Epilogue
They were seated inthe Rare-Foure’s small back patio behind Baker Street, surrounded by potted roses and ivy climbing up the fence, with Beatrice and Greer telling Charlotte about their trip to Madame Tussaud’s.
“You know something, Amity and Henry really did look like King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette,” Beatrice mused. “I think their modiste and tailor went to the wax works for inspiration, rather than a painting.”
She had enjoyed the outing as much for her fiancé’s teasing and laughter, even in the wax museum’s Chamber of Horrors, as for the fine artistry of the wax figures. Greer had frozen in place when another couple came down the staircase, causing them to examine him with the same scrutiny as they did Marat and Robespierre.
“Who is this supposed to be?” the woman had asked, peering closely, breathing on his cheek. Her companion had shrugged, about to check the guide booklet, when she’d added, “He doesn’t look as realistic as some of the others.”
At that statement, Greer’s face had broken out into a wide crooked grin, and even as the lady screamed, he and Beatrice had been unable to contain their laughter.
They had ended up at Gunter’s eatery on Berkeley Square, known for its ices, and tasted three apiece before heading home to Baker Street.
“I still cannot believe how I was insulted.Lessrealistic than a wax dummy!” Greer remarked, making Charlotte laugh.
Suddenly, Armand and Felicity appeared in the patio doorway, finally returned from their holiday abroad.
Jumping up, the girls embraced their parents, and when the family stopped hugging, Greer shook their hands.
In short order, Beatrice let her sister fill in their parents on all they had missed.
“I wish you had seen our costumes,” Charlotte said, after describing the wonders of the fancy-dress ball.
“You can model them for me later if you wish,” Felicity said. “I would love to see them.”
“We would have returned sooner if we could, but ...,” their father paused and glanced at his wife. “We had to stay due to my brother’s illness.”
“Illness?” Beatrice exclaimed, looking from her mother to her father. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Your uncle took ill, and your grandfather suggested we go, but we didn’t think the whole family needed to go to France and sit at my brother’s bedside. I had hoped he would recover. We thought we would be gone a fortnight, not a month. And no joy in it, either, I’ll tell you.” Her father sat down heavily in one of the vacated chairs.
Felicity turned to Greer. “My husband’s older brother had a weak heart.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. My mother did, too,” he offered. “It is painful to watch such a demise, but I am sure you’re glad you were there.”
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Foure said. “My brother and I weren’t close since I’ve lived in England all my life, while he chose to go back and live on our family estate outside of Paris.”
“It’s small but ever so pretty,” Charlotte confirmed, and Beatrice nodded, staring hard at her father to see if he was terribly sad.
