Epilogue
Rosecliff Hall, Spring 1817
Hetty wandered the glorious gardens, breathing in the floral scents carried on the breeze. Footfall behind her made her turn. Guy walked down the path. “Are you ready to leave, mon amour? The carriage is being brought around.”
She smiled and took his hand. “I’m saying goodbye to the garden.”
“It’s only for a few months. We’ll come home when it gets too hot.” He raised her chin with a finger, his blue eyes questioning. “Looking forward to London?”
“But of course. The Mayfair house has been made ready for us, and I can’t wait to see it.” Hetty turned for one last glance of the sunlight brightening the new spring green in the trees. She didn’t want her perceptive husband to see the dread in her eyes.
“You will be a great success, Hetty.”
She took an anxious breath and shook her head. “You are biased.”
“Not at all.” He grinned and shook his head. “We shall see.”
After they’d journeyed to France to visit Genevieve in her chateau and met her charming husband and children, they’d returned here and spent the following months closeted in Digswell, through Christmas, and the fierce winter that kept them snowbound for one whole delicious month. Now the moment had finally arrived. She must face the haute ton as the Baroness Fortescue.
She took Guy’s hand, and they walked up the path to where the coach waited, while footmen loaded the trunks. As Hetty’s maid and Guy’s valet traveled with them, she wouldn’t have a chance to talk to him privately about her concerns. She squared her shoulders, she must deal with this herself. She wanted him to be proud of her.
“Our house party proved to be a great success, was it not?” he reminded her.
“Because they are our friends.”
“You shall make many more friends this season.”
“I hope so.”
Their house party held at Rosecliff Hall last October had been great fun. John came with his sisters and their husbands. Georgina, now Her Grace, Lady Broadstairs was still lively, but she’d gained considerable poise. Her husband, His Grace, proved to be an amiable fellow and not at all haughty. Eleanor’s husband, Lord Gordon Fitzherbert, had rallied enough to make the journey, but looked thin and pale. Hetty found him to be bookish, calm, and patient, as many with serious infirmities could be. He’d been unable to join the men on their shoot and spent his time in the library where she and Eleanor had joined him for a cozy afternoon discussing poetry. Hetty liked his sense of humor and the twinkle in his eye, but she feared that he would not live overlong.
They settled in the carriage, and the horses trotted down the drive and soon left Rosecroft Hall behind. Digswell was not a great distance from London, but Hetty felt as if she was about to make a very long journey.
Hetty’s first real experience of the ton came a week after settling in London. Lady Montague’s was the first ball of the season. She wore her new peach silk gown lavishly trimmed with old lace, which she thought suited her.
They stood with other guests waiting to be announced at the door of the elegant ballroom. The orchestra played Mozart, and beneath crystal chandeliers, guests drank pink champagne seated on sofas and chairs around the walls where a variable garden of flowers in vases perched on occasional tables.
“Baron and Baroness Fortescue,” a footman proclaimed loudly. A hush fell. To Hetty, it seemed as if time had stopped, before chatter began again. Their host and hostess warmly greeted them, then Hetty, her hand resting on Guy’s arm, continued into the room.
In a moment, they were surrounded by friends and others begging to be introduced.
“We have been so eager to meet you.” Mrs. Drummond, a large bosomed lady in gray, sank into a curtsy. “Your prolonged stay in the country after your marriage has had everyone talking.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize.” Hetty employed her fan, imagining the talk would be unfavorable.
“Yes, indeed, my lady. The beau monde could do with an injection of new blood, and to find such a glamorous couple in our midst.” Mrs. Drummond flicked a glance at Guy. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, well…we are all delighted.”
The following hours became a blur as they chatted, ate supper, and danced. It was close to dawn when the carriage took them home. Hetty slipped off her dancing slippers and snuggled within Guy’s arm. “Well?” He ran a hand gently up her arm. “Was it so awful?”
“Not at all. Really quite pleasant. I met many interesting people.” She yawned. “I am fatigued though. They keep such appalling hours in London.”
His deep chuckle made her lift her head to observe him. “With my preference for the country and your fear that society would shun you, we may never have come.”
She ran a finger along his jaw. “But we will continue to come every year, will we not?”
Guy groaned. “If that is your wish, mon amour.”
The End