Even if he was sending that wife away.
But it also afforded Alexandra a glimpse into the crucible in which Brightwall the Beast was forged. Those circumstances—the labor, the humiliation, the resilience required to survive—had taught him control, endurance, determination. All had begun when Mrs. Scofield brought him into the house.
Some men might be ashamed for anyone to know they’d begun life as an orphan who had emptied chamber pots and slept on the scullery floor.
He probably knew it only made him seem more extraordinary.
His safety and survival had depended on observing people, on making himself useful, on learning everything he possibly could, on listening. And those were the skills that had helped him soar through the army ranks. That was how the boy who’d slept in the scullery had found a way to maneuver to checkmate.
This was how he’d become a military legend.
And this was how he’d strategized his way into getting himself a pretty wife.
She recalled that scrap of ribbon in a box.
And then she thought of a shy little boy leaving a flower on the bureau of a cruel girl.
She closed her eyes briefly as a stab of grief crushed the breath from her.
A great tarp had been whipped from the statue, which was spectacular: immense, gleaming, and graceful. Both Colonel Brightwall’s hair and the horse’s mane and tail were, for infinity, windblown. His carved visage was stern enough to put the fear of God into any pigeons who might take a notion to dribble shite upon it.
Magnus stood on the dais before the crowd.
Flanking him were the Lord Mayor of London, Mr. Thorp, and Alexandra, who was smiling proudly and fondly. It was thrilling and humbling to realize that all those faces down below had come to see her husband immortalized in marble.
Magnus’s voice boomed over the crowd. “Thank you for joining me on this auspicious occasion, ladies and gentlemen. I cannot begin to express how grateful I am to have given London an excuse to erect a statue of a man on ahorse, since we have a dearth of them,” Magnus began.
This was greeted by a roar of laughter, cheers, and applause.
“In truth, this one flatters both meandthe horse. It’s an exquisite work of art, rather unlike its inspiration.” A scattering of laughter here, too. “I am proud to have been found worthy of the skills of Signor Almondo, whose artistic gifts grace our parks and buildings. To know I have been of any service to a country and people I love...”
His voice graveled. Alexandra sucked in a breath.
“...well, the true honor is all mine. I thank His Majesty the king, Lord Mayor Thorp, my beautiful wife, and all of you for sharing this moment with me, for this extraordinary tribute, and for allowing me to serve you and Britain. God save the king.”
“GOD SAVE THE KING!” the crowd echoed.
Magnus bowed to a cacophony of cheers and applause. A sea of hats waved.
Alexandra swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Mrs. Brightwall, if I may have a word?”
As Magnus shook the hands of various dignitaries and well-wishers, Alexandra turned to find before her a wiry man whose bright little eyes were about level with hers. His features were button-neat.
“My name is Mr. Gelhorn, and I’m a writer forThe Times.How do you do, soon-to-be Lady Montcroix?” He swept his hat from his head andbowed. “I hope you will forgive the presumption, but London readers are hungry for more information about you.”
Well, then. The manwaspresumptuous, but this was the opportunity she and Magnus had been waiting for. She’d best make the most of it.
“How do you do, Mr. Gelhorn? It seems you’ve heard something about Colonel Brightwall’s elevation to the peerage.”
“Indeed, it is my business to remain apprised of momentous political developments, and my sources inform me that a warrant has been delivered to the lord chancellor’s office ordering the preparation of Letters Patent. It seems as good as done.”
Her breath hitched. She wondered if Magnus knew.
“I wondered if you might be willing to share a statement with us on this auspicious occasion. Are you proud of your husband?”
She beamed. “I couldn’t be more proud of him. Who wouldn’t be? Don’t you think he’s magnificent? How intriguing it is that you seem to already know he’s to be styled the Earl of Montcroix. The Magnificent Montcroix. That’s what I’ll call him from now on,” she said mistily.