a moment later, bearing a large box tied with a ribbon, alarm at all their tears showed plainly on her face. “Is aught amiss?” Only partly reassured by four rather snuffly denials, she laid the package on the bed. “This just arrived for you.”
“Thank you, Nelly,” Julia said.
The girl curtsied and retreated to the doorway with obvious reluctance, muttering something about Mrs. Whyte having need of her in the kitchen.
“Stay a moment. You must be curious about what’s inside.” Julia certainly was. Untying the ribbon and lifting the lid, she revealed a hooded cloak of purple velvet, trimmed in soft gray fur. “Oh, my,” she cried gathering its richness into her arms.
Laura peered into the box. “There’s no note. Just a pair of fur-lined gloves to match,” she said, holding them aloft with a mischievous smile. “But there’s no mystery as to who sent this. Someone doesn’t want his bride to catch a chill on that long carriage ride north.”
Julia smiled softly to herself, rubbing her heated cheek against the luxurious softness. How could she ever be cold with a fiery Scotsman at her side?
A half an hour later found her crossing the corner of Clapham Common, the frostbitten grass crisp beneath her feet, her hand looped through her brother’s arm. Aunt Mildred walked a few steps ahead of them, supported between Daniel and Mr. Remington, while all the others followed behind.
“I hope, Jeremy, you can find it in your heart to wish me well.”
His dark brows arced in astonishment. “What else would I wish you?”
“I never imagined I would marry such a man,” she confessed in a voice almost too low for him to hear, thinking of what their mother had said about Graham’s sternness, and the number of times she herself had thought him unpleasant and cold.
“Really? He’s exactly the sort I pictured would suit you—always blathering on about some play, and stubborn as the day is long.”
She couldn’t decide whether he was teasing. “You don’t approve of the match, then. I know the two of you had words about something . . .”
“We did,” Jeremy admitted mournfully, shaking his head. “Not sure he’ll ever forgive me for being the one to make sure Fanshawe understood what would become of him if he didn’t hold his tongue—in prison, or out of it. But I saw no reason not to put my military connections to good use. As to our argument, well . . . Dunstane positively refused to accept a dowry. It took a great deal of arm-twisting even to get him to agree to settle the money on your children.” Then his eyes twinkled down at her. “Have you seen the size of the fellow’s arms?”
“As it happens, brother dear,” she answered with a naughty smile, “I have. Oh, Jeremy, I do love him, you know.”
“And I haven’t the slightest doubt that he loves you.” They were at the doors of the church now. Jeremy slid her hand from his arm and raised it to his lips. “Papa is smiling down on you today. Be happy, little one.”
Why, oh why, had everyone conspired to turn her into a watering pot on her wedding day?
The handful of congregants were dwarfed by the large, modern church, where Wilberforce and the other firebrands of the Clapham Sect often met and worshiped. Mrs. Hayes and Julia’s family were seated in the box pews near the front, while a scattering of others—Mrs. Whyte and the servants; Graham’s secretary, Mr. Keynes; and a gentleman she had thought never to see again—occupied the benches in the balcony that ran along either side.
And at the front of the church, standing beside the rector, stood Graham, handsome as ever. He was clad in a dark-blue coat, the perfect contrast to his coppery hair, paired once more with his kilt. At the sight of him, heat prickled her cheeks.
A high arch separated the nave from the altar. Almost like a stage, she thought. Which was probably sacrilege. But the lines she would speak today were, indeed, scripted, and her elegant new dress might certainly qualify as a costume.
The only difference was that she had long since stopped acting a part where Graham was concerned.
He turned and scanned the assembly. Despite the length of the church separating them, she knew exactly when his gaze settled on her.
His lips curved, almost shyly at first, as if the movement were unfamiliar to him. Then his face was transformed by a genuine smile.
Her heart fluttered, and she had to blink away more tears to make sure her eyes were not playing tricks on her. But no, it was true. He was smiling at her. The mask was gone. Not a hint of wryness or even slyness. Only delight.
And, perhaps, just a hint of relief, as if he, too, had begun to think this moment would never come to pass.
What followed was a blur: the exchange of vows, the pledging of troths, the clasping of hands. And then, finally, they were husband and wife, never to be parted again.
Under cover of their family and friends’ expressions of joy, she nodded toward the balcony and whispered to Graham, “Are you the reason Mr. Pope is here?”
Graham looked chagrined at having been caught out. “As I’d invited my secretary, it seemed only fitting to invite my new manager as well.”
“ ‘Manager’?”
“He’ll be handling theatrical matters on behalf of Ransom Blackadder, while I’m away from London.”
She couldn’t disguise her surprise. “That’s showing him a great deal of confidence.”
“Yes, well.” Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “He’s obviously a shrewd fellow. And it seemed to me that he deserved a second chance.”
It was Julia’s turn to smile.
When it came time to sign the register, the pen trembled in her fingers as she wrote her new name. “Perhaps I ought to have practiced,” she said. “But it didn’t feel right—or real—until now.”
With another of those extraordinary smiles, Graham took the quill from her. “It’s both, my dear. Real. And oh, so right.” Using his left hand—the other was still bandaged and bound in a sling—he wrote with painstaking slowness beneath her signature: Dunstane. Then he gave a self-deprecating shake of his head at the almost-childish scrawl his efforts had produced. “And to think, I practiced for hours.”
She laughed and looped her arm through his, gazing admiringly at the page. “I think it looks marvelous, indeed, my lord.”
“As do you, my lady.” As he passed the pen on to Jeremy, a hint of wickedness crept into the curve of his lips, and he added, low enough that only she could hear, “My lass.”
The sound of his voice would never cease to send a shiver of delight through her.
Afterward, they returned to Aunt Mildred’s house, to find a table groaning beneath a wedding feast fit for an earl and his countess, capped off with cake and champagne.
And then, the passage of time grown suddenly swift after so long a wait, it was the hour for goodbyes. Talk turned to the remaining daylight, how far along the journey they expected to travel today, and how long it would be before they would see one another again. A cold rain had begun to fall, so the whole party crowded into the little entry hall. Mama and Laura and Jeremy took turns hugging Julia, none of them quite ready, it seemed, to let her go so far or so soon.
“Oh,” said Aunt Mildred with a dismissive wave. “They’ll be back before we can miss them. I’ll wager you do not find England quite so unappealing as you once did, eh, Dunstane?” she asked him with a sly look. “I predict that box at Covent Garden won’t stay empty forever.”
“You must consider that box yours, ma’am,” he answered, bending low to kiss her gnarled hand. “But I hope you will save a seat for me and my wife.”
“Just one seat for the two of you?” she retorted with a twinkle in her eye as she tapped his arm with her folded lorgnette. “You Scottish rogue. But then, I thought from the first time you laid eyes on Julia, you’d be happy enough to share.”
They all laughed, and before the mood could turn somber again, Graham ushered Julia out the door. A dash between the icy raindrops, and they were secure in his traveling coach, waving through the glass as the wheels began to roll.
Seated beside him on the forward-facing bench, wrapped in his arm and her new velvet cloak, Julia paid no attention to anything but her husband for several minutes. Only when she reached across him to draw down the shade, preferring not to have half the eyes of London gawking at their wedded bliss, did she realize they were surrounded by nothing but fields.
“Graham,” she gasped. “This isn’t the way to the Great North Road.” They ought to be crossing the Thames, toward the bustle of Smithfield.
“Isn’t it?” he asked lazily, tracing her ear with the tip of his tongue.
“No. In fact, we’re headed . . . south.”
That piece of information was met with a string of kisses along her throat that almost made her forget to care. Still . . . she laid a palm against his chest, putting a scant few inches between them. “May I ask where we’re going?”
“Scotland,” he assured her, his eyes already dark with desire. “Starting first thing tomorrow. But tonight, I thought you might prefer somewhere more private than an inn. Somewhere no one can find us.” Each sentence was punctuated with a lingering kiss. “Somewhere we won’t be disturbed.”
“Brereton Cottage,” she breathed, taking one final glance out the window before closing her eyes and giving herself over to his lips.
Leave it to a scandalous playwright to pick the perfect setting for the first scene of their new life together.