Epilogue

I sabel nearly dove back into the carriage.

The line of servants was overwhelming. All of them so crisp and straight and staring at her as she emerged from the carriage. Not Victor, her. Dull, dumpy Isabel Snow.

No. She took a deep breath and straightened her back, correcting herself as bluntly as she did others. I am not Isabel Snow. I am Isabel Adell, Lady Hartwick.

It was true, and she must bear up to it.

But every step she took toward the brick-lined path felt lighter and lighter. There was Mrs. Reed at the head, all smiles and a fat lace cap, and Mr. Cargill’s strict face nearly cracked with an actual smile.

“Lady Hartwick.” Mrs. Reed curtsied.

“Lady Hartwick.” Mr. Cargill bowed.

“Her ladyship does not wish to greet all the servants now, it’s been a long morning,” said Victor with his usual direct simplicity.

“But I do wish to greet them!” Rushing to speak before the moment passed, Isabel looked at them all, even if it was too hard to see them in the glory of all the finery they’d donned to honor her and their lord’s wedding. “I am so very grateful to all of you for meeting us like this. I feel very welcome.”

She felt more than heard the pleased little rustle. As if acknowledging silently among themselves that it would be all right, this new business of having a lady of the house.

“That’s right, my lady, you’ll talk to everyone, but not today.” Mrs. Reed let Mr. Cargill lead the way between the double row of servants, then, as Victor would not yield his place beside his wife, followed just a step behind. “I’ve made your wedding breakfast, if you don’t have any more guests.”

The latter she said with some suspicion, as if Isabel and Victor would start producing guests from their pockets.

“I hadn’t realized there would be any at the church,” Victor told her without much interest.

“They cheered his lordship aloud,” Isabel confided over her shoulder, squeezing her husband’s arm as she walked.

“Of course they did! I hope you’ll want to give them dinner one day, my lady.” Mrs. Reed sounded a little wistful, as if delighted by the prospect of cooking a large meal. “This morning, I only wanted to know where you wanted breakfast served.”

Isabel looked toward Victor, who only said, “Whatever you like.”

Panic threatened to sweep over her at the thought of having to decide, the worry of doing it wrong, but she shook her head and shook it away. “No, this is our breakfast. And we have been here so little. I’d like to know where you prefer to eat.”

“Hidden in my room,” he said with that dry flash of humor that she loved so much.

“Tut.” Mrs. Reed hadn’t approved of Victor’s plans to make the chamber where he’d been living into a bedroom for both him and his wife. It was unseemly, and there was too little dressing space for two people.

Nonetheless, she had carried out Victor’s wishes.

“I like that.” Isabel looked over the lawn at the house toward the window she’d first seen from within. “At that window there? We will do that.”

“Yes, madam.” And Mrs. Reed cut across the snowy lawn with a flurry of crunching footsteps to get to the door first.

As they followed her in and climbed the stairs to the room where they had spent their fateful Christmas Eve, Isabel learned why Mrs. Reed had hurried. She ushered a little parade of footmen and maids, all trying to look unflustered, up the stairs. They marched in and out of the grand chamber quickly before Victor drew her in and locked the door.

Not one but three little serving tables sat by the sweeping many-paned window. One held fresh bread, apples, a cutting board with a silver knife, a wedge of yellow cheese from Cheddar. Plain sliced ham and beef were arranged on a little serving rack above a silver platter so every piece of meat had stayed dry.

But another held a gold-rimmed porcelain cup with boiled egg, honey, a fat tub of butter, a silver pot of bracing hot chocolate, sugar-iced biscuits, gleaming amber orange marmalade and a delicate plate of sauced prawns that smelled of herbs and lemon.

The third table held a dish of sugared almonds and a collection of plates and cups, as if she and Victor might wish to trade bites of the dishes so obviously set for them. It also held a carefully pressed newspaper. The morning edition.

“All this for us?” asked Isabel in wonder, her fingertips balancing on the handle of the silver pot, as she turned back and looked at him over her shoulder, one bright curl falling to her shoulder and a lifetime of smiles waiting on her lips.

He would have her painted this way one day, Victor thought. Just like this, with the gentle glow of the glass window illuminating her, picking out every glittering detail of the lace on her gown, none of which shone as bright as her eyes looking at him with obvious, delicious love.

“This should be your portrait.” His throat felt thick; he had to swallow. “The new Lady Hartwick in her home.”

That was when Isabel looked around and noticed that the vast portrait of his mother was gone. “But where is your mother’s portrait?”

“Elsewhere.” Victor was hungry, but more for her than food. She was determined he should eat; he would never waver on his feet again from hunger, but he might fall down to his knees in entreaty. “Till the new Lady Hartwick decides where it should go.”

“But where ought it go?”

“Anywhere. The nursery, if we have children. My mother would like to be in a room with our children, I think.”

“No. Children throw oatmeal mush,” ruled Isabel with that delightful certainty.

“It’s an oil painting. It will survive.”

He couldn’t last a moment longer without offering her something to eat. She nibbled the biscuit he handed her, a sparkling crystal of sugar taunting him from her lips until he kissed it away.

She smiled as she looked up at him. “I think I would prefer to be painted with my husband, if anyone paints me at all.”

“I would be happy to arrange it, Lady Hartwick. That and any other presents you wish.”

“My birthday is not until May,” she said with a teasing sweetness, shaking her head as if denying he would give her more gifts.

“I’ve grown very fond of Christmas, myself.” Gathering her softness into his arms, he pulled her a little closer; gladly she came. That soft sweet warmth he might have missed, but for a bookshop and the kindness of a stranger. “I may start to keep Christmas all year round.”

Historical Note:

Pritchard’s is of course based on the glorious Hatchard’s, which as been on Piccadilly since 1797, so they say, and has served many royal households. I have imagined its interior from images of other bookshops of the time, as it had not yet grown into the glorious temple of books that it is today.

Interestingly, it was nowhere near as large as the actual Temple of the Muses, which sold vast quantities of ready-made books at cheaper prices, but not on credit. The Temple’s owner Mr. Lackington, previously an illiterate shoemaker, served humanity when he worked with a few others to publish an odd little book in 1818 called Frankenstein. His store had large areas for reading and relaxing, as Isabel and Victor tried to do that fateful Christmas Eve, and appeared as a most secret meeting place in The Clandestine Countess .

The Treaty of Ghent ended a painful war between Great Britain and the United States in which little was accomplished except the deaths of many men. Among other issues, Britain wished to keep impressing American men onto its ships, treating the United States as a vassal nation despite its independence; Americans, as one might expect, did not want that. [Mention India and Ireland?] The end of that war marked the beginning of the U.S. and U.K. treating each other more like sovereign nations—and the beginning of the end of similarly treating the Native American nations who also participated in the war. Different Native American nations allied with the British in the north and with the Americans in the South; none of them received any of the sovereign lands that they were promised. Victor’s vision of international law came into fruition, but not for indigenous peoples.

For a view of the likelihood of commoners marrying peers, which is much more likely in this period than anyone might suspect, I am indebted to David Thomas’ article “The Social Origins of Marriage Partners of the British Peerage in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries” in Population Studies (vol. 26, no. 1, 1972, pp. 99–111. JSTOR, https:// doi. org/ 10. 2307/ 2172802 ). JSTOR is an international treasure and of inestimable value to private researchers like me.