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The London Evening Standard
December 23, 1837
Lady Lampson, the woman who knows everything worth knowing in London, attended a Christmas party held by Sir Rodney and Lady Bleddington at their Grosvenor Square townhouse last night. Notables such as Lords Rothvale and Verlaine, Lady Dorchester, and Sir Nathaniel Cameron graced the gathering for a festive celebration of the season and shared acknowledgement for the recent nuptials of Sir Rodney’s grandson and heir, Jeremy Greymont to Miss Georgina Russell of Oakfield, Wiltshire.
Lady Lampson tells us the party wound down rather quickly after Mr. and Mrs. Greymont were spotted leaving the servants’ stairwell rather abruptly. It might have had something to do with the mistletoe catching fire after a candle was lifted to it.
Mr. Greymont remained focused in the urgency of the situation when he doused the flames with a bowl of the Christmas punch, saving the house and preventing any injuries. Not a soul was harmed.
The silk wallpaper, the carpet, and the mistletoe might take exception with the “no harm” assessment though. The mess was quite extensive. And sadly Mrs. Greymont’s beautiful silver gown got splashed, necessitating her withdrawal as hostess for the evening.
Mr. Greymont was last seen heading upstairs to check on his lovely wife and had in his hand a cup of wassail for refreshment. The happy couple was not seen again that evening by any person in attendance at the gala event, which along with the Greymont marriage, has been declared a resounding success.
Epilogue
Oh happy state! when souls each other draw,
When love is liberty, and nature, law:
And then is full, possessing, and possessed,
No craving void left aching in the breast.
—Alexander Pope, “Eloisa to Abelard” (1717)
December, 1840
London
The love of a good woman was satisfying in a way that nothing else could ever compare. And he’d needed her so badly. She was precisely what he’d required, and he’d found her just in time. It was hard for him to imagine how his life might have turned out if he’d never spied her that autumn day in the rain.
Jeremy stood back and took in the scene around him. He indulged in the feelings of utter contentment and love for his family. Those feelings had been enjoyed for the past three years, and he knew they would only grow stronger with the passage of time.
That was the thing when he was with the woman he loved, knew her better than he knew himself, and intended to keep right on loving her for the rest of his days.
Looking around the room, he saw it for what it was. Tastefully done in blue and green silks and filled with the people who mattered to him, gathered together in communion, and in respect, and in caring for one another.
There was his brilliant, two-year-old son, Roddy, sitting upon his Grandpapa John’s lap, pouring through a picture book of animals. Both men, young and not so young, looking as if they might succumb to a nap at any moment.
His younger brother, Revé, now a strapping lad of fifteen, and on holiday from the winter term, was taking the finer points of poker instruction from his brother-in-law, Tom, and his grandfather, Sir Rodney, who was still a spry old fox for a man of six and seventy years.
There were new additions and, sadly, departures as well. Jeremy’s grandmother, Leticia Bleddington, had died peacefully in her sleep after a garden party at Hallborough in the heat of August this past summer. The party had been just the sort of event she loved to fete, and they all took comfort in the fact that she had gone to her maker swiftly after a rewarding experience from which she took much joy.
Therese Blufette died soon after her disclosure, entrusting her beloved son into his older brother’s care. The brothers shared a bond that, be it blood or be it common ground, regardless, drew them together in a way that was a comfort to them both.
Tom Russell had taken a wife. A no-nonsense girl from Somerset that Jeremy had known his whole life. The new Mrs. Russell was scheduled to deliver the much anticipated Baby Russell, sometime in late spring, and was now hard at work knitting a tiny sweater for the young master or miss soon to join the family.
Jeremy had taken Lord Rothvale’s suggestion to run for the constituency at West Somerset and had won it by a respectful margin. Politics suited him in a way he never thought possible for himself, when he was younger and self-propelled by actions that did nothing to embolden his service for the common good.
A beautiful person had changed all of that though, was still changing hi
m, for the better, in her support as a wife and a mother, a confidant, a lover, and his very best friend.
His Georgina.
Their eyes met across the room and held a moment. Jeremy mouthed, “I love you.”
