Epilogue
The Duke of Rivers held a miniature in his hand.
The subject of it should be the next object of The Marriage Managing Society. He knew it deep in his core. Fennyman stood by the wall of pictures and notes and strings tying everything together, and yet Rivers could not give the miniature over to the owner of the gaming house.
The last two endeavors of The Marriage Managing Society had met with unquestionable success and yet they had led him to be aware of the mortality of man. Death was around every corner.
Life was, of course, the answer, and marriage was life. He needed an heir. Every duke needed an heir. It was the duty of his entire life to perform the getting of an heir. And to get one, one had to have a woman.
Rivers frowned.
He had spent so much time managing everyone else’s marriage that he had forgot to manage his own.
Well, frankly, he had avoided managing his own. How long could that stand when he had watched not one but two near brushes with death this summer?
What if he dropped down dead tomorrow? His line would be done. He would have failed generations of people who had done everything they could to carry forward the ducal line of Rivers.
“Are you all right, Your Grace?” Fennyman asked. “You looked as if you’ve choked on cod liver oil.”
“His Grace does not take cod liver oil,” Harlowe informed him from the sideboard as he prepared a new set of papers on the newest ladies to enter the ton. “It’s too terrible for his digestion.”
“Thank you, Harlowe,” Rivers replied.
“Someone needs to be managed,” Fennyman said, clapping his hands together. “Who is it?”
There were candidates on the wall, four of them, actually. A lady and three gentlemen. Rivers looked from picture to picture to picture.
Harlowe cocked his head to the side. “Surely, we should choose a nice easy pairing? The lady, Your Grace?”
The duke stood slowly. He tucked his own miniature into his waistcoat pocket. One day he would have to give it to Fennyman. One day he would have to surrender control of The Marriage Managing Society for his own good.
If he was to practice the principles he preached, he would have to allow Fennyman and Harlowe to manage his marriage with the assistance of Lord Philip.
Frankly, it was harrowing, but he couldn’t be a hypocrite. The last thing he was, he was sure, was a hypocrite. He walked up to the wall. He looked at the images and then slowly he began to smile.
“He thinks he knows better than everyone else. I think he thinks he could manage all of us. So I think it’s time that someone managed him.”
Harlowe let out a groan and whacked the stack of papers he’d organized down on the table. “Well, this is going to be a hard end to the summer.”
Fennyman laughed. “And aren’t those the best kind?”
Lord Philip strolled in then, looking a bit worse for wear.
“Where have you been?” the duke drawled. He always seemed to be the last to these meetings. “Having a good time?”
Philip grinned unapologetically as he fussed with his cravat, trying to fix it. “The best time and finding out a little bit of news about our next candidate.”
“How do you know who our next candidate is?” Rivers asked, frowning.
“Because I can read the future,” Philip said with exaggerated drama.
“It’s him.” And Philip raised his finger, pointing to the Duke of Windbourne.
And Rivers snorted. “Perhaps you should be the head of all this. You seem to always know what’s to come.”
Philip waggled his brows. “Perhaps I should.”
Five years later
Joseph had gone to America.
It had been one of the hardest moments of Peter’s life, letting Joseph go. Much to everyone’s surprise, but not to his own or his wife’s, he and Joseph had become quite close. It had taken time, of course.
The young man had spent months by the sea recuperating, gaining weight, becoming strong again.
And Peter had visited him every week. They had taken long walks around the coastline, talking about everything, talking about life, talking about nature, the universe, and the propensity of cruelty in this world.
Peter had allowed Joseph to rail. He had allowed Joseph to finally cry, and he had taken the boy into his arms whilst he had broken like a wave upon the rock.
Some might have thought that Joseph should have been thrown in a prison, and perhaps Joseph might not have recovered and been a danger to the world.
Not everyone was lucky, but in this case, Joseph was. Peter was.
Joseph had asked if he could go to America. He wanted a fresh start away from this country with all its limitations and Peter had happily agreed.
He and his wife had taken Joseph there, where they had traveled the brand-new country, witnessing its many goods and also its many ills. Joseph had decided to take up residence in New York City, and soon he would go to Harvard because Joseph had a great propensity for learning.
Peter had a funny feeling that his younger brother would take the new country by storm and might even end up in government. Someone needed to change the world, after all, and people like Joseph could surely do it if they were given the proper channels and were not forced to violence.
His own wife was cuddled in his arms as they sat in their bed, newssheets scattered all over. The world was going to hell in a handbasket, just as the two of them had predicted. The United States seemed safe.
Europe was anything but.
A dark shadow was crossing over it. Death was everywhere, but so was life. He reached over and touched Ruby’s stomach, which was curved and big with the promise of their child who would be born any day.
And he knew that that child would be loved, loved as much as any child ever could be. Tears filled his eyes because he was going to get the chance to show his child the love that he had never known. It was the greatest gift that any man could ever be given.
He leaned over and kissed her softly. And as he did so, she put the newssheet down.
“Yes, my love?” she asked, her eyes full of love.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice deep with emotion.
“For what?” she asked.
“For this. For you. For us,” he said, resting his hand on her belly. “And for all our lives ahead.”