Chapter 19 #2
“Because,” Barnaby said, “I wanted to suggest that, in support of yours and Griselda’s reemergence into more active investigating, having Violet add her particular expertise would bring yet another dimension to our team.”
“Of course!” Griselda turned an approving gaze on Barnaby.
“How very insightful of you, Barnaby dear.” Leaning forward to address Penelope and Violet, Griselda said, “Do agree, Violet—if you join us, we’ll have an excellent base from which to understand all the victims and villains likely to come our way.
” Griselda waved. “Penelope knows all about the aristocracy, and I know all about the middle and working classes, but neither Penelope nor I have all that much understanding of the social layers that lie between.”
“The gentry.” Penelope had been nodding eagerly. “Indeed.” She met Violet’s eyes. “Do say yes, again, Violet—we truly would welcome your input into our investigations.”
Her smile growing deeper, Violet looked from Barnaby, to Griselda, then to Penelope. “As your secretary, I hadn’t imagined sitting in the parlor and writing your letters all day. I had rather assumed I would join you—indeed, I’m not sure how you might manage to keep me away.”
“Wonderful!” Penelope beamed up the table, meeting Barnaby’s blue gaze and letting her very real appreciation of his tack—his suggestion—show.
Having Violet join them was the perfect way to support and assist Penelope and Griselda in maintaining the new balance to which they were still making minor adjustments.
The perfect way to set everything in place so they could go forward into the future with confidence.
Sitting back, letting her gaze travel the table, seeing Violet and Griselda talking about hats, and Barnaby, Stokes, and Montague exchanging comments about a recent political scandal, Penelope felt happy satisfaction well, then overflow.
Reaching for her glass, she raised it. The action caught the others’ eyes and they looked at her inquiringly even as they, too, reached for their glasses.
“I have a toast, too.” So saying, Penelope raised her glass high. “To our new investigative team—may our future be bright!”
The “Hear, hears!” and echoing “To our futures!” were heartfelt and strong.
Looking up the table, Penelope met Barnaby’s eyes, tipped her glass to him, and drank deeply.
They left the table for the drawing room, where the talk went on for some time. Despite their differences in station, they faced many of the same personal hurdles and shared many of the same aspirations, the same dreams, not just for themselves and their families but for wider society as well.
Eventually, Stokes raised his head, listening.
“The rain’s finally here.” The clouds had been massing all afternoon, and from the drumming on the glass and the gurgling in the drains, had finally decided to spill their contents liberally over the city.
Looking at Griselda, Stokes smiled, fondness and more in his eyes.
“We’d better get on, my love, before the traffic slows even more. ”
Griselda glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Heavens, yes! Look at the time.”
Ten minutes later, Violet stood beside Heathcote, with Barnaby and Penelope near, all four hovering just inside the front door as they laughed and waved at, and called good-natured suggestions to, Stokes and Griselda, who, with Megan bundled up and hugged close in Griselda’s arms and Hettie huddling near, were escorted by Mostyn and two footmen, all holding large umbrellas high, to Stokes’s carriage, waiting at the curb.
The rain was teeming down, drops glinting in the lamp-beams as they pelted to the ground.
Montague sniffed the air. “By tomorrow morning, the City will be washed clean.”
A sudden gust of wind and a flurry of rain had the four hurriedly retreating back into the hall.
Leaving the door almost closed, Barnaby turned to Montague and held out his hand. “I sent a footman down to Piccadilly to find you a hackney. Can’t have you going out in this and catching your death.”
“Or drowning.” Grasping Montague’s arm, Penelope stretched up and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for saving my secretary—she’s only been with me a short time, but already I don’t know what I would do without her.”
“More accurately,” Barnaby said, “you do know, and that only makes you more determined to keep her.” He smiled at Violet and took her hands in his.
“If I may?” He bent and brushed a kiss to her cheek.
Then he released her and, taking Penelope’s hand, stepped back toward the stairs as he nodded to both Violet and Montague. “Good night to you both.”
“Indeed.” Allowing Barnaby to draw her up the stairs, Penelope sent an air-kiss winging Violet’s way. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow sometime, Violet dear.”
Violet watched the pair disappear up the stairs. As she turned to Heathcote, the two footmen came back through the front door and walked on down the hall.
One nodded to Heathcote. “Mr. Mostyn said as the hackney will be just a few minutes, sir.”
“Thank you.” Montague waited until the pair had passed through the swinging door at the rear of the hall, then, turning to Violet, taking her hands—hands she readily surrendered—he looked into her face.
Her well-beloved face.
She looked up at him; the same hopes and expectations that were burgeoning in his chest were shining in her lovely eyes.
He smiled, gently, then raised one of her hands and brushed his lips to her fingers.
“We need to talk—we have so much to say, to discuss.” He searched her eyes.
“To decide.” He drew a deeper breath and faintly grimaced as the sound of the rain drumming outside increased—as if to remind him he needed to go.
He sighed. “Sadly, however, this is clearly not the right time or, indeed, the right place.” He hesitated, then said, “I would like, if you agree, to call on you tomorrow. There’s somewhere I’d like to take you. To show you.”
Her smile was all gentle understanding. “Of course. I’ll be here, waiting for you. At what time will you call?”
His smile deepened. “I would say as early as possible, but . . . shall we say ten o’clock? At least that seems somewhat civilized.”
Her smile broke into a soft laugh. “Dear Heathcote—ten o’clock sounds perfect.” She held his gaze and quietly said, “I would wait for you for forever, but I’d really rather not. I’ve waited all my life for you, and now you’re here . . .”
He nodded and pressed a more heated kiss to her other hand. “Indeed. Now we’re here, we both want to get on.”
On a waft of wet wind and a flurry of raindrops, Mostyn looked around the door. “Carriage is here, sir.”
“Thank you, Mostyn.” Releasing Violet’s hands, Montague lifted his hat from the nearby stand. His eyes still on her, he nodded, then forced himself to turn to the door, set his hat on his head, and stride away, out into the night and the rain.
Alone, but not for long.
Slumping back in the dark of the hackney, Montague felt expectation well and realized he was grinning.
Griselda settled Megan in her crib, then, straightening, looked down at her sleeping cherub and smiled.
Standing alongside his wife, Stokes dipped his head and, glancing into her face and savoring the madonna-like quality of that smile, felt something inside him ease, and settle, too, just like his sleeping child.
After a moment’s hesitation, he took the plunge and murmured, “You’re content with this, aren’t you? ”
Faint surprise in her face, Griselda looked at him, studied his eyes, then her lips curved again, reassuring and calming.
“You mean being a mother, being a milliner, being the lady of this house, being Penelope’s and now Violet’s friend, and being an investigator, too, and working to somehow make everything fit?
” Placing a hand on his arm, she steered him out of the nursery and toward their bedroom next door.
He nodded. “Yes—that. All of that.”
Her fingers found his and twined, and she drew him into their room, paused to let him shut the door, then she went into his arms. “Yes.” She met his gaze. “I’m content. It’s not easy, and probably never will be, but the rewards are great.”
Then she tilted her head, her eyes still searching his, a coy smile spreading across her face. “You didn’t notice, but I left something out.”
“You did?” Her list had sounded fairly comprehensive to him . . . his hands firming about her waist, he replayed her words, but he couldn’t see it. “What?”
Her sultry chuckle reached to his bones as, stretching up, she wound her arms about his neck and smiled, all wifely indulgence, up at him.
“I omitted to mention the best thing of all—the one that makes all the others worthwhile. Not because it’s less than all the rest but because it’s more—because it’s the foundation all the other parts of my life stand upon. ”
Something in him quivered as he read the truth in her eyes, but he had to, needed to, hear it from her. To hear the words on her lips. “And that something is?”
Her smile turned radiant. “Being your wife.”
She drew his head down, drew his lips to hers, and kissed him.
Stokes tightened his arms about her, drew her tight.
And decided that, after all, everything was, and would be, all right.
After checking on Oliver, then retreating to their bedroom, Penelope and Barnaby spent the next hour enthusiastically celebrating in their own private way.
Finally spent, her breasts still rising and falling deeply as she waited for her breathing to even out, her hair spread about her in tangled disarray, Penelope lay on her back and stared at the moonbeams playing fitfully across their ceiling.
Slumped beside her, Barnaby lay on his chest with his face half buried in the pillow beside hers, one heavy arm flung across her waist.
His breathing was even more labored than hers—hardly surprising, given his recent performance.