Epilogue
“I do believe we need another trunk,” Josephine murmured with a chuckle a little over a week later.
Rosalind surveyed the piles of colorful dresses and delicate underthings, the hat boxes and shawls and gloves and shoes that had yet to be packed, with no small amount of embarrassment. “I told Tristan I did not need so much.”
“He loves you, my dear.” Josephine smiled and patted her arm. “Let the boy pamper you. I have never seen him as happy as he’s been the last few days since his marriage to you.”
“You have some part in that happiness as well,” she replied with a gentle smile. “It means much for him to have you here.”
Josephine looked at Rosalind with glowing eyes, pleasure in every line and curve of her face.
After sending one of the footmen into the attic for another trunk, the two women went back to work alongside the maids, gently folding away the newly acquired wardrobe between sheets of tissue paper, packing the items away for their coming journey. In a matter of days, they would be leaving London on a wedding trip. First, a visit to his friend Lord Willbridge in Northamptonshire, after which they would head north to visit Grace in Scotland. Only then would they make the trek to Tristan’s childhood home, Sainsly. Once there, they would remain for the foreseeable future. Rosalind could not wait to create new memories with him there.
She cast an affectionate look at Josephine as the older woman guided one of the maids into packing some gloves. Tristan’s stepmother had welcomed Rosalind into the family with open arms, standing by their side during the quiet wedding ceremony that had joined them forever as man and wife. She had been nothing but supportive in the days afterward, too, as Rosalind and Tristan prepared to depart for their new life together. Rosalind was glad Josephine had agreed to go with them, for after nearly a week of having known her, Rosalind could not now imagine life without her.
A short while later the butler appeared in the doorway. “Lady Crosby, Sir Tristan has asked that you join him in the drawing room presently.”
It took Rosalind some moments to realize the man was talking to her—her new title would take some getting used to. Her face warmed as she gave the waiting butler an apologetic look. “Thank you, Danielson.” She turned to Josephine. “I shall return momentarily.”
“Take your time, my dear,” the other woman said with a smile before returning her attention to the maid.
Rosalind removed her apron, patting down her hair before hurrying out the door. She wondered what Tristan could want. Surely nothing untoward. She blushed, for it was certainly not out of the question. He seemed to find the most incredibly imaginative ways to get her alone.
Their last encounter flashed in her mind then, memories of bared limbs and soft sighs echoed back at them by the soaring walls of books in the library.
So flustered by her musings, she very nearly lost her way to the drawing room. Which, of course, brought to mind her first day at the Upper Grosvenor Street house when she had thought Tristan an intruder and had been bound and determined to put the man in his place.
She smiled. How long ago that seemed. And how wrong she had been about him.
Caught in her reverie, she was still smiling when she turned into the drawing room. The sight that greeted her, however, stopped her cold.
Tristan was not alone but had company. Several people sat about him, one of whom was—
Mrs. Gladstow?
She stood in shock for a moment. The natural instinct in her from her months of service in the woman’s household flared, bidding her to slink into the room, to sit quietly and await the curt orders the woman never failed to throw at her.
But she was no longer this woman’s companion. She was, in fact, above Mrs. Gladstow in station now. Yet the urge was there to make herself small, to avoid detection. Utterly confused by the warring sides of herself, she stood stupidly, frozen in place.
“Ah, my dear, there you are,” Tristan said, smiling as he stood.
He held out his hand and Rosalind thawed enough to gracelessly enter the room. As they sat, he slipped his arm about her and the world was righted.
“We have guests who have heard of our marriage and come to wish us well.” He turned to the older woman. “Mrs. Gladstow, I’m sure you remember my wife. She was in your employ for a time, if I recall.”
The woman looked as if she’d sucked on a lemon. “Youare Sir Tristan’s wife?” The implication was as blatant as it was insulting: she could not countenance her former companion having risen so far above her.
Anger boiled up, blotting out the numb shock that had taken over her. Rosalind opened her mouth to give the woman a scathing retort. Before she could, Tristan spoke up, his voice cool, the warning in it clear. “She is. Aren’t you going to offer her the same congratulations you gave me, Mrs. Gladstow?”
The woman’s mouth pinched tight until it was a thin line slashed across her face, holding her two pale, sunken cheeks together by sheer spite. With obvious distaste, she forced out, “Congratulations, Lady Crosby. You are lucky to have landed such a husband.”
A horrified silence fell upon the room. But Tristan’s voice pushed on. “I assure you, Mrs. Gladstow, I am the lucky one.” He smiled down at Rosalind, his heart in his eyes. Rosalind melted into him, feeling the effects of it straight to her toes.
He seemed equally as moved. Until, that was, a gentle voice broke through their blissful moment.
“My fiancé and I also wish you congratulations, Lady Crosby.”
Rosalind gasped and turned, for though she had not often heard that voice, she knew it well. Sure enough, Miss Gladstow was there, seated beside Mr. Marlow. Rosalind had not fully registered their presence until this moment, so focused had she been on the girl’s mother. “Miss Gladstow. I did not expect to see you again.”
