Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Chiltern Court

April 1822

O akley had told Bess, back when it seemed the jumble of her life would never be sorted, that once things were settled, he would marry her in an instant. As it was, she insisted on a year’s wait. “If I am to be the widow Beamish,” she had said, “I must observe the mourning period, yes? Do it all properly. Otherwise, the entire tale falls to pieces.”

“A day or two would surely do?” he had begged. “A week is the most I can allow for!”

She laughed. “I shall marry you in May of 1821, not a moment sooner. And I should very much like to have the banns called.”

He could deny her nothing, even if it delayed their nuptials. Besides, as it turned out, she was not the only one in mourning.

Just as the leaves began to turn, his lordship’s rheumatism became worse than it had ever been and, confined to his bed, he developed pleurisy and pneumonia that proved fatal. He had held on just long enough to know that Scarlett’s pregnancy had come to a successful and happy end; she was delivered of twin boys in the beginning of November 1820. They had been christened Charles and Robert and were as fair as she was, although far, far more plump, which he attributed to the Worthe side. Certainly none of the Richmonds ever grew really plump.

Oakley had fervently thanked God for having Bess by his side during those dark months, for he truly felt as if the bottom of his world had dropped out from beneath his feet. They did all they could to ensure Lady Tipton was never alone; all of them, Kemertons, Worthes, and Penriths along with Oakley and Bess, sat with her endlessly so that she might not feel too much bereft in the first weeks after his passing. Being so much together as a family was soothing to them all, and thus it was that a saying began to circulate among those in society, that one never saw one Richmond without three or four others of the clan nearby.

Now it was he who was called Tipton, and Bess after all was never to be his viscountess, but his countess, mistress of Chiltern Court from the very day she married from its small chapel. The dowager countess began, almost immediately, to remove herself to the dower house, but Bess put an immediate stop to it.

“Chiltern Court is an enormous home,” she said. “What need could we have to send you elsewhere? As it is, your chambers are so far removed from ours, we shall too little see one another!”

His mother was dubious and pleaded with her son to speak privately with his wife and be certain she knew what she was about.

“Mother,” he said, kissing her on her cheek. “An excellent man once told me the secret of a happy life was to always keep a happy wife, and though he is gone, I cannot gainsay his excellent counsel. I shall indulge the wishes of my wife as he did his, for surely one could not want for better than he had!”

Tipton had brought his robe and coronet back to Chiltern Court to store them safely—“So much crime in London, after all,” he had told his mother with a wink. There had been a minor sensation raised by the reappearance of the jewels Bess had removed from Beauvis, and Damian’s name had been raised here and there along with the gossip. But between all that had happened to them in the past years, beginning with Adelaide and ending with his father’s death, the ton had evidently decided the Richmonds had had enough. Then Lord Eberly had gone off to Gretna Green with his actress mistress, and the tongues of society finally moved on.

Tipton stood one morning, looking out the window of the study, the lawn of Chiltern Court unfurling before his eyes, and thinking of it all.

“How ironic it is to see you standing there,” his mother remarked as she entered.

“Ironic? How so?”

Her face, thinner and paler since the loss of her beloved husband, twisted into an odd frown. “From the stories I was told, the day your father—Robert, that is—came to show you to your grandfather as a babe in arms, I believe he was likely standing in that very spot when he cast you both out, saying that neither of you would ever see a farthing of the Tipton fortune.”

“The old badger must be turning in his grave, then,” he replied soberly.

“Oh, I hope so. He was a cold-hearted man, far more concerned about his position in society than his family.”

“Pure idiocy,” Tipton remarked. “For what greater treasure have we than our family?”

Shortly after the period of mourning had passed, Tipton opened a letter in his study, one that had been hand-delivered to him. He expected a letter of condolence and thus was surprised when pound notes fell from the folded pages.

My lord,

My condolences on the passing of your excellent father. Though I knew him for an exceedingly short time, his goodness and mercy have altered the course of my life. It was through his largesse that I found myself able to reconcile with my own father, and I hope that I have, in so doing, set my life back on its proper course. He called on me shortly after my release, and came with me to my family home. It was respect for him, I believe, that convinced my father to receive and ultimately forgive his errant son. The words he spoke to him I shall never forget: ‘To cast out the prodigal is no credit to any father, but to see him brought back to the fold is a credit to all’.

I remunerate these funds to you as promised on the day you called on me in Fleet Street. Alas, I can never truly repay the debt owed to you both for your kindness. Please accept my deepest gratitude to you and my unwavering fealty to your family.

Ever your servant,

W Shaw

“Absolutely astonishing!” Tipton stared at the money in disbelief. He had quite forgotten the prisoner’s vow to repay the twenty pounds, in fact had never given it the least thought. His father, it seemed, had taken more interest in Mr Shaw than he knew at the time and had taken great care that the elder Shaw did not repeat the mistake of the elder Tipton.

“I shall remember it too, dear Father,” he murmured.

Frederica and Adelaide had both found themselves expecting babies in the spring of 1821, which did much to ease the dowager Lady Tipton’s suffering. Tipton thought it a fine thing for the pair of them to experience at the same time; Adelaide and Scarlett would often have their ‘twin’ feelings and experiences, but in this case, it was Frederica’s turn to ‘twin’. They had their children within mere days of each other in early October, both of them delivering girls, for which Lady Delphine was wild with delight. She had grown weary, it seemed, of the nursery at Cedarvale being too full of military figures and blocks, and was eager for someone to play dolls and roll hoops with.

Thus it was that 1821, which had begun so dreadfully, ended happily. Lady Tipton still fervently missed her husband, but as the year wore on, she had cried less and spent more time in fond remembrance; they learnt that the remedy for her melancholy was always the children, and she would be often found in the nursery of whoever’s home she was at, watching the children with a faint smile on her lips.

The nursery at Cedarvale was where she sat one day late in November when Tipton and Bess went to her. They had gathered at Penrith’s estate because Frederica was to be churched, and on the whole, they liked to make an occasion of things whenever possible. Thus, Frederica’s churching and the christening of little Lady Louisa would be heralded with family meals and family games, family musical evenings and likely even an impromptu family ball, for they all, it seemed, loved to dance.

The dowager held Lady Louisa in her arms as she scolded Lady Delphine for boxing her elder brother’s ears. “A lady must not lose her temper, Delphine,” she instructed. “She must be pleasing in voice and temper at all times.”

Lady Delphine considered that a moment, then said, “I suppose I shall grow into a man, then, because I have too much of a temper to do that.” And then she skipped off.

Lady Tipton appeared to smother her grin as she turned to view Tipton and Bess. “That one has a spirit,” she told them. “She is going to give Frederica a grey hair or two in her time, I assure you.”

She beckoned the nursemaid over to take Lady Louisa as Tipton and Bess told her they wished to share some news with her. “Good news, I hope?” she enquired.

“Excellent news,” Tipton told her. Then—after a look at Bess, who only turned pink and lowered her eyes—he said, “My darling wife tells me I am to be a father.”

For a moment, the dowager could not speak. She opened her mouth and seemed to have difficulty catching her breath; then she exclaimed and grew teary-eyed, rising only to pull them both into her embrace as she exclaimed her delight. “If only Charles could be here!” she said over and over. “How happy he would be! Oh but, dear Bess, you must take every precaution! We cannot take any risk with your health!”

As the winter drew on, the young Lady Tipton was coddled and cosseted by every Richmond as well as her own dear parents who visited Chiltern as often as they could. They, too, had a wedding in the offing—Leighton had proposed to Penrith’s cousin, Miss Talbot, and the union was set to be the event of the forthcoming Season. Privately Tipton could not imagine the reticent Miss Talbot as the centre of such a spectacle, but perhaps she had not a choice in the matter. Regardless, he was all anticipation of the cake, even if he doubted anything could ever be the equal of his and Bess’s.

And now it was down to this. April 3 had been the longest night of his life—for Bess had begun with pains just before they dined the night prior—and had been followed by the most horribly prolonged day. It was of great consolation to him that his sisters, as well as her mother and his own, attended her, for surely, with so many accomplished mothers with her, nothing could go amiss?

The hours dragged on and on. Worthe, Kem, and Penrith all made every effort to distract and soothe him to no avail. He played billiards so badly he scratched the baize, then distractedly lost twenty pounds to the others at cards. The housekeeper brought in food and drink, but he could touch none of it. “How is a man to endure this!” he exclaimed over and over. “I know mine is by far not the hardest part, but gads if this is not insufferable!”

Finally, when he had just begun to think it could never end, his mother came into the room. It was nearly midnight, and poor Bess had laboured for nearly thirty hours complete. All of the men were immediately alert, sitting upright and straightening coats and waistcoats in anticipation of news. “My lord,” she said with a smile that allayed all fear, “your countess summons you.”

Oakley shot out of the chair as the last word left her lips, nearly bowling her over in his haste to get to Bess and…well, whoever might be with her. He took the stairs two at a time before arriving at the door to the mistress’s chambers. From within came a brief cry, a newborn’s infant wail, and he froze. It was his son or daughter on the other side, and the rush of love that came, before he had even laid eyes upon the babe, nearly felled him.

He pushed open the door to see Bess with an impossibly small bundle in her arms. She looked tired but radiant with joy.

“There you are!” Adelaide said, as if he had not got there in a trice. “Come, ladies, let us leave them to it.”

Scarlett and Frederica both had tears in their eyes as they pushed past him, murmuring things about privacy. Lady Leighton bent to kiss her daughter on the head, whispering something to her before she too exited the room.

Tipton approached the bed slowly, eager but afraid he might somehow harm someone. “Darling, you are well?”

“Tired,” she replied. “But yes, perfectly well. And so very happy to introduce you to your son and heir.”

“My son!” Very gingerly, he took a seat on the bed next to them. Bess immediately passed the baby to him and he, very fumblingly, took him from her. “How do you do, Viscount Oakley?”

His boy was thin and seemed long; he had nary a scrap of hair on his head, and his eyes were wide and watchful. “Violet eyes,” he said with amazement. “He has them.”

They spent time cataloguing him then: his lips were like Bess’s and his hands were very like the late earl’s; his legs were long like his father’s and his brow brought to mind Sir Humphrey. Their son seemed to watch them as they were at it, his eyes unaccountably wise and almost knowing. The love Tipton felt for him, this silently watchful little boy, was beyond anything he ever could have imagined.

“How have we got so fortunate?” he said at last to his wife. “He is perfect, absolutely perfect!”

“He was grown in love,” she said simply. “The love of us all, Richmonds and Leightons together. How could he be anything less than perfectly wonderful with so much love surrounding him?”