The Cobbler’s Daughter would go on to sell out opera houses all over Europe intermittently for decades to come.
The ton wasn’t quite sure how to take the news of the duke’s marriage when it became commonly known.
Oh, they tried to have a little fun at his expense, mainly because they thought they ought to. One or two cartoons were drawn. There were a few outraged murmurs. A scathingly witty, righteous editorial. Some attempts were made at rousing controversy and indignation, but they never quite took flight.
It was just that flash ballads were rather moot, because the duke had gone and unapologetically written an entire libretto about his story, which rather cut the authors of bawdy songs off at the knees. Bawdy songs were only funny if their subject could be embarrassed or surprised, preferably both. It was a typical General Blackmore strategy. He’d gotten ahead of the enemy, disarming them, and they were compelled to surrender.
In fact, the Duke of Valkirk in love was quite the same as the Duke of Valkirk in war—serious, dignified, absolutely certain of the rightness of Mariana and of his decision to marry her. Ridiculousness and mockery could not get a handhold on a man like this.
He was unapologetically, quietly happy, and so was his lovely new wife. He bought her dozens of shining things to wear, shoes and gowns and hats. They gave hundreds of pounds to charity. They entertained, infrequently but charmingly, in their London townhouse. They liked to spend a lot of time in the country.
It was determined that there was no dishonor in being happy.
“This doesn’t mean you can go and marry an opera singer,” fathers hastened to tell their sons.
And after a pause, they often added, “At least for a first wife.”
The very day of the wedding, Mariana finally committed words to her old friend, that pored-over sheet of foolscap from The Grand Palace on the Thames, and sent the letter off to her mother.
Mrs. Bridgett Wylde had just returned from the well with a bucket of water when she heard the sound of carriage wheels.
She slowly lowered the bucket and paused on the threshold of her cousin’s cottage.
Not much found its way accidentally down this muddy lane in this damp land, and that included London gossip and sunlight. She had begun to worry about Mariana; the letter she’d anticipated was now over three weeks late. (As, mercifully, were the London newspapers, so she remained innocent of any knowledge of Mariana’s eventful month.)
This meant that carriage now coming fully into view had to be, no matter how improbable it seemed, making the journey deliberately. The cottage must indeed be its destination.
She went still, shaded her eyes with a hand, and warily watched.
It was pulled by four matched bays, coats gleaming like polished metal.
And then, when it rounded the slight curve—and she would never forget this moment—the gold leaf of the painted crest winked into view.
Oh, dear God.
Everyone in England knew that crest.
The driver pulled the horses to a halt.
Bridgett tried not to gape when a footman in full, spotless blue livery stepped down and approached her.
“Pardon the intrusion, ma’am, but I should like to speak with Mrs. Bridgett Wylde, if I may.”
“I am Mrs. Bridgett Wylde,” she said.
He bowed.
He bowed! To her.
And then he reached into his coat and retrieved what appeared to be a letter. He held it out to her. It was sealed with red wax into which was pressed that bold and intricate and unmistakable letter “V.”
What was happening?
She did not know what this meant for her. She only knew that portent traced her spine, and her hands trembled, and everywhere on her body goose bumps rose.
But she did know she wasn’t dreaming, because if she was, surely she would have imbued Scotland with a little sunshine.
The man standing before her was beaming at her as if she’d won a prize.
She slipped a trembling finger beneath the seal. Just in time she caught the shining scrap of something that fell from the letter.
It was Mariana’s cherished pink ribbon.
Her heart in her throat, Bridgett read:
Dear Mama,
I hope this finds you well. I am very well. I feel it is best to come right to the point, so you shall not worry.
I have gone and gotten married. James is everything I never dared to dream, and I love him with my whole heart. I think you will love him, too.
Here is the ribbon you gave me for my tenth birthday, so you will know this is true and that you will be very certain that it is I who write this surprising letter. I should never part with it otherwise.
We should like you to come to live with us, if you would be so kind. These footmen will help you to pack your things and bring you safely to us. The staff will treat you like a queen. My husband knows how precious you are to me.
Do you remember the first time we went to the seashore, and how beautiful the rolling green hills were, and all the little sheep?
I think you will be pleasantly surprised by one of our homes.
I love you and I cannot wait to see you.
Your devoted daughter,
Mariana Blackmore
Duchess of Valkirk
Bridgett gave a stunned cry. Half laugh, half sob. She pressed her fist to her mouth.
If she’d had doubts about whether her daughter had written the letter, the last three words had vanquished them. It was just so very, very, very like Mariana to save the best part for the end.
She’d always had a flair for the dramatic.
And Bridgett, though filled with joy like a thousand sunny days, was not so easily rattled. She had a steely spine, too. Just like her daughter.
“I knew she was destined for greatness,” she told the footman.
And she went inside to pack her things.