Clementine realized she was married to a hero of the Empire. This had not been more apparent then when Lord Cardigan had bowed to her, congratulating her for her marriage. The usually arrogant and rude aristocrat had been more charming than ever. He even went as far as implying that he would recommend Stirling for command of the brigade when he retired.
However, the most amusing happening was when Lord Cardigan had danced with Florence Nightingale. It was like the beauty and the beast retold. She dashing and him scowling. Despite this, Clementine could not help but think the two of them secretly admired one another – she, the headstrong nurse who got things done and he, the gallant and brave hussar without a fear in the world.
What she had liked about it most of all, though, was that as they stood before the vicar, they were called simply Clementine and Stirling. For the rest of her life, she thought with a swelling joy, she would just be that to her Stirling. She wasn’t simply a nurse or a daughter, but a wife and lover. She rolled onto her side and looked at her husband as his fingers stroked her tummy.
She did not notice but Elizabeth looked at her fondly. “Not so bad being a wife, eh?”
“Is that an ‘I told you so’ in the making?”
Elizabeth giggled. “Yes. And a heartily deserved one if you ask me.”
When she looked back at her husband, Stirling looked down at her, lowering his head to kiss her on the lips. By 10 pm, they went to their room, as Clementine spelled out in her mind, “of course in one bed”. She busied herself behind the partition in their room.
Dressed in his nightshirt, Stirling lay on the bed, waiting for Clementine to emerge from behind the dressing screen. The rustle of her skirts made his heart skip a beat. He heard her struggle behind the screen, giggling as she fell back against the wall.
“Are you all right, darling?” he asked, sitting up, concerned.
“Fine, darling, I’ve just never had to do this on my own.”
After a little bit longer, Clementine finally succeeded in freeing herself from the layers of petticoats and fabric. He saw her arms appear above the screen and a sheer, silky garment slide down them. There was more rustling, and then she stepped out from behind the screen.
Stirling nearly fell off the bed; she was so beautiful in her white nightdress.
“Do I please you?” she asked shyly.
He had to take a deep breath before speaking because she had untied her blond hair. It fell down her shoulders and onto her back like a cascade of molten gold. He watched her for a moment, drinking in every detail of her body as if he was attempting to imprint the image onto his heart.
“Yes, Clementine, you please me very much,” he croaked.
She smiled, as she slowly walked to the bed. She stopped, standing before him. They looked into each other’s eyes and from that moment forth, they knew their love would be eternal.
The next morning after a night of little sleep. Clementine lay still, staring at Stirling’s face in the early light, marvelling at him and his pale throat, which she had seen only glimpses of before.
He was “beautiful, angelic,” she whispered to herself. She was sated and thrilled with an intimacy her mind had strained to imagine.
She giggled. Luckily for her, the mortifying tradition of old, concerning the wedding guests coming to peer at the newlyweds when the couple first climbed into the same bed had gone out of fashion with George III.
She was also lucky in that Stirling seemed to have been a competent and tender lover. Her wedding night was the closest thing she had known to bliss.
Next, she would wake him and hopefully do some more of the things they had done the previous night. Afterwards, they would get dressed and go for breakfast. The sound of the birds outside made her want to seize the day for it was the beginning of their honeymoon to France and Italy as they had discussed at the Scutari. Royce and Elizabeth would accompany them – oh, it was going to be so grand, she thought.
Her elation was palpable in her journal entry later that day.
I NEVER, NEVER spent such an evening! MY DEAREST, DEAR Stirling lay on the bed looking at me with sheer wonderment in his eyes, and his excessive love and affection gave me feelings of heavenly love and happiness I never could have hoped to have felt before. He clasped me in his arms, and we kissed each other again and again! His beauty, his sweetness and gentleness, – really how can I ever be thankful enough to have such a husband! Oh! This was the happiest day of my life!
It was a kind of lustful enchantment. Later, over breakfast, Clementine gazed at him, again noticing how he had no neck cloth on under his black velvet jacket.
He was more beautiful than it is possible for me to say.
There would be more such entries in her diary as the years progressed. The next day, she had cooed in otherworldly tones:
Already the 2nd day since our marriage; his love and gentleness is beyond everything, and to kiss that dear soft cheek, to press my lips to his, is heavenly bliss. I feel a purer more unearthly feel than I ever did. Oh! was ever woman so blessed as I am!"
It was the small, intimate gestures she loved the most: when Stirling put on her stockings for her or when she watched him shave. He slid into bed next to her, kissing her over and over; they fell asleep with arms entwined.
After Elizabeth had remarked that she looked “very well”, she replied that Stirling’s kindness and affection were beyond everything that had been when they were in Paris.
Hearing, feeling and experiencing all of these new sensations told her that her life with Stirling would be a life of plenty. She knew he felt the same in the way he behaved. There wasn’t any need to ask him, only to return his love. Clementine smiled to herself when she thought of the pitter-patter of little feet – to have children with this man would be the greatest gift.
The End?
Extended Epilogue
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Diana Adores the Puzzled Earl
Chapter 1
Robert Donnelly, the thirty-year-old Earl of Donnelly, was seated at his desk staring out his library window across the splendid parkland of his estate. It was a blustery early March day, and there were small whitecaps on the lake embraced by walls of maple and beech forest on either side.
It is good. It is really good. Robert thought as he put his hand on The Adventures of Hudson Harding, his first work of fiction which he had just finished writing.
He let out a sigh of satisfaction and stood, walked over to the French doors leading out to the terrace, and watched the scuttling clouds cast fleeting shadows across the broad expanse of lawn and garden leading up to the lake.
Robert was a tall broad-shouldered man who one might mistake for a laborer with his wide chest and sturdy legs. But his face was refined and noble looking with his surprisingly handsome blue eyes and black, well-groomed hair. He dressed like the gentleman he was, and many in the county of Cambridgeshire were surprised he remained unmarried at his age with so many eligible young aristocratic maidens paraded before him by his older sister, Amelia, who lived with him at Balfour Hall—the family seat.
And while his sister was insistent on the need for a Donnelly male child, today Robert’s thoughts were on his first literary child. Any moment now he expected the arrival of his dear friend, Sir Cecil Hancock—perhaps the most renowned London publisher of quality fiction.
The estate’s wealth came from London income properties long held by the Earls of Donnelly. And Robert decided to review the statements from his agents in London who managed the properties while he awaited Sir Cecil’s arrival.
Shortly thereafter, there was a knock at the library door and Sithens, the Balfour Hall butler, entered.
“You
r Lordship, Sir Cecil Hancock has just arrived and begs to be admitted.”
“Show him in, please,” Robert replied.
Sir Cecil was a man in his early sixties—red faced, balding, and looked as though he might be suffering from gout by the way he walked unsteadily and supported himself with a cane.
“Robert…” Sir Cecil, said breezily as he hobbled across the room and took hold of Robert’s hand. “It has been far too long. When were you last in London?”
“Several months at least.” He clapped Cecil on the shoulder and asked. “Whiskey? Sherry? Tea? What shall it be, old man?”
Cecil gave a nod. “Would not say no to a dram or two of your finest single malt.”
Robert turned to Sithens and nodded. “Make that two,” he instructed. Sithens went to the sideboard and prepared the drinks as Robert invited Cecil to sit with him by the fireplace where a cheerful fire was keeping the cold at bay.
“Now then, Robert, what is so pressing that I needed to take a day from my busy schedule to meet with you all the way up here in the wilds of Cambridge?
Robert laughed slightly. “I’ve written a cracking good book and I want you to publish it.”
Cecil seemed taken aback. “A book? What kind of a book?”
“After my travels to the Americas, I decided to write about my adventures. It’s a romantic adventure novel. Set in the American west and in the South American Amazon. I think you will find it to be a strapping good tale, my friend. How soon can you publish it?”
“Wait… wait… Is it a history of your travels or is it a novel?”
“You might say it’s a bit of both. My hero—not me—meets a charming lady and… well… it becomes a romance you see.”
Cecil was silent as he sipped his whiskey and digested what Robert had just told him. Finally, he looked up and said, “I am sincerely sorry, Robert, but it would be most unwise for you to publish such a work under your own name.”
“Why ever not?” Robert asked sternly as he stood and towered over Cecil.
Cecil seemed to be uncomfortable and shifted in his chair.
“Robert, you cannot be that naïve. Surely you know that other than scholarly works and sermons--and maybe, in a reach, a book of travel and exploration--a gentleman of your stature cannot conceivably publish a work of romance. There is a terrible stigma attached to anyone of your class stooping to the level of writing fiction. You would be laughed out of the House of Lords, not to mention ridiculed by the critics and press, and most likely excommunicated from the Church of England.
“Oh, Cecil, that cannot be. Certainly, you exaggerate,” Robert insisted.
“Well, maybe about excommunication. But I most certainly do not exaggerate about the rest. Remember the scandal that pursued from the publication of the Duke of Bedford’s ill-advised novel, The Trials of Cybil, several years ago?”
“Hmm. I might remember something like that.” Robert began to pace in front of the fire.
“I know it seems extreme and unfair, but what you want to do is just not done.”
Robert turned and faced Cecil. “But, certainly, in this progressive day and age of eighteen hundred and seventy-two, such conventions must be ripe for a challenge, do you not think?”
Cecil held out his glass to Sithens to be topped up. “I wish I could say otherwise, but, my dear friend, if I were to publish a novel under your name, I’m afraid you would find yourself severely shunned by most of your class. Not to mention scaring off potential brides. And I do not say that lightly.”
Sithens returned with the whiskey.
“And then there is how that might affect our publishing house. Not only would reviewers refuse to review my books, but I might well lose some of my most prestigious authors.”
“Then let me publish under an assumed name,” Robert suggested.
“I wish it were that easy, old friend. But if we were to publish under an unknown name, hardly any reviewers would look at the book, and the sales would be so small as to be almost negligible. And I am sure you do not want that.”
Robert began pacing again and took another whiskey.
“But certainly you do take on new unknown authors from time to time. Is that not true?”
“That is true, but often they have created a reputation by being published in magazines and journals and by giving public lectures and readings. They have a following long before we publish them.”
Robert went to his desk and picked up his manuscript, bringing it over to where Cecil was still seated.
“At least take a look at it… please. Perhaps if you like it enough, you might figure out a way to get around this absurd impediment.”
Cecil sighed as he took the manuscript.
“Very well, I will take a read of it… for the sake of our friendship.”
* * *
Robert had taken the train to London and was in the palatial offices of Hancock and Puntley House Publishers two weeks after his meeting with Cecil at Balfour.
Just yesterday he’d received a letter from Cecil.
My Dearest Friend, Robert,
I have had the opportunity to review your manuscript The Adventures of & etc. And I am very pleased to say that I find it to be a most extraordinary work, and am most anxious to discuss publishing possibilities with you at your earliest convenience.
Drop by my office when you are next in London and we can explore several ideas I have as to how we might surmount your particular problem.
Most Sincerely Yours,
Sir Cecil Hancock OBE
“Sir Cecil will see you now,” his secretary said as she stood and led Robert into his office.
“My, that was a prompt response to my letter,” Sir Cecil said, as he stood up from his desk and came to greet Robert.
“I did not want to waste any time. You know how anxious I am to see my book published and I wanted to hear your suggestions as to how we might get around my particular difficulty.”
“Of course.” Cecil indicated a chair by his desk where Robert stood but did not sit down immediately. He was far too anxious to sit just yet.
“So you are pleased with my literary effort?” Robert asked.
“I am, indeed. Very fine. Gripping and touching. I think there is a real possibility for a best seller.”
Robert beamed as he clutched his hat to his chest. “Then how might we do this—considering your previous reservations?”
Cecil seemed not to want to sit while Robert was standing. He held out his hand indicating Robert should sit, which he finally did.
“I have spoken to Puntley about your situation and we have come up with what might be a possible solution for you.”
“I am eager to hear.”
Cecil tapped a pencil on his desktop. “You know, historically, there was another fine gentleman like yourself who was in your exact same situation.”
“Yes, and who might that be?”
“The Seventeenth Earl of Oxford—Edward de Vere. It was said he was quite the scholar and well educated. He was well traveled, erudite, and widely read. It was known that he had a great interest in the theater and desperately wanted to write plays for Globe Theatre, but her Majesty Elizabeth absolutely forbid it, insisting it was inappropriate for a gentleman of his station. However, he was known at court under the name of Spear-shaker. And it has been widely speculated that he took on the name of Shakespeare and used that name to author what we know today as the Shakespeare plays and sonnets. There is no proof of this, but his situation should still stand as a model for your consideration.”
“Yes, now that you mention it, I believe I have heard the same story.”
“I do not know how amenable you might be to what I will propose, but I think it might be your best solution.”
“And that would be?”
“We have a number of lesser known authors on our books. Their works regularly sell, but not spectacularly. Our suggestion is that you approach several different authors that we will suggest and sound them out about be
ing a surrogate author.”
“I am not sure I understand.”
“Find an author whose name you can publish your book under. They already have an audience and a following. And if your book is successful, they will benefit by having a new best seller, and you can get your work published and remain anonymous. Of course, you will need to make the arrangement worth their while.”
“And how might that work?” Robert asked, interested but still a little skeptical.
Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 58