It was Mariana’s story—theirstory—told rightup until the moment he’d given it to Mariana to read this morning.
She’d read it, and afterward she could not speak for weeping.
His publisher read it straightaway, and lowered it slowly, and thought:Dear God, if I publish this story, I’m going to make a fortune!
He did and he did.
As it so happened, Signor Antonio Grieco, the composer who’d written the score forThe Queen of the Deep, was responsible for its success. He was wonderfully gifted and craved an epic tale, a canvas upon which to unleash the whole of his talents. That canvas wasThe Cobbler’s Daughter.
The score he wrote was exquisite and triumphant, heartbreaking and furious, then, at last, peacefully rapturous.
Mariana would sing the lead role for a dozen or so performances. But when their third child came along—James was born two years after they were married, and Primrose and Phillip followed in quick succession after that—she happily passed the torch to another talented soprano and took parts only occasionally. She and James reveled in their family and their outrageous good fortune in finding each other, and their family, and the whole of life, sufficiently, beautifully, exquisitely operatic.
The Cobbler’s Daughterwould go on to sell out opera houses all over Europe intermittently for decades to come.
Thetonwasn’t quite sure how to take the news of the duke’s marriage when it became commonly known.
Oh, they tried to have a little fun at his expense, mainly because they thought they ought to. One or two cartoons were drawn. There were a few outraged murmurs. A scathingly witty, righteous editorial. Some attempts were made at rousing controversy and indignation, but they never quite took flight.
It was just that flash ballads were rather moot, because the duke had gone and unapologetically written an entirelibrettoabout his story, which rather cut the authors of bawdy songs off at the knees. Bawdy songs were only funny if their subject could be embarrassed or surprised, preferably both. It was a typical General Blackmore strategy. He’d gotten ahead of the enemy, disarming them, and they were compelled to surrender.
In fact, the Duke of Valkirk in love was quite the same as the Duke of Valkirk in war—serious, dignified, absolutely certain of the rightness of Mariana and of his decision to marry her. Ridiculousness and mockery could not get a handhold on a man like this.
He was unapologetically, quietly happy, and so was his lovely new wife. He bought her dozens of shining things to wear, shoes and gowns and hats. They gave hundreds of pounds to charity. They entertained, infrequently but charmingly, in their London townhouse. They liked to spend a lot of time in the country.
It was determined that there was no dishonor in being happy.
“This doesn’t mean you can go and marry an opera singer,” fathers hastened to tell their sons.
And after a pause, they often added, “At least for a first wife.”
The very day of the wedding, Mariana finally committed words to her old friend, that pored-over sheet of foolscap from The Grand Palace on the Thames, and sent the letter off to her mother.
Mrs. Bridgett Wylde had just returned from the well with a bucket of water when she heard the sound of carriage wheels.
She slowly lowered the bucket and paused on the threshold of her cousin’s cottage.
Not much found its way accidentally down this muddy lane in this damp land, and that included London gossip and sunlight. She had begun to worry about Mariana; the letter she’d anticipated was now over three weeks late. (As, mercifully, were the London newspapers, so she remained innocent of any knowledge of Mariana’s eventful month.)
This meant that carriage now coming fully into view had to be, no matter how improbable it seemed, making the journey deliberately. The cottage must indeed be its destination.
She went still, shaded her eyes with a hand, and warily watched.
It was pulled by four matched bays, coats gleaming like polished metal.
And then, when it rounded the slight curve—and she would never forget this moment—the gold leaf of the painted crest winked into view.
Oh, dear God.
Everyonein England knew that crest.
The driver pulled the horses to a halt.
Bridgett tried not to gape when a footman in full, spotless blue livery stepped down and approached her.
“Pardon the intrusion, ma’am, but I should like to speak with Mrs. Bridgett Wylde, if I may.”
“I am Mrs. Bridgett Wylde,” she said.
