“Midnight.” She bolted upright but stayed in the circle of his arms and took up the reins. “We have to get to Nineteen Fournier. I need to be home to cut the cake and you, you need to be at my side.”
He sat, tilted back his hat, and let her take control of his phaeton. He’d take charge when it counted, when all the birthday guests were gone, when her parents had turned in and he and Mrs. Bex were quite alone.
Epilogue
Wearing her new salmon-pink birthday dress, Ester blinked a few times in a futile attempt to keep her eyes open while sitting on the couch on the parlor. She raised her arms and tried one more time to loop the thick wool yarn about her knitting needle. Tired from her long, long night, she yawned.
She and Arthur had made it to Nineteen Fournier well after midnight, but Mama had waited for them and made a great deal of pomp of the newlyweds standing side-by-side, cutting the three-tier cake with bliss icing.
Her mother had made it like a wedding cake, the one they’d missed by eloping. They had their first dance with real music, not merely to rhythms in her head or barge horns. Her husband was quite the dancer, something the papers had also reported wrong. But maybe he’d never had the right partner. For the twinkle in his eye had been perfect as he’d twirled her about the chalked floor. Then they’d disappeared to her room and made perfection.
Absence made the heart fonder, and his hand had known exactly how to wander. She chuckled. The pink room was too feminine, but Bex had made the best of it, whispering her name with that deep timbre in his voice.
What a wonder to have her own private concert with Bex, the hero of her dreams, and she willingly became his Juliet, his Katerine, and even Cleopatra—without all the betrayal and the dying. Ester felt blessed upon being blessed, to have the man she loved loving her, and she, all of him.
“Hold the needle more stiffly,” Mrs. Fitterwall said as she refreshed the pot of tea. “Maybe if you get more sleep it would be easier for you.”
The red-haired woman cast her a wicked smile before she scurried out the door.
Cheeks warming, Ester tried again to loop the yarn to cast a stitch, but it slipped. “Another fallen one, Mama. I’ll never get this right. Mama?”
The woman stared ahead for half a minute before turning and looking in Ester’s direction. “What?”
“The stitch, Mama. I’m failing.”
Her mother picked up the twist of yellow yarn that was supposed to be a woolen baby’s cap. “Good thing your friend’s lying-in is at the Yuletide. You’ve a few months to practice, or that baby will be hatless.”
The noise of the front door opening sent a tingle up Ester’s spine. Bex had gone with Papa to look at the raising of the warehouse, and she was anxious when the two most important men in her life left Nineteen Fournier. “Hopefully, Bex and Papa have returned early with no incidents.”
“Your father is getting stronger, but having your husband here, I think, is good for him. Papa loves his girls, but he always wanted a son. Hopefully, you and Bex will stay. We’ve plenty of room.”
Having Bex about was good for everyone, but he hadn’t said if he wanted to reside at Nineteen Fournier. “He lives in Cheapside. His flat is pretty nice.”
“But can it compete with our bathtub? And you’ve no waiting for it here.”
And the knowledge that everyone was safe within these protective walls. Yes, Ester wanted to live here. “Bex is considering it, as he decides what he’ll do next.”
The door to the parlor flung open and in came Frederica, carried by Lord Hartwell. His emerald green frock coat flapped from side to side as he came close to the couch.
Ester leaped up, dropping her foul needles. “Frederica, what happened?”
“I’m fine.” Her friend’s cheeks seemed flushed like she had a fever. “I am such a ninny to be spooked on my horse. I’m not a schoolgirl.”
“She won’t let me check her ankle,” Hartwell said. “I think she needs a physician.”
Tall Frederica looked so tiny in the man’s big arms. Her deep ocean-blue riding habit had mud stains.
Lord Hartwell seemed very concerned, his face a riddle of fretful lines. “I escorted my father to the Duke of Simone’s for an early meeting, when I saw this lady riding like a crazed rabbit. You looked very scared, Miss Burghley, barely able to hold on to your seat.”
She pushed at her dark bonnet with its point like a pirate captain’s hat. “Thank you, Lord Hartwell. You can put me down now.”
The man startled, as if the concept was foreign to him, then eased her onto the couch. “You’re lucky I am quick on my feet. I was able to borrow a horse and catch you, but not before your gelding tossed you into those bushes. Ladies, she demanded I bring her here and not to her father’s.”
“It was only a couple of miles.” She blew at her falling curls. “Maybe ten.”
The man frowned and sighed at the same time. “Miss Burghley.”
Frederica yanked leaves from the gold braid trimming her sleeves. “I don’t want the duke to be concerned. He spent a great deal on my lessons. He’ll be so upset to know I was thrown. I’m such a ninny.” She tugged on her lapels as if that would right how disheveled she appeared. “You won’t tell him, will you, my lord?”
