“Arthur.”
“Yes, Father?”
“I’m going to ask you a question you might find unusual, but I’d like an honest answer. I shall not judge one way or another.”
His son, quite naturally, looked amused and wary. “Of course. Ask away.”
It was a while before James could form the words.
“Do you love your wife?”
Arthur gave a short, stunned laugh.
He studied his father’s face to ascertain whether it was some sort of trap or test.
And then he fell quiet. They listened to bees humming in the partaking of pollen.
James was touched and proud that he was searching for a thoughtful answer, because he wanted to please his father.
And then he watched color move into his son’s cheeks. “Yes. I would do anything to make Cathryn happy.”
You’re just a man, James.
She knew he loved her. She’d been asking him to choose her over his own myth, the one that was not of his making. The one built up, like a castle, over decades.
There were some in England who would consider that choice almost akin to an act of war. So many had been invested in the creation of his myth, after all. It was their castle, too. It had served them well.
So be it. He was nothing if not a warrior.
He turned to his son and said, “Thank you for telling me. I’m glad. And,” he added, “you have my permission to sell.”
The morning after the Night of the Nightingale dawned with astonishing clarity. Mariana was surprised to see the sunrise, in fact. She hadn’t slept at all; the night had flown, and it had been heady from start to finish. After all the guests had departed, and against protestations, Mariana changed into a day dress and apron and helped everyone at The Grand Palace on the Thames clean the ballroom. They’d all chattered and gossiped and reminisced happily about the evening’s triumph.
She simply didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to think about James.
She’d of course collected her percentage of the profitable evening. It was modest after her room and board were deducted, but well-earned.
Those who’d attended took memories away of a charming, gracious young woman possessed of an enormous gift, and those memories—well, they might not erase her past, but they would certainly blur and dilute it, as, with luck, she gave them more beautiful memories over the years, until all they thought about when they heard the name Mariana Wylde was “beauty.”
She had no illusions about the permanency of supremacy. The winds of fortune—and gossip—bent the ton this way and that like stalks of wheat. She needed to become the wind.
She’d packed her trunk with the help of Dot, and then she’d stayed up chattering with everyone in the reception room, which was all to the good, because it prevented thoughts of James from sneaking in through chinks of silence.
She’d gone up to her room, to see it one more time.
Just past dawn, Dot appeared at her door.
“I’ve been down to call a hack for you, Miss Wylde. And wouldn’t you know it, there was one waiting practically right outside already!”
And down they went.
“Mr. Malloy!” For that’s who her hack driver indeed was. “Oh, my goodness. I’m delighted to see you. And you’ll be delighted to know my straits have improved considerably since last we met! Fate must have brought us together again.”
“Oh, aye, fate’s what did it, not commerce,” Mr. Malloy said dryly. “Still the one trunk, Miss Wylde?”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll take the valise inside with me.”
Because she did now have a valise, and it was stuffed full of parting gifts.
While Mr. Malloy applied himself to loading her trunk onto the hack, she turned back to the little crowd touchingly gathered in front of The Grand Palace on the Thames to wave her off.
“We shall miss you! Come and stay again please, when you’re famous for different reasons!” Dot called.
“Or even if you’re never famous at all!” added Mr. Delacorte, as she was helped into the hack.
“. . . as if that’s a possibility!” she called out the window, all bravado to the last. To make them laugh, because smiles and laughter were balm.
“You don’t have to be famous to have worth,” Mrs. Pariseau called cheerfully.
“You’re famous to all of us for being a delight,” the diplomatic Mrs. Hardy said firmly.
Mariana blew them a kiss. She waved a handkerchief initialed with TGPOTT. She would keep it her entire life, no matter where life shuttlecocked her next.
She had wondered. But she did not, in her heart of hearts, think he would be there, among the crowd. She was glad, truly glad, he was with his son. She thought he would eventually find some peace and solace there.
And she couldn’t imagine him waving a handkerchief.
Too close to the white flag of surrender.
Through the carriage window, she saw the little crowd before the little boardinghouse laughing and dabbing their eyes, and with an ache in her chest, she watched the building for as long as it remained in sight.
Which was a long time, since it was the cleanest and shiniest building for miles.
She’d plenty to keep her occupied on her journey to Dover. She’d been made a gift of the newest book by the author of The Ghost in the Attic. It was called The Ghost in the Scullery, which Dot had promised her was just as thrilling. They’d begun reading it two nights ago in the sitting room, and Dot had read a little bit ahead without telling anyone, and suffered great secret guilt over this.
Delilah and Angelique had given her an embroidery hoop and some pretty silk thread, so she could make a pillow to add to the collection at The Grand Palace on the Thames. She would send it back to them from Paris. Perhaps she would embroider a mermaid on it.
She could practice her Italian by reading, again, the libretto of The Queen of the Deep. She could look out the window at the road she had last traveled when she had gone with her family to the seaside so many years ago and marvel at the change of scene. In short, there was enough to occupy her every moment so that not one fleeting thought about James could sneak through.
She fell asleep instead.
A sleep so sudden, black, and total that when she awoke with a start, she had no idea how long she’d been asleep, or even where she was. She knew her cheek was warm when she awoke.
She turned her head sleepily toward the window.
She sat bolt upright. There were no buildings of any sort in sight. Everywhere, everywhere, were rolling green hills. Confined by low wooden fences.
She closed her eyes and opened them again, in case she was dreaming.
The view remained unchanged.
She spent a moment or two merely gawking.
But . . . was this in fact the road to Dover? At least they’d gotten an early start if they were lost.
And then she realized what had awakened her: the carriage was slowing.
And then . . . oh dear . . .
It came to a halt.
She opened the door to find Mr. Malloy’s worried face peering in.
“Miss Wylde, I’d like to have a look at the shoe on one of our ’orses, if ye dinna mind. I’ve a bad feelin’ about it . . .” He shook his head and clucked.
“Oh dear. Poor thing! Very well. I suppose if we must.”
He helped her down from the hack onto the side of the road, and next to what appeared to be the beginning of another long road, perhaps leading to a house.