After the Rain

by Elizabeth Johns

  “C'est beau!” Madame exclaimed.

  “It is for my wedding, in just under three weeks’ time. Is it possible?”

  “Anything for you, my dearest. Dare I ask, is it the handsome Dr. Craig?”

  “Yes, there has never been any other.”

  Madame smiled mischievously. “I knew from the start there was hope.”

  Christelle's face became solemn. “I know everything now. At least, I know enough. I wish you had told me from the beginning.”

  “You had enough to worry about at the time. All is well, now?” Madame asked with a sideways glance.

  “May we go upstairs? I would also like to see Noelle and Lorena.”

  Madame nodded and led the way. They sat down and she rang for tea.

  Christelle looked around and could not believe how many things had changed in her life in such a short time. She would always be grateful that Madame had taken her in.

  After Madame had poured each of them a cup, Christelle finally spoke.

  “I suppose it is traitorous to ask this, but I must know, and I do not know who else to ask. Was my mother at fault for what happened? Did she deserve to die?”

  “I do not wish to come into the middle of a family matter,” the modiste said diplomatically. “I will only say the Duchess had no other choice. Your father would have died if she had not shot Lillian.”

  Christelle bit down hard on her lower lip. She had not realized Beaujolais was saving her father's life when she had killed her mother.

  “It happened here in this shop. Did you know?”

  Christelle shook her head and a tear spilled down over her cheek. She inhaled a ragged breath whilst trying to maintain her composure. She had asked, after all. She had known it would be painful, but for some reason, she preferred to hear the story from someone other than her father or Beaujolais.

  “And Noelle and Lorena? They were not on Jersey of their own free will?”

  “Non. Lord Dannon had kidnapped them. There were more girls, but these two chose to come here after they were freed.”

  “And the others?”

  “Some returned to their families. I am not sure about all of them. Your father would know.”

  “When I was here last, why were the girls cold to me? Have I offended them?”

  “You might ask them. I do believe, when Mr. Cole came here looking for you, they were afraid. They did not want to believe you were in partnership with him, but they did not know what to think.”

  It was an excruciating realization that her mother had been one thing to her and yet very, very cruel to everyone else.

  Madame seemed to understand her thoughts. “Chérie, you must be grateful for the time you had with your mother. It was still precious and she helped you become who you are. We may not understand the choices she made, but you are one thing she did right. Comprenez vous?”

  Christelle could not answer, for her lips trembled and her body shook. Madame held her and let her weep.

  Noelle and Lorena arrived when she was drying her eyes, and the fear at once left her as they rushed to embrace her.

  “We heard what happened.”

  “I am very sorry for what my mother has done to you. Is there any way I can make amends?”

  “You are not responsible for your mother's actions,” Noelle said sweetly.

  “I have been eaten up inside since I heard what happened at her hands.”

  “And it almost happened to you, as well,” Lorena said.

  “But it did not,” Christelle said quietly. “I would be most honoured if you would help me make my wedding gown—and if Madame would allow you to attend the wedding ceremony and the breakfast.”

  The girls cast each other surprised glances.

  They looked to Madame. “But of course.” She sent Christelle a look of approval.

  “And if you ever find you are ready to set up your own shop in Paris, I would be a most willing silent partner.” She looked up mischievously at all of them. “I long to continue designing,” she explained.

  Noelle and Lorena looked at each other with pleasure and curiosity. “Maybe, one day. We would like that very much. It has always been our dream.”

  “A dream you deserve to have realized. I must return home for more wedding plans. My father has decided it must be grand,” she said with despair.

  The girls laughed and embraced her. It felt wonderful to know they could be pleased for her.

  The Duke could not be talked into a wedding by special license, or out of a grand fête. Seamus seemed to recall Yardley and Beaujolais had been married in a much more demure fashion. Seamus would not protest too much, he was getting his heart's fondest wish. Besides, everyone would be looking at his radiant bride, not him.

  St. George's was overflowing with the cream of Society, despite the rainy June day, but there was also a healthy showing of orphans, modistes, and injured veterans. He had to grin. If anyone did look at him, they would think him vulgarly in love with his bride.

  They would be correct.

  When Yardley and Christelle appeared at the back of the nave, Seamus was comforted by the equally large smile Yardley wore on his own face.

  Christelle looked like an angel sent from Heaven. She was dressed in a pale pink silk gown, and the fitted bodice sparkled with thousands of crystals which came to a scallop pattern over her waist. The skirt flowed outward with delicate rows of crystals in a swirling pattern, and he could see her blue slippers peeking out from under her gown, also covered in crystals. A crystal circlet encompassed her golden curls and made her appear the angel she was on the inside.

  He himself was much more subtle in his pale golden breeches and coat, but she had ensured he had a pale pink waistcoat to match her dress. He fidgeted with the ring in his pocket, which he had selected for her, and hoped she would like it. He had picked a golden topaz to match her eyes.

  By the time the Duke and Christelle reached him at the altar, Yardley's grin was suspiciously beginning to twitch and his eyes looked misted.

  “I could not have given her up to any man more worthy.”

  Seamus swallowed hard. He was going to make him cry. “I will spend every day trying to be deserving of her, sir.”

  Yardley nodded and placed Christelle's hand in his.

  The Reverend began and Seamus scarcely heard a word. He must have answered appropriately for they were announced as man and wife, Lord and Lady Dannon.

  Seamus hoped he did not visibly cringe when he heard the name. Until his last breath, he would work to make the title good.

  When they had signed the register, they made their way outside to a white carriage decorated with ribbons and bows. The large crowds showered them with flower petals and good cheer as they passed by.

  The wedding breakfast was held in the gardens at Yardley Place, which were in full bloom, but every pastel flower imaginable had been brought in to give it an aura of heaven on earth. The rain had stopped and the air was thick with that fresh, earthy smell that only it could bring. Even the sun's rays were cast down from the sky through the canopy of trees and carpet of flowers blessing the happy event.

  A faint rainbow could be seen in the distance, and Seamus watched his wife with her new family, still looking as awestruck as the day she had met them. It was a sight to behold. People from all walks of life intermingled here and were accepted here. Christelle was smiling at her friends from Madame Monique’s shop and enjoying the feast and the dancing. Children were running around chasing each other with giggles. It seemed everyone had come out to bless their union—Lord and Lady Easton, Lord and Lady Fairmont, Lord and Lady Winslow, and of course, the Dowager Duchess and Lady Charlotte to name a few. Even the Duke of Cavenray had come to grant the couple his best wishes along with the rest of Lady Dannon's mournful suitors. Cavenray was even deigning to dance with Maili, who, for once, did not look thrilled with her partner. She was likely afraid of him, Seamus chuckled to himself.

  Servants were passing champagne around and th
ere was a three-tiered cake adorned with flowers made by Mrs. Baker, who had agreed to move to their country estate with them, as their cook.

  He looked over to Catriona and John, who he was also attempting to lure from their comfortable home. He and Christelle had decided to make the Edinburgh estate into a laboratory to research plants and their medicinal properties. Seamus would continue to teach as much as he was able with his other duties.

  The triplet sisters, even in their enceinte state, played a few songs for the party to dance to and enjoy. Rarely did the three of them perform together in public any more, if this could be called public.

  Seamus danced with the Duchess, and Christelle with the Duke, in which both participants looked to be crying. Then they enjoyed a lively dance, with Lord Harris for Christelle, and Seamus with Margaux, followed by a dance with her new father-in-law, Lord Craig, who already appeared to love her as his daughter, and he partnered the lovely Anjou. Then, finally, she danced with her beloved. At least he hoped he was her beloved.

  It was almost perfect. It was as perfect as it could be and that was more than enough. Even after the rain.

  Preview of Ray of Light

  Tall, dark and handsome and about as warm as a dead fish. Maili Craig wondered why the Duke of Cavenray had even asked her to dance—a waltz no less—when it seemed he had no intention of attempting even polite civilities. At least he smelled better than a dead fish, she decided as she detected his scent of cloves and spice.

  Perhaps if she closed her eyes, she could be more charitable. He did feel very nice and his height was enough not to make her feel like a maypole towering over the other ladies. However, the Duke was the one person she felt most anxious to be near, which was silly since her uncle Yardley was a duke, but something in Cavenray's eyes spoke of disapproval and it put her on the defensive. The knowledge disturbed her, yet she knew it yet could not muster enough grace to overcome it.

  Thankfully, he could not detect her sweaty palms beneath her gloves. Under normal circumstances, she would have chatted the dance away as she was prone to let her tongue run on when she was nervous—and she was very, very nervous. This was the first time he had asked her to dance, and she could not fathom why.

  Speaking of fish, Maili had felt like a fish out of water without Christelle along side of her since she had married and departed for Scotland. The Sefton ball was the last entertainment left on the family’s social calendar before leaving for the country. The Season had lost its lustre, and the usual court of admirers seemed more reluctant to shower attention on her alone without Christelle present—a lowering thought. Cavenray had frequently been amongst those gentleman seen paying homage Christelle and herself. These last few weeks of the Season had been lonely and Maili feared she had lost her opportunity to make a match.

  It was no secret the Duke had been courting Christelle, who had chosen a mere physician—her brother Seamus—instead. To be sure, he was an Earl now, but he had not been when Christelle had fallen in love with him. Maili sighed as she thought longingly about marrying for true love herself. She had dreamed about coming to London and having a Season for as long as she could remember. Her sister, Catriona, had tried to warn her not to get her hopes up or look too high for a husband or she would be disappointed.

  Maili had, of course, taken Catriona’s words as a challenge.

  Maili was dressed as fine as any other lady, she was sponsored by a baroness, a marchioness, and a duchess. She had a smile and charm to put the town to shame, but neither could change the circumstances of her birth. She had been unfortunate enough to be sired by a mere country gentleman.

  “Why the sigh, madam? A very longing sigh, it seemed. Would you rather be elsewhere?” the Duke asked breaking the awkward silence at last.

  “I beg your pardon, your Grace,” she answered demurely.

  “I have never before seen you to be at a loss for words.”

  He had noticed. She could feel her colour rising and felt humiliated. How dare he!

  “Please at least humour me and say something so I do not return home feeling as though it was my staid company at fault.”

  “I never would have thought you, of all people, would seek nor appreciate flattery, your Grace.” She almost snapped the words.

  “And what, pray tell, do you base this assumption on?” he asked, lifting one haughty eyebrow.

  “Your usual silence in my presence,” she replied curtly.

  “You wound me, Miss Craig.” He brought her hand to his heart to feign injury and even proffered a slight, devastatingly handsome smile.

  She was not fooled by his too-late attempt to be chivalrous.

  “I never intended offence. Most of my thoughts are better left unsaid,” he explained.

  What Maili would not give to know them. She would be much more comfortable if he would speak and flirt as the other gentleman did. Instead, he always looked at her as though she bore a horn upon her head. She had no witty repartee for him and she hated it.

  “Why do you think them better left unsaid? Are they improper?” she asked out of sheer curiosity.

  He surprised her by twirling her away from the dance floor, down the terrace steps and to a pathway in the garden away from the revelries of the ball.

  “Miss Craig,” he began, then cleared his throat.

  She waited patiently, though her pulse was racing and her breathing was causing her chest to rise and fall rapidly. She began to fumble with the green ribbon hanging from her gown. Maili looked up to see why he was quiet yet again, only to find him studying her with a dark, hungry look in his eyes.

  Was he going to kiss her?

  Voices grew closer along the path and he stepped away. She felt an unexpected sense of longing when she could no longer reach him.

  “Lord and Lady Brennan,” Cavenray greeted the couple coming towards them on the path with a bow. The lady smiled charmingly before dipping into a curtsy. Lord Brennan inclined his head.

  “Will you do us the honour of introducing your companion, Cavenray? I have not had the pleasure,” Lord Brennan asked.

  “Certainly. Lord and Lady Brennan, may I present Miss Craig?”

  Maili curtseyed. The lady turned pale as though she had seen a ghost and grasped her husband with both hands. “Margaret?”

  “No, my lady,” Maili responded at once. “My mother was Margaret. Did you know her?”

  “But you are dead!” Lady Brennan exclaimed, holding a hand over her mouth in obvious shock.

  Afterword

  Author’s note: British spellings and grammar have been used in an effort to reflect what would have been done in the time period in which the novels are set. While I realize all words may not be exact, I hope you can appreciate the differences and effort made to be historically accurate while attempting to retain readability for the modern audience.

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  Thank you for reading After the Rain. I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please help other readers find this book:

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  Acknowledgments

  There are many, many people who have contributed to making my books possible.

  My family, who deals with the idiosyncrasies of a writer’s life that do not fit into a 9 to 5 work day.

  Dad, who reads every single version before and after anyone else—that alone qualifies him for sainthood.

  Wilette, who takes my visions and interprets them, making them into works of art people open in the first place.

  Karen, Tina, Staci, Judy, Shae and Kristiann who care about my storie
s enough to help me shape them before everyone else sees them.

  Tessa and Heather who help me say what I mean to!

  And to the readers who make all of this possible.

  I am forever grateful to you all.

  About the Author

  Like many writers, Elizabeth Johns was first an avid reader, though she was a reluctant convert. It was Jane Austen's clever wit and unique turn of phrase that hooked Johns when she was ‘forced’ to read Pride and Prejudice for a school assignment. She began writing when she ran out of her favourite author’s books and decided to try her hand at crafting a Regency romance novel. Her journey into publishing began with the release of Surrender the Past, book one of the Loring-Abbott Series. Johns makes no pretensions to Austen’s wit, but hopes readers will perhaps laugh and find some enjoyment in her writing.

  Johns attributes much of her inspiration to her mother, a former English teacher. During their last summer together, Johns would sit on the porch swing and read her stories to her mother, who encouraged her to continue writing. Busy with multiple careers, including a professional job in the medical field, writing and mother of small children, Johns squeezes in time for reading whenever possible.

  Also by Elizabeth Johns

  Surrender the Past

  Seasons of Change

  Seeking Redemption

  Shadows of Doubt

  Second Dance

  Through the Fire

  Melting the Ice

  With the Wind

  First Impressions

  Out of the Darkness