As Bart grinned back, Henry snapped his fingers in a gesture of remembrance. “As long as we stop at Gunter’s on the way back. If we drive hell for leather across Berkeley Square, we might be able to bring Jem home an ice before it melts.”
“So we shall,” said Bart. “I say, would you care to drive the team?”
***
Henry drove the team. They never broke out of a walk, and horses and men all survived, though the ice was almost completely melted by the time it arrived at Tallant House. Still, Lord Tallant devoured it with indecorous glee.
Four days later, Henry did not wear a striped cravat. Yet he and Frances still contrived to be married.
Jem manfully choked back tears during the brief ceremony, and Frances beamed up into Henry’s face as he clasped her hands together. She was swathed in white satin, pale as cloud. Hair dark as earth, eyes steady as a tree.
He could not help his flight of fancy as he spoke his vows. She was his world.
After they were pronounced man and wife, the newlyweds and their few guests piled into the dining room for a wedding breakfast that Emily assured them would possess all the pomp missing from the ceremony itself.
She was right. Henry looked over piles of brioche and cakes and eggs and sliced meats with a wondering eye.
“What do you think?” Emily said to Henry in a low voice, as Jem began to pour chocolate out of a silver pot as neatly as any footman.
Henry thought there was far too much food for only a half-dozen people—the same half dozen, in fact, who’d come to dine at Tallant House, cheat at cards, and criticize Henry’s fireplace screen.
How much they had been through since then.
“Thank you, Emily. You are very kind.” He offered her a smile, knowing she would consider his gratitude the best repayment for her efforts. Not just now. Always. You are very kind.
“Chocolate, Em?” Jem held out a cup. Emily pulled a face and shook her head. “Lady Stratton, then?”
Caro took the cup from him as they all arranged themselves around the laden table. “I simply have to tell you all something, though it may not be dignified enough for the occasion.”
“Ah—do we have to be dignified today?” Frances made a mock frown. “I hadn’t planned on that. After we’re done with breakfast, I thought we would all dance a hornpipe on the table.”
“Or a minuet,” Henry said, nudging his foot into hers under the table until rose stained her cheeks. Henry felt her toes flex within her thin slippers, as if they were turning together again in the center of a ballroom, with eyes only for each other.
Caro set her cup down on the table with a hollow clink. “Dance if you must, but for heaven’s sake, hear me out. You’ll all adore this. Two days ago, I was looking through the sweetest china shop, trying to find a vase to replace the one I was unfortunately required to throw. And who should walk in, just as I was lifting the vase up to look at the potter’s marks?”
Bart spluttered into his tea. “Not Wadsworth.”
Caro nodded. “Exactly. As soon as he clapped eyes on me—well, I’ve never seen a man turn so pale or spin on his heel so quickly.”
Henry laughed. “Jittery, is he?”
“Awfully. I don’t suppose he’ll be able to look at a tree for some time either after what you did to him, Henry.”
Emily took a dainty bite from a slice of brioche. “I can’t say I’ve got any sympathy for the man. He’s had undeserved good luck, timing his humiliations for the end of the season. By next spring, everyone will have forgotten them.”
“He won’t forget,” Caro said. “I will do my utmost to make sure of that. Nearly every house has a vase in its drawing room. I only hope I happen to call on someone at the same time as Wadsworth. I shall draw my fingers across the vase and watch him turn pale as a fish belly. It will be…” She bared her straight teeth. “Smashing.”
Before Henry could reply, Sowerberry ushered in two violinists and a man carrying an ivory flute. “As you requested, my lady,” the butler said with a bow to Emily.
“What is this, Em?” Jem asked.
“A little surprise for our newlyweds,” Emily said, failing to keep a pleased smile from her face. “You’ve only ever had one dance. You simply must have one more before you leave London. It’s my wedding present to you.”
Frances set her cup down so quickly that a drop of coffee sloshed over the edge. “I was only joking, my lady—Emily. I really didn’t plan to dance a hornpipe this morning. Especially not on the table.”
Emily dismissed this protest with a wave of her hand. “Not that. But you haven’t danced for weeks. You simply must dance on your wedding day.”
Jem choked on a bite of eggs. “Not in the dining room, surely.” Stuffed into the corners of the dining room, the three musicians were beginning to look uncomfortable.
Henry didn’t feel uncomfortable at all. At last, he felt a blessed certainty. He’d returned home at last, and he’d carry it with him always.
“No, indeed,” Emily said. “When everyone’s eaten their fill, we’ll return to the drawing room.”
Frances lifted her eyebrows at Henry, and he nodded. Certainly, he could dance today.
“All right,” she agreed with a wicked half smile. “If Mr. Middlebrook cares to invite me to stand up with him, I suppose I’ll agree.”
Caro looked equally mischievous. “Bart, we can have that waltz at last, since you won’t be pressed into service at the pianoforte this morning.”
Bart fumbled his fork. “Yes. Yes, absolutely we could. I’d be—it would be my honor.” He turned the pale pink of a tomato’s inside.
“Glad you stayed for the wedding?” Henry murmured to his old friend, and Bart shot him a sideways glance, a smile.
This room contained Henry’s family, the people most precious to him in the world. Jem and Emily. Bart, close as a second brother. And today it had grown to include Caro, and—dearest of all—Frances herself.
Twang.
Oh. And those three musicians too. One of the violinists had shifted his instrument, clearly wondering when the quality were going to cease this bizarre, buoyant behavior.
Certainly not today.
“I think,” Henry said, “I’d like to dance with my wife now. Frances, do you agree?”
He held out his hand to her, and she took it at once, pushing her chair back in a swift scrape and allowing Henry to pull her to her feet. Lovely as any painting. Art come to life.
“I do.”
Epilogue
March 1816
“A letter for you, Henry,” Frances called as she carried the post past the east wall of Winter Cottage, trailing her hand on its rough stone exterior.
Henry was, as usual, in the garden. He was to be found there every day, unless the weather was cold enough to thicken his paints into uselessness. His art students found many more subjects for study outdoors than in. Besides, he wanted to spare Frances the smell of the turpentine used to clean his brushes whenever they worked in oils.
She brushed through dried grass and found the gravel path to Henry’s favorite spot for lessons, amidst a tangle of winter-sere rosebushes and a view of the ancient stone bridge that crossed the creek to the east of Winter Cottage. A frozen crust still blanketed the creek; it was too early for the damask roses to bloom. Soon, though, they would be putting forth leaves and tiny buds. Frances rubbed one of the rosebush’s waxy stems between her fingertips. This would be the first time she saw them blossom in her new home.
Crushed stone crunched under her feet as she stepped closer, alerting Henry to her presence. “Frances. Did you say something?”