“Oh, I confess we thought something like this might be afoot,” Delilah said sagely. “We’ve some experience with the unpredictable progress of love. Congratulations. We are so happy for the two of you!”
Everyonethere was delighted to have them back.
Catherine consulted with Angelique and Delilah about how to find gently used furniture and bargains on curtains, because she wanted their town house sitting room to be soothing and welcoming when Dominic returned home from a satisfying day of political skirmishes and speeches and irritating stodgy people.
They could easily make love like pagans while they were at the boardinghouse, after all.
And oh, did they.
Little Dominic Oliver Kirke (named for his father and grandfather) was born a year and a half after they were married, followed two years later by Serena Eleanor (named for Catherine’s motherand grandmother), and then, at last, the handful that was baby Augustus Evander (named for the uncle who had sent Dominic to college). Each one was a uniquely delightful, clever, hilarious, heart-squeezing little terror, the light and bane of their parents’ lives, the cause of gray hairs, tears, and hearts swollen with joy and gratitude. Catherine now had her merry racket at the dinner table—they took dinner all together whenever they could—and her chorus around the pianoforte.
When Parliament wasn’t in session, the Kirke family often gamboled happily about Little Bramble, the little ones sometimes trailing their much older, very grown-up half brother, Leo, who visited occasionally and whom they worshipped. He, like his father, had entered Lincoln’s Inn for law.
And her family had grown exponentially in all directions—she met some of Dominic’s rather... er, singular brothers and sisters, which meant their children had a lot of cousins.
And eventually, she met Anna, too. Which hadn’t been easy; Anna had been, of course, of nearly mythological import in her husband’s life. But she was Leo’s mother, and Catherine had come to love Leo. She came to appreciate Anna for loving Dominic at all, for giving him happiness when he was young, and for bravely raising that fine young man who was their son. What they had in common was love for their families, and in time they considered each other family, too.
And because they requested it, Dominic took Leo and Catherine to see his clover-covered refuge in Wales.
The three of them lay on their backs on clover and talked meanderingly of everything and nothing. Catherine was almost unbearably moved by so many things: By how the cadences of Leo’s voice were so like Dominic’s, even though he’d been raised in Yorkshire. By how patient Dominic was, and how he listened so intently to both of them—drinking in their words, asking questions, because they were precious to him. By how this modest little patch of grass and clover might as well be hallowed ground. For his penchant for seeking out quiet green places had indirectly brought Dominic to her.
After a time, she fell silent, and just held her husband’s hand and listened to the two of them talking. And when Leo finally laughed with abandon at something witty Dominic said, she squeezed his hand with delight and he squeezed hers back.
And even when Lord Kirke was appointed lord chancellor and elevated by the king to Viscount Carlisle, a title which came with land and a house, it was to the house in Little Bramble they always returned.
In large part because it was where Catherine’s parents were spending eternity side by side in the churchyard, and they could visit them. And sometimes when they visited the churchyard they stood together to watch the sunset in softly absorbed silence, his arms wrapped around her from behind.
Catherine’s father lived long enough to see baby Dominic’s first birthday. And both Catherine and Dominic were fiercely glad that his final years were ones of peace and joy.
As for nearly unflappable Lord St. John Vaughn, he was startled into several days of silent contemplation of the vicissitudes of life by the series of shocking developments—first the gossip about Miss Keating and Lord Kirke, which he’d fully believedto be nonsense, but which his parents had refused to allow him to chance, given the startling circumstances of his sister’s marriage (to Hugh Cassidy! An American!).
And then by the news that Miss Keating and Lord Kirke had gone and gotten married.
He was shaken to have been wrong about the gossip. He was not heartbroken—he was, in truth, a bit disappointed yet relieved that the only woman he’d found interesting this season had been snapped up—but he felt mollified and somewhat vindicated that such a singular personage as Lord Kirke had done the snapping. It suggested that he had not been wrong when he’d seen something special in her.
That he’d never once had a clue about the direction of her affections suggested to him that perhaps he knew nothing about women at all, apart from how to get them to flutter their eyelashes (by merely looking at them, that was how). Like the violincello, this seemed something that might be worth learning.
And while over the years Lord Kirke’s speeches continued to appear in the newspapers and to be quoted everywhere—and his work continued to stir up debate and controversy and progress, ire and fascination—the gossip columns lost interest in him, eventually, as the Kirkes were clearly blissfully happy, and this was less interesting. They were frequently seen out together, shopping at the Burlington Arcade, for instance, or at balls, always laughing and talking, as if they found each other the best imaginable company. Little by little they gathered around them friends who were good and interesting people, if not alwayseasypeople, from all walks of life. This suited them well.
Two of them were Mrs. Lucy Hargrove, and herhusband, Mr. Hargrove, who had learned to stop talking about himself constantly because he found his wife fascinating.
Over the years, every now and then when someone tried to stir trouble by bringing up old gossip about her husband, Catherine would field it with dry wit and feel compassion for how unhappy a person must be to feel such pain at the sight of someone else’s happiness.We all become more than one person throughout our lives, if we live long enough, her husband had once said to her. Together, the two of them were inviolable. Together, they became who they were ultimately meant to be.
And soon everyone knew Lord Dominic Kirke as a man who always danced at balls.
But only with his wife.
“The two of you make sense,” Delacorte told Kirke in the smoking room. “I knew she was a good one when she liked the song where you clap instead of saying ‘arse.’ She ought to be able to put up with you.”
They had all, in fact, sung that wicked little song in the sitting room that evening to celebrate the wedding, and they’d all been given a little sherry.
“I’m touched, Delacorte.” And Kirke meant it.
“I have begun to wonder if we ought to advertise as matchmakers,” Angelique mused to Delilah at the top of the stairs a fortnight later. “Perhaps we should hold a lonely hearts ball in the ballroom and sell tickets.”
Delilah laughed, then stopped and tipped her head, thoughtfully. “Hmmm. You know... it’s not the worst idea.”
“I was jesting, Delilah!” Angelique said hurriedly. “But perhaps it’s time to have another concertor event. Think of how much fun we’ll have planning the decorations!”
