Epilogue

February 23, 1877

The fire crackled the hearth of the royal suite at the Duke of Wellington Hotel, adding a welcome glow to an otherwise gloomy winter day in Halifax. The pristine snow that had fallen yesterday had already begun to darken from the mud and smoke that belched from countless chimneys in the city in the unified effort to stave off the cold damp of a Nova Scotia winter.

Maddy sat at a mahogany desk in one corner of the beautifully appointed room, staring down at the latest version of her plans for the revitalization of The Grove. Beau had taken the rooms in late summer, and they had become her temporary Halifax residence since their marriage last autumn. This past September, they had married under the graceful branches of the maple tree where Beau had proposed and the Turnbulls, Beau’s sister Jessica, and the Chandlers had all been present. While many of the summer flowers had faded, the asters, goldenrod, coneflowers, and ironweed had put on a lovely display, and Maddy herself picked some of the late blooming roses that created her wedding bouquet. A vial of oil from the roses was now at her dressing table, made from the petals of that bouquet.

Beau was having a late breakfast with his uncle at the Halifax Merchant’s Club, which allowed her time to pore over the latest sketches of plans for The Grove, which now included lodgings for staff and a second building that would support the creation and packaging of soaps. She was so involved that she didn’t hear Beau return until he appeared in the doorway, wearing a smile she would never tire of.

“Mrs. Da Silva, you are going to get a crook in your back if you don’t mind your posture,” he said playfully as he rested his hands on her shoulders. As he gently massaged her neck, she sat back, allowing herself to melt into the firm but relaxing pressure of his touch.

“If I wanted a lecture on my posture, I would go back to Everwell and let Tilda do it,” she replied, sighing with pleasure.

“I promised Mrs. Gilman, Lady Em, and your friends that I would look after you,” he said, bending over and planting a gentle but firm kiss on her cheek. “If you thought you were intimidating, you have no idea how it feels to be stared down by six formidable women. If we arrive for supper and you have a crook in your back, my wellbeing might be in jeopardy.”

Maddy smiled. She could well imagine what had transpired in that discussion—given that she’d been part of similar discussions with both Dominic Ashe and Jeremy Webber before they were welcomed into the Everwell family.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Promise me a back rub every night, and you’ll be quite safe.”

She sensed his smile as he nestled a kiss on her ear. “As long as I don’t have to stop with your back.”

Maddy smiled, her body softening under his touch. It was a sensation she was certain she would never tire of—this idea that she was so utterly safe with a man. And that he was happiest when he was making her happy.

“How was your meeting with your uncle?” Maddy asked. Beau’s uncle had been quietly intrigued by the business opportunity, and with the urging of his wife, had been persuaded to invest in Maddy’s new venture.

“Uncle Archie was in a remarkably good mood,” he said, “though I suspect it might have something to do with the fact that his last quarter was better than some of his cronies. They’ll be attending the musicale this evening. Aunt Vee loves music.”

Maddy stifled a groan. She and Veronica Turnbull had come, if not to entirely like each other, certainly to respect each other. The Turnbulls still had no idea about the Scandalous Spinsters, but their public support of The Everwell Society since the events of last summer had been appreciated. Tonight, Gemma and Jeremy Webber were hosting a musicale in their beautiful home, featuring some of Everwell’s students as fundraising effort for the society and expanding their efforts to find excellent employment opportunities for their students as they got older. The Turnbulls’ appearance was another important marker of support. Veronica Turnbull might love music, but her talents were, to put it kindly, best left to clapping for the performers.

“As long as she leaves the performing to the girls,” Maddy said.

Several hours later, they arrived at the Webber’s stately Halifax house. The house glowed with gaslight, welcoming all coming in from the dark, gloomy evening. Jeremy’s position as private secretary to the Lieutenant Governor, and his connections to the British military establishment in the city, helped to attract some of the more influential citizens to the event. Lady Em held court, and Jeremy ensured that every officer in a red coat met Tilda, who had once used her skills as a doctoress in support of the British Army. Tilda and Jeremy had met in Persia years ago, when Jeremy had been a young officer, and she saved the life of his soldier valet, Harold Babcock.

As Beau went to fetch a glass of champagne for the two of them, Maddy stood alongside Rimple, Elouise, and Phillipa, marvelling at how naturally Gemma had taken to the role of hostess. She dazzled in a gown of deep plum velvet, which complimented her olive-toned skin and thick dark hair.

“She’s a natural at this, isn’t she?” Elouise said. “All those years performing under the circus tent have been channeled into something new.”

“I’m so proud of her,” Phillipa said, beaming at the once painfully shy Gemma. “This is a wonderful evening.”

“Who invited him?” Rimple asked, her lip uncharacteristically pulled into an expression bordering disgust. Maddy followed her gaze through the crowd, where she spotted Benjamin Miller speaking with Simon Nickerson.

“Jeremy and Gemma, I suspect,” Elouise said.

“He’s not a society reporter,” she countered.

“No, but where society goes, news follows,” Phillipa said. “And many of them are here tonight. And if we don’t look away, we are going to end up in his column, so let’s just ignore him, shall we? We want the girls to shine tonight.”

After all the guests had been greeted and provided with a glass of warming punch, they were invited to be seated while Elouise brought the students on the stage. The evening’s event was a mix of music and poetry reading, including some original pieces written by some of the students. Phillipa had gone to assist. Maddy went to take her seat with Beau in the front row, instinctively taking stock of who was already in their chairs.

Rimple was missing.

“What’s the matter?” Beau asked, then, as if immediately sensing the problem, looked up and down the row to see who was missing. The entire front row had been claimed by Everwell Society members and allies to give the students the moral support they might need.

“If you’re looking for Rimple, she’s speaking with Aunt Vee,” Beau said.

Maddy breathed a little sigh of relief. Rimple, being of obviously mixed heritage that polite society called “exotic” to her face and far worse behind it, was often subjected to indignities that were spared the rest of the spinsters, save Tilda. Maddy knew Veronica Turnbull would support Rimple if needed and treat her with the respect she was entitled to.

A moment later, she spied them, along with a tall, elegantly dressed, gaunt woman Maddy recognized as Rebecca Beveridge.

Veronica Turnbull was still a member of the NWL, as was Rebecca. As a founding member, and one of its most influential, she’d recovered from what was judged by some as a severe breach in the ranks when she not only put her public support behind The Everwell Society, but the union between Beau and Maddy as well. Still, it was odd to see both those ladies in the same space with Rimple, having what looked to be a quite earnest conversation.

Jeremy rose and went to the little makeshift stage at the end of the room, drawing the attention of the crowd with his commanding presence. Maddy took her seat, and a moment later, Rimple was alongside her.

“What was that about?” Maddy whispered under her breath.

Rimple leaned in and revealed a small envelope she had tucked into her glove.

“It’s for Phillipa,” she whispered. “I think we have another client.”