“Oh, are you?” Olive grasped her hands together beneath her chin. “How wonderful!”
“We should like you to come with us,” Archie added. “For neither your sister nor I speak Italian. We’ll enjoy ourselves ever so much more with someone who’s fluent.”
Olive burst into tears, and as Lord Featherfinch comforted her, Archie met Clementine’s gaze. Clementine had no particular interest in a honeymoon, but when Archie proposed a trip—and that Olive join them on said trip—she could not refuse.
“Yes,” Archie said. “We’ll go to Rome, of course, and Venice and such. But you shall also have to endure long detours through Lombardy, I’m afraid, for my wife . . .” He paused and shot Clementine a wink as if the phrase “my wife” were a private jest.“My wife is determined to get her feet wet in Lake Como.” He smiled. “And I am determined that my wife shall have whatever she wants.”
That stopped Olive’s tears, and she rolled her eyes, albeit affectionately. “Clementine, you are so lucky. I would almost hate you if I didn’t love you so.”
Clementine winked at her sister and said, “Oh, but you have Mr. Macduff, remember.” The sisters had continued to spin the tale of Mr. Ozymandias Macduff. It was a diversion that seemed to amuse Olive, and Olive, who had indeed found Ralph Scully’s grave with Clementine by her side, needed all the diversion she could get. “I’m sure you’ll be able to bring him up to scratch . . . if he ever shows up.” The sisters burst into laughter and waved away the gentlemen’s puzzled inquiries.
“Where will you gentlemen go for Earls Trip next year?” Olive asked. “And may I gate-crash again?”
“No, you may not, Olive,” Clementine said, just as Lord Featherfinch said, “Oh,wouldyou?” Clementine had never told Olive about her eavesdropping in the corridor that night, but it seemed that her sister and Lord Featherfinch had indeed become bosom friends.
“I am in jest,” Olive said smilingly to the gentlemen. “I’d been meaning to propose to my sister that she and I take up our own tradition during that fortnight in September.” She made a silly face. “For I know that the year the sacred masculine tradition of Earls Trip was disrupted was but an aberration.”
“We could go on our own trip, now that I am a respectable married lady,” Clementine suggested.
“We could, but remember you are already—apparently—taking me to Italy! I suggest we hole up here at Mollybrook and tromp around in the woods while the gentlemen are gone.” Clementine started to protest. Happily, her entire life was henceforth going to be holing up at Mollybrook and tromping around in the woods. She needn’t impose such on her sister, who had gently told Clementine this morning that she planned to return to London after the wedding. But Olive cut off her objection. “I’m sure we can think of a mutually agreeable plan, Clemmie. I was merely teasing the gentlemen.” She turned to them. “But I do wish to know where you’re going next year.”
“We haven’t talked about it,” Archie said. “The next trip is Marsden’s to plan.”
“I’d been thinking I’d like to see the Royal Pavilion in Brighton,” Lord Marsden said. “I don’t know that it will be finished, but I understand it’s already quite the feat of engineering by Mr. Nash.”
“A fine idea,” Archie said.
“Ah, yes, staring at an unfinished building,” Lord Featherfinch said wryly. “At least we can go sea bathing.”
Clementine smiled and let the good-natured bickering of her friends wash over her. After they’d eaten and Archie, being none-too-subtle about it, had hinted that their guests should retire for the evening, she lay on her back on the carpet and looked at the sky. It was a deep, inky blue, navy fingers between the branches of the tree she lay under.
The treetheylay under.
Archie rolled over and started undoing her chignon. She had noticed, in the weeks they’d spent anticipating their marriage vows, that he liked to tangle his fingers in her hair.
She liked having them there, so she assisted with the removal of the pins keeping her elaborate wedding coiffure in place. When they were done, he laid her back down and loomed over her, adding his dark silhouette to that of the branches above him, which were now difficult to discern from the blackening blue of the sky. “Clem,” he said seriously, “we’re home now, you and I, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” she said, for they were.
* * *
A fortnight later
“My lord.” The new footman entered a parlor at Highworth where Effie was attempting to paint a gravestone.
Effie had been inspired by Olive Morgan’s embroidery and had a mind to send her the finished painting. Though unlike her creation, his did not depict a particular gravestone—it wasn’t her Ralph’s. That was why he’d thought he could paint from his imagination. But as the interruption prompted him to ponder his progress, he realized his efforts might have been improved had he taken his easel outside and found a model.
“What does this look like to you?” he asked the footman.
“It is a gravestone, is it not?”
“It is!” Effie was cheered. Perhaps his efforts were not as feeble as he’d feared.
“A gravestone against a chartreuse sky,” the footman added.
It was. Drat. Effie had intended for the painting to be somber. It was of a cemetery, after all. But then he’d decided perhaps a gravestone at twilight might feel a tad less oppressive. So he’d added some cobalt, intending to lighten the background ever so slightly.
And now, somehow, he had a chartreuse sky.
