Epilogue #2
The payments Stacie received from the marquessate as stipulated by her father’s will were generous; she didn’t need to marry to keep a suitable roof over her head or pay an appropriate staff.
And as Lady Eustacia Cavanaugh, with her connection through Mary to the powerful Cynster family, she didn’t need a husband’s title to give her standing in the ton.
The tables had been removed and chairs set in the corners for those who needed to sit.
Now the musicians started up, and Stacie joined the other guests in watching Kit and Sylvia circle the floor in their first waltz as a married couple.
As was expected, she and her partner—Godfrey—joined the other couples of the bridal party in the second revolution.
Then the rest of the guests joined in, and laughter and merriment bubbled all around.
Subsequently, she danced with Wayland Cobworth, Kit’s longtime friend and business partner, and learned how their new enterprise, Cavanaugh Yachts, was faring.
Then exhibiting not the slightest preference, she danced with the others who admiringly solicited her hand.
She was a past master at slipping from their side with a smile at the end of each measure.
Finally, the musicians put up their bows, and she was free to wander the hall. She’d noticed Godfrey circling the walls, pausing before each portrait that adorned the paneling. She caught up with him, sliding her arm through his and looking up at the portrait he was presently studying.
He glanced at her, then returned his gaze to the picture—of a man in robes with a chain of gold discs hanging halfway down his chest. A past mayor, she supposed. “What are you doing?”
“Hmm? Oh, examining these. Some are really quite good. I wonder if the council knows the value of what they have hanging in this hall.”
She peered more closely at the painting, trying to find a signature. “Are they really that valuable?”
Godfrey sent her a sidelong glance. “Enough to warrant stealing. Not that I’m about to embark on a life of crime.”
“Good to know.”
The exchange reminded her of something that had struck her the day before, when the bridal party had gathered at Kit’s house and everyone had been sitting around catching up with each other’s news.
Everyone else had had something to say; she’d been the only one with no actual purpose to her life and, consequently, nothing in terms of goals achieved to report.
Mary had her children, her household to run, and she was also working to establish schools and other improvements for the workers on the marquessate’s far-flung estates.
Felicia worked hand in glove with her brother, William, on steam-powered inventions and also with Rand in evaluating the inventions of others; the pair were planning a trip to Paris to investigate some new type of pen, of all things.
And Sylvia was neck-deep in running her school—a school she’d more or less single-handedly founded.
Her brothers all had occupations—Ryder managing the marquessate’s estates, Rand and his investment syndicates, Kit with his yachts, and even Godfrey was tiptoeing toward some sort of position in the art world.
Only she was utterly without purpose.
As on Godfrey’s arm, she moved around the room, pretending to study the paintings, she decided that, as she wasn’t going to marry, her lack of occupation needed to be rectified.
She’d noted that all the others had found their purpose in their strongest passion—Godfrey and his obsession with art being a perfect example.
Her only true passion was music. Sadly, among the ton, a liking for music was hardly unique, but for her, the fascination went much deeper. So what life-purpose could she create for herself based on music?
She continued to cling to Godfrey’s arm and the relative privacy that bought her. Ignoring the dry judgments he passed on each painting, she set her mind to the task of devising some position for herself—some absorbing career to which she could devote herself.
One that wouldn’t harm anyone else but, instead, would help others.
Eyes narrowing in concentration, she told herself that there had to be something she could do.
She was still trying to imagine what that something might be when a stir ran through the guests and calls went up for all the unmarried young ladies present to gather in the center of the hall.
Stifling a sigh, Stacie drew her arm from Godfrey’s, pulled a hideous face that only he could see, then left him chuckling and dutifully joined the small group of ladies smiling and jockeying for position before the chair onto which Kit had lifted Sylvia to stand.
From long experience, Stacie knew that arguing that she was beyond marriageable age—that, indeed, she was old enough that in earlier times she would have been termed an ape-leader—would get her nowhere, especially not with those around her being mostly family, connections, or Kit’s friends.
Smiling wryly to herself, she joined the very back of the small pack.
She was shorter than most of those in front of her—no real risk of Sylvia’s bouquet reaching her.
She’d reckoned without Sylvia, who turned to face away from the group. On a count of three, to cheers and whoops, Stacie’s new sister-in-law slung her neat bouquet in an energetic fashion sideways around her shoulder.
Instead of flying high and landing among the shifting ladies, the bouquet whizzed toward them just above head height, causing some to instinctively shriek and duck, while others belatedly raised their hands toward the prize—bobbling the small bouquet and sending it tumbling and skipping across their reaching fingers.
Until it was flying toward Stacie.
Instinct took over. It was catch the thing or have it smash into her face.
She caught it, then, horrified, realized what she’d done.
She promptly told herself she didn’t believe in such silly superstitions.
Others gathered around her, congratulations and arch speculations on their lips.
Stacie barely heard them.
As she stared at the delicate bouquet resting in her hands, her only thought was that Fate, in her infinite wisdom, had made a truly stupid mistake.
It was evening when Kit and Sylvia slipped away from the continuing family celebration, which had moved to Ryder and Mary’s suite in the city’s best hotel.
When Kit led Sylvia up the steps of the house they would make their home, she felt as if she stood on the cusp of entering a new world—and indeed, she did.
Kit unlocked the door and ushered her into the front hall—a light airy space that, during the day, was lit by a circular skylight high above. Sylvia glanced up and saw stars twinkling, diamonds in the black velvet of the sky.
After closing the door on the night, Kit came to lift her cloak from her shoulders. She’d changed out of her wedding gown and left it and the glorious veil in Mary’s keeping; the gown Sylvia now wore was a simpler style in blue satin the same color as her eyes.
She’d kept her new diamond-and-pearl band anchored across her hair; just looking at it still thrilled her, purely because it had come from Kit with a simple message penned in his masculine scrawl: For now and forever.
She registered the quietness that pervaded the house—and the absence of Gordon and, indeed, all the staff.
Kit noticed her glancing at the door at the rear of the hall. When she looked at him questioningly, he smiled. “They’re being discreet.”
“Ah.” Her own lips curving, she nodded. “I see.” She ignored the butterflies that had started to dance in her stomach. In search of distraction, she directed her mind toward those who, henceforth, would be her staff.
She’d met his people often over recent weeks when, at Kit’s invitation, she’d used the period of their engagement to take up the reins of the household.
Together with Gordon, she’d hired a housekeeper, a Mrs. Sutchley, who had already proved to be a godsend.
The good lady had coped with the influx of Kit’s family, including the three boisterous imps who were Ryder and Mary’s children, without batting an eye.
In addition, she and Gordon had settled on a footman, a parlor maid, a kitchen maid, a scullery maid, and a lady’s maid.
Never having had a personal maid in her life, Sylvia had been doubtful about the need for one, but Gordon had assured her that she would find the assistance invaluable, and so it had proved.
Now that she was Lord Kit Cavanaugh’s wife, she’d rocketed to the top of every Bristol hostess’s guest list; there was a small pile of invitations already on the mantel in the drawing room, and that was for just the next few weeks.
Her wardrobe had needed to expand dramatically to support her sudden prominence, and for that alone, Polly was already indispensable.
The girl also had a deft touch with arranging hair in the latest fashion.
Kit closed his warm hand around one of hers, and side by side, they started up the stairs.
The gallery at the top lay wreathed in silent shadows.
The master bedroom was situated in one rear corner of the house, overlooking a walled garden that Sylvia hoped to fill with roses.
It was a large, south-facing room; when Kit opened the door and ushered her inside, her gaze went to the wide bank of windows to find them screened by the heavy velvet curtains in forest green, several shades darker than the walls.
During the day, with the skirting boards, paneling, and cornices picked out in ivory, the room’s atmosphere was that of a soothing wooded glade, while at night, with the lamps casting pools of warm golden light, the space felt like a roomy, luxurious cave.
One with a very large, richly appointed bed.
A bathing room was attached, and doors in one wall led to separate dressing rooms. Sylvia had already explored everywhere—and knowing Polly’s delight over having her mistress finally residing under this roof, Sylvia’s gowns would already be hanging in the lady’s dressing room, and her brushes would be laid out neatly on the dressing table in there.