Page 108 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

She said, “Of course, you wouldn’t marry a duke simply to please your father.” She gave Ophelia a piercing look. “But it does seem your head has been turned rather quickly. It isn’t like you. Is it that you want to be with your sister? To remain in England?”

Robin’s fingers slid from her arm, and he took a step back.

“No!” she protested. “I mean, of course, I do. But that isn’t why—”

“She doesn’t have to marry to stay in England,” Dessie scoffed. “Lynch and I have already adopted her! And you weren’t worried that I was marrying an earl to please you!”

“You and Lynch are peas-in-a-pod,” Daddy said. “What with your crusades for this and against that. But name one thing those two”—he waved his arm at them—“could possibly have in common.”

The room fell silent.

Then Robin said in a firm, if resigned, voice, “I play the harp.”

Epilogue

January 1881

Eight months later…

Dessie had been embroidering a floral design on a dress for baby Cordelia, but she’d set it aside. Now she was leaning back, slouched in her chair, head on the headrest, eyes closed. But she wasn’t sleeping. Her foot gently rocked the baby’s cradle.

Smiling, Ophelia put her hand across her middle. She wasn’t absolutely certain yet, but she was pretty sure.

The clock on the mantel had chimed midnight a while ago, which meant the doors of Parliament, at the Palace of Westminster, were closed, and the men should be on their way back.

Ophelia pushed away the letter she had been writing. She’d told Grace all was well in London and thanked her for the additional newspaper clippings she’d sent to add to Ophelia’s collection. Eli was taking America by storm, and not only on the East Coast. He was in Chicago now. Next month, he’d be in Denver. And shortly after that, San Francisco. The concerts were selling out, and the critics were singing his praises. It warmed her heart. Robin’s too, though he didn’t say so in so many words.

Ophelia was making a scrapbook of Eli’s American tour to present to him upon his return—whenever that might be. In this letter to Aunt Grace, she was enclosing a clipping from the London Times. The Brits had not failed to notice that their own Elias Cameron was once again a sensation. Calls were going out to bring the pianist home to delight his countrymen.

He’d be back. In the meantime, she would keep practicing her scales, providing accompaniment for the Female Orphans Choir, and funding scholarships for students at the new Guildhall School of Music. And she and Robin would continue to work on Quelque Chose de Fleuri for Eli to premiere when he came home.

She glanced down at the unfinished letter. Two inches at the bottom remained to report on what happened tonight. She stood to stretch her legs and saw her sister’s eyelids flutter open.

“I’m so worried,” Dessie groaned. She moved her foot and the cradle stopped rocking. “Getting Lord Selborne to sponsor the bill was our last hope.”

“It’s never the last hope,” Ophelia said. “It isn’t as though Lynch will give up. Or Robin, either.”

“That’s them!” Dessie sat up straight. “They’re home.”

Ophelia hadn’t heard the carriage, but she heard the front door open and close. Then footsteps. Just from the sound of their shoes, she knew the news must be good. They were happy steps.

Robin and Lynch swept into the room. Their smiles were wide and faces flushed. Lynch went to Dessie, knelt by her chair, and blew a kiss to his sleeping daughter. Robin came for Ophelia. When he scooped her up and twirled her around, her foot clipped the end table, and the oil lamp on it wobbled ominously. Robin dropped her to her feet, lunged, and steadied the burning lamp before it fell.

“Nice catch,” she said.

He gave her a wry smile. “I get a lot of practice.”

Dessie, tête-à-tête with Lynch, squealed. “I knew it!”

“What happened?” Ophelia asked Robin.

“The bill passed the second reading without a division.”

“And that’s…good, right?”

He laughed softly. “Yes. It’s good.”

“The bill is passed? It’s law?”