But they thought they heard giggling behind the Dawsons’ door, and that was good, too.
The unprepossessing Dawsons would likely have been shocked to learn they’d sent philosophical ripples through the lives of all the guests and inhabitants of The Grand Palace on the Thames. Ruminations on mortality and marriage, lust and innocence, courage and seizing fleeting pleasures, had indirectly led to things like lovemaking behind a ballroom stage curtain and Mrs. Cuthbert getting tipsy on sherry and Colonel Brightwall taking a chance that a door ajar five inches was an invitation for him to enter.
In other words, the Dawsons’ spirited intercourse had ironically inspired all manner of spirited discourse, even if it wasn’t in the sitting room.
Mrs. Cuthbert’s blossoming seemed to be underway. Last night her lips had seemed significantly less compressed; she hadn’t once suckedin an audible, bracing breath when Mr. Delacorte opened his mouth to speak.
“I think old friends are precious, even when you grow apart,” Mrs. Pariseau reflected to Delilah and Angelique as they paused to chat on the third-floor landing that morning. “There’s something comforting in knowing that someone else in the world shares your memories and remembers your earlier self. It reminds me of how far I’ve come, and sometimes I feel like a girl again, for better or for worse.”
And then there was the couple who had checked into The Grand Palace on the Thames as Colonel and Mrs. Brightwall, but would be departing as the Earl and Countess of Montcroix when they decided to leave. They certainly weren’t the first of their guests to feature both on the front page and in the gossip portions of the newspaper. They were, however, the first guests who had appeared as Rowlandson illustrations... twice.
The first had of course depicted Mrs. Brightwall battling soldiers over a stolen carriage.
As newspapers were expensive, it was Dot’s habit to bring one from room to room so every guest would have an opportunity to read it, but the previous evening Colonel Brightwall had given her six pence to buy an additional copy meant specifically only for him the following morning.
Dot spread the newspaper out on the kitchen table so the staff, as well as Angelique and Delilah, could have a look, and everyone gazed downat the second Rowlandson illustration. This time it featured both Mr. and Mrs. Brightwall as well as a vivid little paragraph about the Scottsbury ball they’d attended the previous night. The earl and countess had looked ravishing before they departed The Grand Palace on the Thames.
“Well, then,” Delilah finally said, speaking for all of them. “This is... this is quite something.”
Dot lowered her voice. “When I went to bring his newspaper up to them early this morning, Colonel Brightwall was the only one awake. He was staring out the window, wearing a smile. A bit like he was remembering a beautiful dream.”
Delilah, Angelique, and Helga exchanged glances. They had a very good idea about what would put that sort of smile on a man’s face.
“Did you sleep well?” Magnus asked Alexandra politely over scones.
It was officially the day before she was meant to leave England forever and live in New York. Tomorrow morning at this time Alexandra was meant to be rolling down the road in a stagecoach bound for Liverpool.
Magnus, still in his shirtsleeves, was already awake and dressed when she emerged from her room. He’d stood up politely from the little table when he saw her. He sat down again as she settled in across from him.
“I did. And you?”
“Yes, thank you. The beds here are so comfortable.”
“They certainly are.”
Neither one of them had slept a wink.
Yet they did not precisely feel tired, either.
One wouldn’t think that making love standing up in an alcove at a banquet would be a sobering experience, but it proved to be.
After they had done exactly that, Alexandra had lowered her dress, and he had matter-of-factly tucked in his shirt and buttoned up his trousers, and they had smoothed each other’s hair. They had both returned to the banquet flushed and a trifle dazed, but by then everyone attending was a trifle flushed and dazed thanks to the champagne, so the aftermath of their reckless passion had been camouflaged.
They had departed the gathering soon after. The carriage ride home had been mostly quiet, and the polite retreat to separate rooms tacit.
Each had spent their respective nights staring at their ceilings, enmeshed in a peculiar, almost dreamlike blend of euphoria and tension and fear and nerves, which had lingered into this morning, along with a bit of a champagne headache (for Alexandra).
“Dot brought the newspaper up,” he said.
He pushed it over to her.
It was open to the gossip page.
The Magnificent Montcroix and his bride captivated a captive audience of London’s cream at a banquet held by the Earl and Countess of Scottsbury, but the two had eyes only for each other. It seems thisbeautiful bride of his hath charms to sooth a savage beast.
An illustration was included.
“Good heavens,” she said faintly. “Are those meant to be turtledoves around our heads?”