Page 57 of A Most Improper Duchess
Sincerely,
A.
Lawrence pushed the note across the table, all his indignation gone. ‘He fell in love.’
‘With her mind,’ said Elise.
‘And her anger,’ said Hamish.
‘And her passion,’ said Rosanna.
‘And with life.’ Phineas swallowed and blinked away a mist across his eyes. He would not cry. He never did. He took up the note and walked to the fireplace, then struck a match against the stone and leaned into the cold hearth. He held the flame against the corner of the letter until it caught, and the paper curled, then he dropped it into the grate as little yellow flames licked and ate the last shred of evidence. The A, with its small flourish, was the last drop of ink to be consumed.
The closest thing he’d had to a friend, gone.
‘We should have stood by him,’ Iris said, her voice only audible because of the depth of silence in the room. ‘By both of them. As you all stood by me. Never again. From this point on, no matter the onslaught, we stand together.’ Iris tapped the table with her pen. She turned to Elise. ‘How many bookings do we have?’
Elise riffled through her papers. ‘Some tours are selling well, others slow. The mini-grand tour is not quite half booked.’
‘That’s our point of difference. Our flagship. Less than half is not enough to break even. We’ll have failed before we’ve begun.’ Spencer nudged at Iris’s leg, and she leant down and scratched his head. He arched and purred into her hand. ‘A painter by the side of the Seine. Dancing in the gardens. Experiences to ignite a ready mind,’ she mumbled under her breath. ‘Elise, make a note. We will need to call the printer to have new brochures made. Let us find a way to put Miss Chevalier’s Paris onto our tour.’
Epilogue
Twoyearslater
Arley hoisted his son over his head and set him to rest on his shoulders. Addi gripped his knees against Arley’s neck and scrunched a handful of hair in his palm. ‘Papa. Papillion.’
‘Butterfly,’ Arley said as the two of them watched its haphazard path through the air.
Addi tapped his cheek. ‘Non, Papa. Papillion.’
The boy would argue with him over anything.
He was entirely too much like his mother.
Arley balanced the canvas bag of bread and fruit on his hip and lay a steadying hand over Addi’s feet as they walked down the street. The boy was getting stronger, and only gripped tight if they took a corner a little too fast. He had good balance and a sound posture. Arley was certain he’d be a good rower. Vivianne insisted he was made for the stage. Addi spent his days hitting things with sticks. Who of them would be correct about his destiny? Only time would tell.
After easing their way into their life together, they’d settled in Vannes. It was a town big enough that they could disappear into a type of anonymity, but small enough that the news and conversation of the outside did not penetrate to any great depth. And the double storied townhouses with their bright yellow, red and blue painted facades had reminded him a little of the row of identical townhouses, each with a different coloured door.
Town was busy today, full of the hubbub of early summer. Each year, more artists came to stay, and already some had set up their easels along the promenades looking over the sea, even though mostly, like the writers, they spent much of their time in the cafés talking about politics, philosophy, and how the world needed to change.
Arley braced an arm over Addi’s legs as they jogged over the narrow road towards home. Addi squealed with joy and leaned over to tighten his hold against Arley’s chin. Even now, the small, quaint, everyday moments of snatched delight caught him and squeezed his chest. He didn’t think anyone had hoisted him on his shoulders to run across a road or walk through town. The lack of memory had no bitter bite to it though, because living it all for the first time with Addi, and with Vivianne, somehow made those moments sweeter.
While he’d left behind the life of a duke, there was no point adopting the life of a pauper. He’d brought enough capital in a mix of francs, expensive silks that were easily carried and sold, and small buttons and trinkets, so that he could gradually sell them off and build up enough savings to buy their own little place. Once settled and he was vaguely accepted as a member of the community, Arley had purchased a townhouse with three levels. One level with the studio, schoolroom and kitchen, the next level where they lived, and the top level where they slept. On hot evenings, they’d open the windows and the sea air, fresh and without a breath of soot, would rush in. Four bedrooms in a village this size was an impressive luxury. One for him and Vivianne, one for Cecil, one for the boys and one for the girls that would fill their life.
Although not as many children as Lawrence and Wilhelmenia had.
He didn’t think so, anyway.
Arley ducked under the doorway into their home. He placed the bag on the stand by the door, before sticking his head into the small studio where Vivianne taught dance. She wore a slightly longer skirt these days, although the sight of her still flipped his insides. She clapped her hands to address the small ragtag group of mostly girls, and a few boys, who came to her to learn not only ballet, but any dance steps they desired.
‘Do not be late next week, children. My friend Nicole is coming to show you how she twirls. She is a prima ballerina of the Palais Garnier. She will help you practise your positions at the bar.’
Vivianne skipped across the room, as light-footed as her departing charges, and kissed his cheek. ‘You have a visitor.’
‘Not a parent, is it?’ he said with a groan. ‘There is only so much I can teach their children if their children will not listen.’
‘It is a parent, but not one that will give you grief.’ She held out her arms, and Addi fell into her embrace with a gurgled laugh. ‘Not that type of grief, anyway. They are in the kitchen. Cecil is making them tea.’
