Page 80 of The Lady Plays with Fire

She understood that with the title came awe-inspiring responsibilities and a very different sort of life, far away from this one.

It was lovely to think of being addressed as Lady Dunstane.

If a bit strange to think that she would never again be Miss on Scene.

Immediately after the wedding breakfast, she and Graham would leave for Scotland and might not return for some time. The plays at Covent Garden, Haymarket, and the rest of the London theaters would be out of her reach.

She had explained her reasoning for stepping down from the magazine to Lady Stalbridge when she delivered her final column.

“Do not say final, my dear,” Lady Stalbridge had replied. “Miss Burke—Lady Deveraux—continues to contribute, for example.”

It was one thing to pen an advice column in Hertfordshire, Julia had pointed out. Quite another to review performances on the metropolitan stage from the Highlands.

But she could not muster much regret at the change in her circumstances. Once, she had viewed country life, and the consequent loss of her favorite amusement, as a sort of punishment. But she knew now that life anywhere with Graham could never be dull.

Lady Stalbridge’s reply had been accompanied by the sly smile of a woman who understood a great deal more than most people imagined. “Distance is an obstacle, Miss Addison. But you have too much to say to be forever silent.”

That conversation had only increased Julia’s excitement to discover what Graham might have meant by sharing the pen with her.

A new playwriting identity? Something else entirely?

But in the days since he’d said it, it had begun to feel as if she might never find out.

Since the lovely morning in which she had woken up in Half Moon Street, wrapped in his arms, everyone seemed to have acquired a sudden obsession with propriety. She had been allowed to see him exactly twice, and only in company. And each time, his scowl had been carved so deeply into his face, she despaired of ever seeing anything else written there.

The first visit had been to announce his possession of the special license. “Now, as to the matter of when and where the ceremony will take place—”

Graham’s choice, whatever it might have been, had gone unheard.

Mama had spoken in favor of adjourning to Jeremy’s estate in Wiltshire for a family celebration. Aunt Mildred had countered with a plea—in that feeble voice both Julia and Laura knew to be false, though remarkably effective at wheedling others into granting her wishes—that Julia be allowed to marry “from home,” which was to say, the Hayes home. Jeremy, alive to the delicacy of his sister’s reputation given all that had transpired, had spoken in favor of whatever was closer.

Clearly, he had meant “wherever the marriage could be solemnized with the most expediency.” In any number of London churches, they might have been married yet that day, without delay. And without delay she had understood to be Graham’s wish as well. Certainly, it was hers.

But Aunt Mildred had clapped her hands in glee and declared, “Holy Trinity it is.” Thus, the matter was decided in favor of Clapham, and the date was set—upon consultation with the rector, Mrs. Whyte, and the dressmaker—for Friday morning. Graham had departed with a bow—and two new furrows in his brow.

The only other time she had seen him in the past four days had been at dinner on Wednesday. The evening had begun well enough. Graham had brought with him the good news that Mr. Essex had changed the dressings on his hand that morning and had seen no sign of infection.

Then, after dinner, when the ladies had withdrawn so that the gentlemen might enjoy their port, raised voices could be heard from the dining room. “There’s some slight disagreement over the marriage settlements,” Laura had confided. “Jeremy wouldn’t tell me anything more.”

That was a detail guaranteed to alarm Julia, particularly when Graham had left shortly thereafter, his frown lifting only slightly as he wished her good night.

“Really, miss,” the modiste pleaded.

Julia glanced down to discover she had crossed her arms and resumed tapping her toe. Friday would surely never come. And if it did, she was beginning to feel nervous about how it might end.

Friday did come, however, and exactly when it was expected. Julia awoke to see the modiste’s completed handiwork hanging on the back of the door to her little bedroom. From below wafted the delicious scents of baking, proof that the final stages of Mrs. Whyte’s labors were already underway. This chilly, gray last day of November would end with Julia in Graham’s arms at last.

Jess was the first to arrive, with a canister of steaming water and an offer to help her dress. Julia, who was almost afraid to touch the delicate white muslin, was grateful for the assistance. The gown floated over her head and down her arms, its puffed sleeves and shallow bodice trimmed by silk ribbon of palest lilac, chosen to match her ring. White silk embroidery and tiny pearls had been stitched into a subtle pattern over the narrow skirts.

The fabric and trimmings had been frightfully dear, but Aunt Mildred had insisted on purchasing them and waved away every protest. “Only the best for my niece,” she had insisted, with a wink and a hug.

Laura was the next to arrive, with a paper of pearl-headed pins that had belonged to her grandmother. “They’ll look lovely in your dark hair.” With a quick curtsy, Jess took over the arrangement of Julia’s heavy locks, while Laura perched on the edge of the bed to watch.

The smallest bedchamber in the house was already rather crowded when Mama appeared on the threshold, nervously pleating a lace-edged handkerchief. “Oh. I hadn’t expected . . .” She cleared her throat, a delicate ahem. “It is usual, my dear, on such an occasion, for mothers and daughters to talk privately about . . . certain matters—”

At once, Julia’s cheeks were aflame with mortification. “It isn’t necessary, Mama, for you to distress yourse—”

But her mother pressed on with the speech she had obviously rehearsed. “Well. Marriage can be the source of new enjoyments—”