Epilogue
The wedding was small, St. George’s being a modest edifice capable of holding little more than two hundred people.
Those who didn’t attend the Duke of Haverford’s nuptials consoled themselves by attending the Duchess of Haverford’s library auction. The weather was lovely, Christie’s was thronged, and everybody—everybody from royal princesses to academics to society couples looking to enhance their book collections—came to bid.
“One can hardly credit that my darling niece has organized this entire gathering,” the Duke of Moreland observed.
Amid polite applause, the auctioneer knocked down an Elizabethan Bible to Lucas Sherbourne, who’d managed to bid enthusiastically but not aggressively.
“Your Grace forgets,” Haverford replied. “My duchess has had the benefit of guidance from your duchess.”
“Just so, and whomsoever Her Grace of Moreland guides is bound for success. When did cloth of gold become suitable for the masculine daytime wardrobe?”
Moreland referred to Sherbourne’s waistcoat. “Mr. Sherbourne has thrown himself into Elizabeth’s lending library scheme with every appearance of good faith. Perhaps his waistcoat will attract others to the same cause.”
Or blind them. Charlotte Windham, however, seemed determined to pretend her program fascinated her whenever Sherbourne chanced to look her way.
“His waistcoat could guide ships through dense fog,” Moreland said. “Somebody should warn your friend Sherbourne that Her Grace of Quimbey will not accept defeat quietly.”
Sherbourne had outbid the duchess on a Shakespeare quarto not thirty minutes ago.
Across the room, Elizabeth was whispering in her aunt’s ear. Her Grace of Moreland had ensconced herself beside the Duke of Wellington, and among the bidders were more titles, nabobs, learned professors, and old fortunes than Haverford had ever seen assembled under one roof.
“There is no defeat here today, Moreland,” Haverford said, as Hugh St. David and Radnor began brisk bidding for a second Welsh Bible. “There is only great enthusiasm for great literature. I’m finally coming to understand why my duchess is so passionate about her libraries.”
“She’s a Windham,” Moreland scoffed. “Of course she’s passionate.”
Haverford allowed the older man his pride, in part because Moreland was right. Elizabeth had thrown herself into the management of Haverford Castle. She’d sorted the library collection into a family book treasury, lending library stock, and tomes intended for the auction, and the latter group was larger than the other two put together.
Elizabeth disentangled herself from her aunt and took the place at Haverford’s side. “Uncle, you should bid on something.”
Moreland set down his glass of punch. “Why don’t I give that Sherbourne fellow a run for his money?”
“He has rather a lot of money,” Elizabeth said. “I’d appreciate it if you chose one of the smaller items, something more pretty than valuable.”
“A gift for a lady, perhaps?”
When Moreland smiled, he was the embodiment of familial benevolence. Sherbourne was about to lose a tidy sum, and that prospect always cheered Julian.
“Exactly,” Elizabeth said, patting her uncle’s arm. Moreland marched off, taking the seat beside Her Grace of Quimbey.
“Sherbourne’s doomed,” Haverford said. “Lovely thought. Hugh and Delphine seem besotted, and Radnor and Glenys are bidding on all the romantic poetry.” Hugh and Delphine sat nearly in each other’s laps, and Radnor and Glenys had exchanged a half-dozen kisses blown across the auction hall.
Romantic devotion apparently inspired the ardor of bibliophiles, for the bidding had galloped along all afternoon.
Elizabeth wound her arm through Haverford’s. She did this—touched him frequently and affectionately in public—and the pleasure of that, the soul-deep joy of being openly acknowledged as her spouse—had repaired something in Haverford’s heart he still couldn’t find words for.
“There’s hope for Mr. Sherbourne,” she said. “His democratic inclinations seem to be rooted in genuine respect for the common man.”
To blazes with Sherbourne. Haverford leaned closer to his wife. “How are you, Elizabeth?”
“I’ll be ready for a nap when this is over. One worried.”
One should not have. The bidding was enthusiastic and the gathering impressive. “I am ever prepared to join my duchess for a nap. Her health and happiness are my greatest concern.”
And what a pleasure that was, to have sorted endless responsibilities and duties into a hierarchy that brought meaning and joy to Haverford’s days—and nights. As long as Elizabeth was happy and happy with him, the rest of his ducal tasks and obligations were manageable.
The best plans were, indeed, the simplest, and guided always by love.
Thus far, Elizabeth had seemed very pleased to be his duchess. She’d taken on the challenge of running the castle, dragged her duke about on social calls, found a governess for Charity who could also tutor Griffin in English, and supervised Sherbourne’s lending libraries charity.
“Haverford, Uncle Percy is starting a bidding war.”
Starting wars was probably Uncle Percy’s idea of a hobby, for Moreland provoked two more bidding wars before the afternoon was gone. Haverford could not keep a tally of the sums earned, but he never lost sight of his wife. She was gracious, lovely, good-natured, and brilliant at managing a crowd.
No other duke could possibly be as happy as Haverford, for no other duke had Elizabeth for his duchess.
“Come with me,” he said, taking Elizabeth by the hand when the last of the items—a first edition of Mr. Burns’s poems—had been knocked down.
“Where are we going?”
“To bed, madam.”
“One does delight in your sense of ducal command, Haverford, but our guests—”
“Will be more than adequately congratulated and thanked by your family. Your auction was a triumph, Your Grace, and now you will rest.”
He led her not to the street, but to the mews, where his town coach stood waiting.
“Haverford, you will please tell John Coachman to take the long way home.”
“My dear, we’re three streets over from the townhouse.” He didn’t need to finish the thought: Marital bliss in a moving coach was all well and good—had been well and good on several occasions—but a ducal bed had its charms as well.
“Very well,” Elizabeth said, climbing into the coach. “I bow to your greater sense of comfort, if not your greater restraint.”
This time. She’d accost him tomorrow when he was at his ledgers or practicing his guitar. Elizabeth excelled at the art of the conjugal ambush.
“I heard Andover trying to talk you into making this auction an annual event,” Haverford said, when he and Elizabeth were settled on the forward-facing seat.
“One cannot think that far ahead,” Elizabeth replied, yawning. “Today was successful in significant part because Her Grace of Moreland lent her cachet.”
“And because you knew exactly which offerings would draw the book lovers into the bright light of day, coin purses clutched in their shy little fists.”
Elizabeth’s hand was clutched in Haverford’s not-so-little fist. Holding hands had already become a habit, as had kissing each other in greating and parting.
“Her Grace of Moreland has lent her cachet in another direction,” Elizabeth said.
Fatigue was stealing over Haverford now that he was private with his duchess. He’d been worrying about her for weeks in anticipation of this auction, while she’d been worrying about every detail of the undertaking.
“She’s a Windham,” he said. “Her Grace will find mischief to get up to, but because she’s a duchess, we’ll call it lending her cachet.”
Elizabeth kissed him. “You are such a quick study, but I think you’ll approve of Aunt’s latest project. I saw her introducing Mr. Sherbourne to no less than a viscount, an earl, and a dowager duchess.”
Sherbourne? “He’s Her Grace’s next project?”
“One can’t be certain. He was looking a bit dazed, though bearing up under the strain.”
“One does, when Her Grace of Moreland is fixed on an objective.” And Elizabeth would be just like her aunt, if Haverford were lucky.
“Elizabeth?”
“Hmm?” She already sounded sleepy.
“Thank you. For everything.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you too, Julian. I am the happiest duchess in the realm.”
Haverford devoted the ensuing weeks, months, years, and decades to ensuring she remained ever thus. The task was made easy by the fact that Elizabeth was determined on a reciprocal challenge, and thus Their Graces of Haverford eventually became known by their affectionate friends, family, and even neighbors, as the Duke and Duchess of Happiness.