Tommy shifted in her seat. “There’s more news.”
Mr. Goodnight dabbed at his eyes. “More?”
“Mr. Durbridge has not been performing his duties. That is grounds for dismissal and replacement. By the time Adella has given birth, there will be a new inspector.”
“Someone kind and responsible who will ensure the workers are treated fairly,” Marjorie added. “Wewill ensure the post goes to the right person.”
“It’s all we wanted.” Mrs. Goodnight’s voice cracked. “To be treated fairly. To be seen as people.”
“What about Mr. Throckmorten?” Mr. Goodnight asked.
“His credibility is about to be destroyed completely,” Tommy said. “The Throckmortens believe they opened their home to a Balcovian princess. Mrs. Throckmorten will begin spreading gossip as soon as we leave. Tomorrow morning’s newspaper will prove her to be a liar. No one will believe a word from Mr. and Mrs. Throckmorten or Mr. Durbridge after that.”
“That is,” said Marjorie. “The false princessdidtake a tour of the mill. But perhaps the workers might fail to corroborate that claim?”
Mr. Goodnight patted the basket of reclaimed wages. “They will be honored to collectively forget any such sighting ever occurred.”
“In that case…” Tommy rose from her chair. Kuni and Marjorie quickly followed suit. “Our visit to your town is concluded. If you ever need anything else, you know how to find us.”
Mrs. Goodnight followed them to the door. “I cannot thank you enough.”
Impulsively, she hugged Tommy, then Marjorie, then Kuni, embracing her tight before letting her go.
“God save the Wynchesters,” she said to Kuni, her eyes glistening. “You guardian angels have brought hope and joy to so many people who thought they would never feel hope or joy again.”
Tommy and Marjorie were all smiles on the walk back, handing out pamphlets with extra glee.
Kuni felt a strange mix of pride and rightness and wonder. The elated clients had taken her for a Wynchester and, for a moment, Kuni hadfeltlike one. She had protected those who most needed protection.
She was not wearing her Royal Guard uniform, but a simple dress of yellow muslin. It hadn’t mattered. Mrs. Goodnight didn’t need Kuni to wear black trousers and a bright amaranth coat to appreciate her efforts. The Wynchester name was as powerful as a royal army.
But it wasn’t Kuni’s to keep.
36
Five days later, Graham, Kunigunde, and his siblings were at home, seated around a dining table filled with cakes and champagne.
Graham had barely slept during the journey home. When he wasn’t conversing with his siblings in the carriage or kissing Kunigunde at every posting inn along the way, he had been writing and dispatching so many letters he feared his quills had permanently dented his finger.
It had been worth it. His connections at every major newspaper and minor scandal sheet had come through exactly as he’d arranged.
The newspapers printed a factual explanation of why England had failed to glimpse the Balcovian royalty (they weren’t on the ship) and when they might expect to see the royals (in two months, when Princess Mechtilda and her family arrived for their first visit in decades).
The scandal sheets went one step further, insinuating that a small town outside of Manchester had caught “Caraboo fever.” A certain Mrs. T— was claiming a personal acquaintance with a princess who had never left Balcovia. Mr. T— not only spread the same lie, but insisted he and a Mr. D— had witnessed magical footpads manifest from the ether before stealing his pig and dancing atop flying horses.
Graham had embellished the stories slightly differently for each printer, ensuring any attempt on the Throckmortens’ part to explain their encounter would sound like one more unlikely version of the same Banbury tale.
While Mr. York and the Duke of Faircliffe were busy doing their part in Parliament, Graham had also preemptively announced a certain Mr. D—’s dishonorable comportment and subsequent dismissal from his post before he had been given any such sack, just to hasten things along.
By the time the Wynchesters arrived home in Islington, their victory was official.
Jacob raised his champagne in the air. “Good riddance to Mr. Durbridge!”
“A wambling, flatulent cabbage who deserves his misfortune,” added Kunigunde.
They all clinked glasses in toast to the ousting of a greedy blackguard and the successful return of the laborers’ wages. Thanks to Kunigunde, there was even a plaque erected in the heart of Tipford-upon-Bealbrook, dedicated to Ned Goodnight, who had died so heroically, as well as bearing the names of all the other town residents who had lost their lives to the manufactory.
Nothing could bring back a loved one, but their memory could live on. Not just for their children, but for generations.
