Page 98 of Atone, Adonis

Julianna lifted her glass and looked down the table at her husband.

Her husband, her Fred.

He was laughing at something Thomas had said, unguarded and free, and the sight of it filled her with another kind of joy. This one was quiet and steadfast.

“To my husband,” she said, lifting her glass.

Fred lifted his glass in return. “To my wife. I love you, Jules. Forever.”

Chapter

32

THE LOCAL ADONIS HAS FINALLY ATONED!

The Poisoned Quill – June 25th, 1860

Printed on Cheap Paper for the Dearly Interested

THE EARL OF CHESTER DECLARES HIS AFFECTION—AGAIN

My Dear Readers (and kittens you are the dearest of them all),

It is not often that The Poisoned Quill finds itself in the position of offering congratulations rather than cautions, nor blessings instead of barbs—but even the sharpest pen must, from time to time, be dipped in honey.

Readers will already be aware (for nothing escapes notice, least of all in Dorset) that the Earl and Countess of Chester have, most discreetly and yet most emphatically, reaffirmed their marriage vows in a private ceremony at St. Oswald’s on the summer solstice. A poetic choice—one that even we cannot find fault with.

Indeed, we are given to understand that this was not a legal formality, nor even a matter of repairing bruised reputations, but a public declaration of affection so earnest that the couple deemed it necessary to solemnise their union again.

Twice-wed to one another! It is the height of romance—and a most determined commitment to getting things right. For once we approve.

Those inclined toward cynicism (and The Quill has never pretended immunity) might once have sniffed at such devotion. But even we must concede that few couples would willingly submit themselves to repeated vows unless something rather inconvenient had occurred in the interim—namely, falling deeply and irrevocably in love.

We wish the Earl and his Lady every happiness. As for the wedding feast—ah, that has set tongues wagging.

Though the ceremony itself was witnessed only by a select few, rumors of the repast that followed have traveled with unseemly speed. Not because we know what has been served but because we know who has served it.

Whispers suggest that the new culinary genius presiding over the kitchens at Sedgewick Manor is none other than the long-coveted talent formerly attached to Hawthorne Hall—a name spoken with reverence in dining rooms from here to Bath, and lamented in equal measure by those now forced to make do with lesser sauces.

If this be true, one must admire the Earl’s priorities. Some men woo with jewels. Others with power. A truly wise husband secures a superior cook.

As for certain other figures recently fond of public corrections, we note—purely in passing—that one former arbiter of taste and reputation has found herself conspicuously absent from Society’s most convivial rooms of late. Whether this is due to travel, reflection, or the natural consequences of overindulgence in malice, we cannot say. But we do look forward to a great deal of conjecture in the days and weeks to come.

For now we can only assert that silence, when properly applied, is sometimes the most becoming accessory of all.

The Quill, as you may have noticed, is now written with a steadier—and quite different—hand. The attentive will note far fewer unverified insinuations in these pages. Along with a marked preference for accuracy. And a certain newfound discipline in our reporting.

For Dorset deserves wit, yes—and its own fair share of delightful scandal. But we will endeavor to deliver the latest on-dit with care and without cruelty.

But do take note of this, Dorset. We remain ever watchful. And ever curious.

Yours in Curiosity and Candor,

A. P. Whitney

Acting Editor, The Poisoned Quill

Epilogue