Epilogue
Epilogue
Castle Dunstane, Scotland
Christmas Eve, 1810
“It’s snowing. It never snows on Christmas.”
“It rarely snows in the south of England on Christmas,” Graham corrected, pausing to look up from his desk so he might watch Julia wander in wide-eyed amazement from one window of his study to the next. Snowflakes had already begun to collect in the corners of the leaded windowpanes. “The Highlands are another world.”
“A beautiful one,” she said, praising the stark landscape spread before her, as yet only lightly disguised beneath the snowfall.
“Aye,” he agreed, with eyes only for her. “Now, come here and tell me what this word is.” In just a few weeks, she’d become expert at deciphering his left-handed scrawl. He’d worked to strengthen the fingers of his right, but the dexterity required for wielding a pen with it still eluded him and perhaps always would.
He was surprised by how little it mattered.
Particularly not when Julia perched on his knee, giving him a rather tantalizing view down her bodice. She peered at the pages of the manuscript they’d been working on together, lines and scenes that were half her invention, half his.
“I might be able to make it out,” she mock-scolded, “if you wouldn’t insist on squeezing your bits in between mine.”
Now, that sounded appealing, indeed.
“Never you mind about those pages, lass,” he told her in the gruff voice that pleased her so, chasing away her studious frown with a kiss.
They were interrupted by the sound of Keynes clearing his throat. “I beg your pardon, my lord. My lady.” He bowed, his arms full of papers, as always. As he did, his spectacles, which had been perched on the top of his head, tumbled onto the floor.
“Oh, dear,” exclaimed Julia, leaping to her feet to retrieve them, much to the secretary’s mortification. A high stickler his countess would never be.
“You look well, Keynes,” Graham said, accepting the stack of papers he held out to him. The man was still thin, but some of the grayness had left his complexion since they had returned home.
“Th-thank you, sir. I do believe it’s the fresh Highlands air.”
Graham suspected Keynes’s improvement ought to be chalked up to something other than the brutally cold wind that occasionally swept through Castle Dunstane despite the mason’s best efforts. The fact that his employer no longer barked unreasonable orders at him, for instance. Or the permanent reprieve from scouring the papers for reviews of Blackadder’s plays.
Once Keynes had gone, Graham turned his attention to sorting through the post. “Ah, my love. Here’s an invitation to a ball on Hogmanay.” He would enjoy the chance to show her off.
“Hmm?”
He looked up to find her fully absorbed by something that must have been addressed to her. Between her fingers he spied a familiar Grecian figure.
“The latest issue of the Magazine for Misses?”
“Hm, yes,” came the distracted reply. She was still thumbing through the pages. “I began to think it might never arrive.”
He had wondered whether the mysterious Mrs. Goode might yet close up shop. Though Fanshawe hadn’t succeeded in exposing any of the other women involved, it could not be easy for them to dismiss the danger they’d been in.
“Odd,” she said.
“What is?”
“No ‘Unfashionable Plates’ this month.” She flipped from front to back, as if still in disbelief. “No illustrations at all.”
“Perhaps Miss C. took a holiday,” he suggested, mildly curious about what that might involve. Mrs. Goode, Miss C., and the rest were still as much a mystery as they had ever been. Julia had offered to reveal the secret identities behind the magazine to him, but he had declined. Those women had a right to protect their names, just as he had done, and to reveal them only when and if they were ready.
“Perhaps.” She sounded dubious. “Anyway, there’s this.” As she approached his desk, she creased open the magazine to a page near the middle and laid it before him. Miss on Scene, the bold banner across the top proclaimed.
“You wrote this?” he asked, picking up the magazine. “When did you find the time?”
“You mean, in between dress fittings and wedding planning and—?”
“Play rehearsals,” he supplied, then added with a sidelong glance, “And, er, nursing me back to health.”
“Just read it,” she urged.
It, he quickly discovered, was a review of The Poison Pen.
“I went back to see it the next night,” she explained. “With Aunt Mildred.”
The next night?What extraordinary bravery it must have required to return to Covent Garden at all, to say nothing of doing so hard on the heels of near disaster. More courage than he seemed to possess, even now. Instinctively, he shied away from the words before him. He knew, of course, that the play had gone on, with Mrs. Cole restored to her role and Sawyer, in a wig and spectacles, taking on Fanshawe’s part, in addition to his own. But as far as Graham was concerned, it would be better never to think about Perpetua Philpot or the Briggs brothers again.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Julia shrugged her explanation. “I had to find out how it ended somehow.” Then, with playful fingers, she brushed a piece of hair from his temple. When she spoke again, her voice was a soft plea. “Read it.”
If you came to this page expecting to learn the grisly details of the opening night ofThe Poison Pen, or to discover the fate of the actor who is said to have intended to stopper the inkpots of theater critics everywhere, and to silence this reviewer especially, you will be sadly disappointed. As luck would have it, Miss on Scene was not at liberty to be in the audience that night and so cannot speak to the particulars of the infamous performance for which the entire ton is rumored to have been in attendance. Whether her luck was bad or good, she leaves for others to determine.
Whatever those in that first audience saw, it seems to have lured many of them back the following night, for the theater on this occasion was as crowded as this critic has ever seen it. Fortunately, a seat in the box belonging to a friend was yet unclaimed.
And so, it is with something of surprise and more of delight, that this Miss can report Ransom Blackadder has claimed his proper throne at last—not as the disdainful emperor of satire, but as the prince of more amusing pleasures, telling the story of a creative but fiery man who learned to value the wit of a clever young woman.
He had. Oh, indeed, he had.
Graham’s eyes began to skim over the page in his haste to take it all in—her words of praise for Mrs. Cole, Mr. Sawyer, the unusual use of the stage. At last, he came to her description of the final act.
It will, I hope, spoil no one’s enjoyment to reveal that in the end, our two protagonists—both writers—come to understand that their work unites, rather than divides them. Ultimately, of course, their love of words takes second place to their love for one another.
N.B. This reviewer is surprised Mr. Blackadder did not call his playThe Passionate Pen instead—proof, one may surmise, that even the best playwrights cannot think of everything on their own and must, on occasion, turn to their critics for proper inspiration.
Miss on Scene expects some credit in the revival.
When she seemed certain he had done, Julia reached out a hand and closed the magazine. One fingertip traced over the caryatids. “My final contribution.”
“For now.”
She lifted her gaze to his face, her blue eyes unusually sober. A wrinkle formed in her brow, and her lips shaped a question, though she did not speak.
Graham explained. “I’ve been meaning to suggest you might send in a few of the dialogues you’ve written. The conversation between the girl and her governess about the need to study history, for instance. Mrs. Goode seems to have an eye for original work, particularly on subjects of interest to her readers.”
“Oh. I—I didn’t realize you’d read that piece. It was just a—a, well, an exercise, I suppose you might say. I never considered . . .”
“And I see no reason why Miss on Scene should not resume reviewing at least occasionally when we return to London next season.” He slid some of the pages of the manuscript on which they’d been working over the magazine. “For example, the debut of a brilliant new playwright, who will be known to have the support of a well-regarded patron of the dramatic arts.”
“I—” Her teeth sank into her lower lip. “Do you really think our play could be ready to perform within a year?”
“I do,” he said, catching her by the waist and pulling her into his lap. “Though it would require us to focus on work. Fewer . . . distractions.”
“Ensuring an heir to the Earl of Dunstane is hardly a distraction, my lord,” she retorted primly, pretending to be immune to the gravelly suggestiveness of his voice, or the brush of his fingers beneath the curve of her breast.
His heart began to knock against his ribs. He cared little enough for heirs and earldoms—but a child? a family? “Is that what we’ve been doing, my lady?” he rasped.
“Well . . .” Her cheeks pinked, and that marvelously mischievous glint shone in her eyes. “Some of the time.” She picked up the quill and sat up a little straighter; the movement slid the curve of her bottom suggestively over his cock.
“You’re inspiring this playwright right now,” he said, nipping at the place where her neck and shoulder joined. “Though I wouldn’t call it proper inspiration.”
“Graham,” she scolded, tickling the feather over his nose. “Focus, remember? Now, have you given any thought to what name we’ll use?”
“I have, actually. What say you to Addison McKay?”
She glanced over her shoulder to see if he was serious. “Won’t people suspect?”
“I’m counting on it. Their curiosity will draw them to the theater.”
Though there was surprise and delight in her gaze, there was merriment in her voice when she replied, “That’s quite brilliant, actually.”
“Careful, lass. Too much praise will go to my head.”
With a smile, she turned back to the papers strewn across the desk, trailing the end of the quill over her lips. “Now, then. About this exchange between the suitor and the soldier. I really don’t think—oh!” She shuffled back a few pages. “Ardor.”
“Pardon?”
“Ardor—that’s the word you wrote. The one I couldn’t make out earlier.”
He shifted her more securely onto his knee—since she seemed determined to work, rather than play—and directed his attention to the scribble she had underlined with the ink-stained nail of her first finger. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he’d ever in his life written the word ardor.
But he was quite sure it was the perfect word to capture the love he felt for his bride, his partner, the leading lady of his life.