by Amy Lake
Lady Pamela threw open the coach door and jumped down.
"Milady!” shouted Toby, in protest. He could not leave his team.
The duke's carriage was empty, the horses stamping and fretful and under the care of a young tiger. She did not bother to stop and ask the boy after his master. Three masts showed plainly against the grey sky, and in a moment she could see that the James Madison had already cast off from its moorage.
No.
She ran along the stone quay and onto the pier. The pier seemed miles long; a few hard-looking men still walked its length. Her feet felt the timbers underneath; once she tripped and fell, tearing her skirts against the rough wood.
"Milady?” One of the men extended a hand, smiling kindly, and helped Pamela to her feet. “Y’ be needin’ help?"
She shook her head.
Gone, gone, gone.
Pamela knew, now, that she was too late. She ran, nevertheless. She ran, breathless, for all the dreams she had let slip away. For all the times she had let Benjamin go, before, when she could have rested easy in his arms and ignored the foolish call of pride.
She ran until her slippers were shredded and her feet bleeding.
Too late.
Lady Pamela stood at the end of the pier and watched until the last bit of James Madison's mainmast disappeared into the distance. She turned to leave, without tears, without protest, feeling numb.
The Duke of Grentham stood on the quay. Benjamin walked toward her, his hands open, and in one hand she saw a ring, glittering, and a flash of blue fire.
EPILOGUE
That winter in Bedfordshire was one of the most beautiful in memory. Snow covered each hill and meadow with a glittering blanket; cottages and the manor house alike were freshly bedecked with white under the clearest of blue skies. ‘Twas cold enough to keep the roads from turning to slush, but not too cold, and Alice and Peter made snow-angels on their backs, and another snow-castle grew tall upon the south lawn of Luton Court, eclipsing even the children's efforts of the previous year.
The Duke of Grentham and Lady Pamela Sinclair were to be married at Luton on Christmas Day. ‘Twas the second wedding within the year to grace the marquess's home, and Jonathan was inclined to take the credit. His sister and a duke! A fine match, thought Lord Sinclair. The gentleman was worthy of Lady Pam, and wasn't it fortunate that he, the marquess, had thought to find him at White's, and mention Pamela's remove to Bedfordshire?
Fortunate, indeed. Someone had to take a firm hand in these things.
* * * *
Lord Sinclair's memory clearly tended toward embellishment, for ‘twas Josiah and Jenkins, Lady Pamela's under-butler, to whom credit properly belonged.
It had been the early hours of the fifteenth of December when Josiah burst into the duke's bedchamber, Jenkins in tow.
"She never got yer letters!” exclaimed the valet.
The duke was not yet abed; he doubted, indeed, that he would sleep at all that night. He was tired and dispirited, for tomorrow morning the James Madison set sail, a long, upwind voyage to New York, and he would not return to England for a considerable time. No doubt he would hear of Lady Pamela's engagement some day, and next her marriage, and then perhaps he would never return at all.
"I beg your pardon?” said Benjamin, about to order them from his rooms. The man accompanying Josiah looked familiar, but both men smelled strongly of beer, which didn't advance the duke's confidence in whatever they were attempting to say.
"Yer letters to the lady!"
"Letters?” The duke's confusion remained. He had written letters, yes. She had never replied.
"Your grace?” offered the under-butler, cautiously.
Benjamin sighed. “And you are?"
"Umm. Thomas Jenkins, your grace. Under-butler at Hillsleigh."
Benjamin's attention was immediately captured. “Hillsleigh. Ah, yes. What is your purpose here, did you say?"
The under-butler explained.
* * * *
Lady Pamela had never received his letters. Benjamin's heart was repeating this refrain; had done so for hours. Perhaps she was still angry. It mattered not. She had never received his letters, and that was all he needed to know.
But what a tangle. What would Lady Pamela think when Lord Sinclair gave her the duke's latest missive? And if Maggie had accompanied Pam to Luton Court, would the girl confess to her deception? Benjamin's anger with the maid was tempered by the thought that the girl had her mistress's best interests in mind, as she thought. Still, if the under-butler had not had the courage to seek out Josiah, or if the valet and Lord Torrance had already boarded ship—
All's well that ends well, he reminded himself. ‘Twas time, now, for explanations, and the duke was determined to travel to Bedfordshire and issue them in person.
Benjamin had not known of Lady Pamela's mad dash back to London, of course. Jonathan had told him, at White's, that he and the marchioness would be departing ‘shortly’ for Bedfordshire, but as to the exact date—
So the duke had not known, either that Lady Pamela had received his last letter, nor of her immediate response. He went to the Tower Pier early that morning only to retrieve his baggage, which had been carried aboardships the day before.
He'd taken two carriages to the dockside, one of which had already been loaded and sent back to Marchers when Lady Pamela arrived. He saw the slender figure at a distance, her golden hair caught in the sunlight, and knew at once it was Pamela. She stood at the end of the pier, alone and bedraggled and yet lovely beyond words, watching the James Madison slip away into the distance. His heart crumbled, at that moment, into a thousand pieces.
Benjamin hurried toward her. She remained frozen in shock, staring at him, and as he came closer he saw that her feet were bleeding.
He swept her up in one movement. She buried her head in his neckcloth and wept. He carried her down the pier, and along the quay, and to his own coach, and ‘twas some time, then, before the duke's carriage moved from the quay. Time for words, and explanations.
Time for a proposal of marriage.
Yes, said Lady Pam.
* * * *
Lady Detweiler was saddened to miss Lady Pamela's wedding, but not overmuch, as Amanda had always preferred the practical to the sentimental.
'Twas fated for those two to marry, and well past time. So be it.
She and Millicent had been ensconced for a week on the rue St. Honoré, and were cheerfully making the rounds of Paris. Lady Millicent, to Amanda's gratification, had interests beyond the latest style of ball gown. After visits to a few of the finer Parisian milliners-Lady Detweiler's own fortune being more than adequate to the task of outfitting her young charge-Milly declared herself satisfied.
"I,” said Lady Millicent, “am tired of shopping."
Amanda snorted in surprise.
"If we are to be in Paris,” added the girl, “should we not learn something of the history of the city? Good heavens, ‘twas the site of the Révolution, and Napoleon, and—"
This, of course, was entirely to Lady Detweiler's own tastes. And so the two extended their stay, visiting the ruins and cathedrals and palaces of the French capital. They walked through the Place de la Concorde and shuddered at its history, written in blood upon the stones beneath their feet, and even stood before the half-finished Arc de Triomphe.
Lady Pamela wrote Amanda of the wedding plans, and of her contentment in the circumstances. Lady Detweiler, rarely a good correspondent, was on this occasion quick to reply—
True love, you say. I've little evidence of its existence, but if ‘tis real, you deserve it above any other.... Be happy and amusing, as you always were, for there is more to be learned from simple happiness,I believe, than all the books of philosophy.
The guests had already taken their seats. The marquess waited. A rustle of silk and lace, and Lady Pamela stood before him, as beautiful as ever before. The joy shining from her eyes was enough to bring tears to his. He draped the veil gently over
her face and tucked her hand under his elbow. Then Lord Jonathan Sinclair, the Marquess of Luton, led his sister down the flower-strewn aisle of the chapel.
for Finn
* * *
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