True to their romantic beginnings, Jonathan and Garance continued living a life filled with joy and love, happiness and discovery. At least that is what it seemed from their happiness and glee at one another’s company!

“Darling Garance!” cried Jonathan as they walked together down the hill, hand in hand, to the seaside in Nice. “I confess I have never known a more beautiful place than this.”

“I agree,” she replied. “It brings me no end of joy to be able to share it with you too, my treasure.”

“Do you think we dare to dip our feet into the sea?”

“I think we can now do what we like. We have God’s own blessing for our union.”

Jonathan laughed. He had been swept up in their ‘lune de miel’ in the south of France, where he had hired a chateau for them that had been converted into a beautiful bower for young lovers. For a month, Jonathan, who had never been to France, had to rely on Garance to translate for him, but he enjoyed the experience, and when the time came to return to stormy Lincolnshire, neither of them wanted to leave.

They would take a trap to visit the neighboring villages, where they would stop for a lunch at one of the new restaurants that were popping up all along the coast. Jonathan would try his best to order, and wind up in a total muddle. His public-school French proved far from adequate.

“Garance, I cannot read this bill of fare, and I know not what anything is. How can you have done this to me?” he said to her in mock-agony, as he leaned over and kissed her tenderly, right there in the restaurant. They cared not a fig how much attention they were drawing to themselves.

By the end of August, the two of them departed for England once again; Jonathan returned to Oxford to complete his degree, while Garance, with her husband’s blessing, went on to perform for the great halls of Europe until December. She returned with Jonathan to England, but knew that, almost immediately, she would have to leave him for a time. This was a sad and difficult time for Garance, almost as much as it was for the smitten Jonathan. Then, being the nobleman he was, Jonathan took his seat in the House of Lords, and he did his duty. He was a slave to duty.

By this time, Jonathan had restored his family fortune in Yarmouth. In fact, he had already grown it into one of the wealthiest in England. His Lincolnshire seat was seen as one of the best run estates in all of the country, and when Jonathan took his seat in the House of Lords the year after he graduated from Oxford, he was universally admired by his fellow peers.

The truth is that very few marriages, even those that begin with the greatest augurs of success, end in great happiness. But Jonathan and Garance, two very independent people, somehow managed to make this nearly impossible thing into a reality. A perfect marriage.

From the perspective of the servants at Stafford Manor, things could not be better for either of them. Garance continued to enthrall all of Europe, although she was not nearly as beset by suitors, now that news of her nuptials had leaked. “The Parisian Nightingale caged by an Englishman,” was the headline in the Times.

In London, things had changed quite a lot since the Prince Regent ascended the throne to become King George IV, but the gay times continued in many places. Cecily was still spending much of her time in Stafford Manor, preparing for the transition of power, as she called it. But these were enjoyable times, watching the young of the Golden Age turn silver-headed.

And so, now that the King of England was legitimized, many people felt that things would get better. Others, that things would get worse. For England was always a place in turmoil.

Peter Nunn, still was in the depths of despair, became a frequent attendee at the royal events, and, at some point after he became a celebrated figure in society. This transpired when Lady Catherine Smith’s novel, The Noble Cuckold came out, and rumor had it that he was the subject of the title character. To his credit, he denied it, but he also decided he would enter politics.

By the mid 1820s, Peter Nunn was highly regarded as a reformer on the banner of the Liberal Tories, and he was twice considered as a possible Chancellor of the Exchequer, an honor he declined because of his poor mathematics. As a close associate of Prime Minister Robert Jenkinson, the Earl of Liverpool, he suggested Jonathan Anderson-Reese, but Jonathan had far more important things to do. But this is all in the future. The written life story of Peter Nunn would read like the Book of Numbers; duller than ditchwater!

Jonathan, true to his usual deep love of his ancestral lands, concentrated his energies on the improvement of his Lincolnshire estate. He consulted with canal builders and road cutters, and before long, the farmers in the area were able to grow more and better crops, and it was said that this man who loved the French girl was the best lord in the Kingdom. He had his loyalties and he loved his family, and he loved the people who lived on his land.

Garance took time to recover from the joy and the pain of childbirth. Little Violetta was a beauty and universally admired for her charm and wit. When little Violetta was only four or five months old, Jonathan brought her and her beaming mother to the capital where they stayed at the Wimpole Street house. And it was at this time that Garance decided to retire from the stage, much to the chagrin of all of Europe’s great halls. And their loss was her family’s gain, for this is the story of the greatest happy ending of the age: the romance of the nightingale and the nobleman!

“D’Arcy,” Cecily said, at a ball in London. “I feel the wedding of my brother and Garance was nearly perfect. You know what that means right?”

“I would love to tell you I do, but I am in the dark,” replied D’Arcy.

“It means I must think of a wedding that is better and different. I must somehow capture my character all in one event. This is of the utmost importance to me.”

“Are you implying a marriage is in the offing?” said D’Arcy.

“Not at all. I do not even know who my husband will be. This is a difficult time for me, as you can imagine.”

Cecily was one of the most sought-after young ladies in London at the time, and was clearly enjoying every moment of it. Among her suitors was Peter Nunn, who, as heir to the marquisate of Hampstead, was not without means. He did his best in the following months to engage in London society, and mix with the young ladies who were most likely to be his bride, but all of them knew he carried a torch for Cecily. D’Arcy Dancer, the gadabout from Ireland, was another suitor, and one who seemed to understand her peculiar brand of wit. The two of them were frequently heard exchanging barbed commentaries on the attendees at the balls.

In fact, it was at a ball in London, attended by both Mr. Shelley, the poet, and the King – a real festive one – that the adventure really began. Peter Nunn had been a doting suitor to Cecily, and Cecily had responded the way a polite young woman was supposed to. But she was only eighteen years old and could not really make these decisions for herself, or so the rumor had it.

“Cecily,” said D’Arcy Dancer, as he met her by the chairs set up at this particular dance in Hampstead, for the elderly members of the good company. “Is that not Peter Nunn yonder in the particularly small chair near that famous Lady Catherine?”

“Which Lady Catherine is she?” Cecily responded.

“The Lady Catherine who is known to have written a three-volume novel about the poor blacksmith’s daughter and the lord.” She was quite well-known as a scribbler of bawdy work, and so it was a scandal to be seen talking to her. “She’s bound to put me in her book,” was how dear Cordelia once put it.

“By Jove, it is!” she said, laughing behind her fan. For it was a wonderful ball, and nearly anyone who was anyone was there. Jonathan and Garance were apart at the time, Garance was in Spain or some other heathen country being feted by the wealthy and influential over there, while he, like the medieval scholar, was burning the midnight oil at Oxford.

“Should we approach him and try to make amends?” she proffered.

“Make amends? For what? We are known to be courting, are we not?” said D’Arcy.

“I have promised myself to no one, dear D’Arcy,” replied Cecily.

“I did not claim otherwise, my dear lady,” said D’Arcy. “However, you must know that the gossips are working overtime to try to imply that we are the couple-du-jour, as the French would say. Now how did Miss Helen Wiglesworth put it? – I shamelessly flirted with you? But really! We both know that Peter is a bore. A frightful bore.” D’Arcy stopped talking and became aware that Cecily was staring at him as though he were a brute not to see the misery he had imposed on poor Peter by stealing her away.

He nodded. “Very well, my dear, let us visit him.”

She dragged D’Arcy across the crowded dance floor and elbowed her way through the crowd of elder statesmen. Medals jangled as they pushed through them.

“Peter!” cried Cecily, as Peter was talking to Lady Catherine Smith. “I have not seen you since my brother’s wedding. What have you been doing since that time?”

“Oh, it’s Cecily,” said Peter Nunn, averting his eyes as though looking at the sun. “Since last I saw you I have been in deep mourning, my dear.”

“Oh Peter, that is frightful!” said Cecily. “What relative did you lose?” It was difficult to see if she were feigning ignorance, or just not thinking.

“I lost my heart, Cecily,” he said with emotion, as I saw Lady Catherine scribble something in her little notebook. It wasn’t hard to see that this would definitely end up in a book: the jilted lord and the lady on the arm of her far-too charming new suitor! This interaction was beginning to attract attention from those nearby. Helen Wiglesworth and Cordelia de Montmorency were both eavesdropping rather noticeably.

“Lady Catherine!” said D’Arcy, rather too loudly to the lady writer. “Have you been writing another book?”

“I beg your pardon sir, but have we been introduced?” She seemed not to know she was talking to the greatest wit in all England, at least in his own humble opinion.

“I believe the introduction was just made by Peter Nunn. For I am the cause of his grief. Allow me to introduce myself: I am D’Arcy Dancer, gentleman.”

“You are, are you?” she said blandly as though she were unimpressed.

“Indeed, my lady, I am,” he responded. “I am a Dancer of the Bedfordshire Dancers. We are Normans who came with King William in 1066.”

“I see,” said Catherine, who was clearly not impressed.

“My family moved to Ireland. I come from the scandalous side, of course!” he said with a wink.

“D’Arcy!” cried Cecily, laughing. “You are frightful.” A playful slap on the shoulder clearly hurt Peter as he was sneering in what was an inadvertent manner. He spoke not a word, feeling, no doubt, that his weighty words were not given their due.

“Lady Catherine, did you just write down the sentiments of our friend Peter Nunn?” said D’Arcy, clearly calling her bluff. Everyone knew she was scandalously parading the lives of the wealthy and titled to the middle classes in her frightful novels. It was disgraceful!

“I beg your pardon, young man –”

“D’Arcy!” he said. “It is D’Arcy Dancer, as I just told you. Perhaps you are losing your memory, dear lady?”

“Stuff and nonsense!” said the dour dowager. Nonetheless, it was clear to anyone who observe Peter Nunn that he was tickled pink to think that his misery would be the subject of a thrilling novel by this popular scribbler, Lady Catherine Smith. He really was too much of a bore!

“I believe I saw you write something down in the little scribble pad of yours,” he said, smiling at Cecily.

“I am an author, young man,” said Lady Catherine. “And as such, I am sometimes overtaken by the muse of inspiration and must needs put my ideas to paper.”

“I see,” he said, one eyebrow arched. “I hope you’ll understand that, as the suitor of the lady to whom your inspiration was referring, I must ask you not to use that in one of your novellas.”

“I shall do what I shall do.” This woman would make a wonderful queen.

“Very well,” said D’Arcy. “But do let me fill in the missing plot pieces for you. You see, Peter Nunn, excellent student at the Maths in Oxford – did you score a first Peter?”

“Well, no,” said Peter.

“Be that as it may, you are brilliant in numbers, rather like Jonathan, who is still studying the maths there. I believe he is scoring a first, at this moment. But let that one lie, shall we?”

D’Arcy turned to Lady Catherine and went on. “Peter was courting his friend Jonathan’s sister, and his sister did her duty by receiving his blandishments. Peter is a stalwart fellow, as you can see, and he is also – Cecily, what is the word you used to describe Peter the other day?”

Cecily turned crimson under this strain. She was either blushing at D’Arcy’s brilliance, or mortified by it.

“I cannot recall,” she said, pulling on his coattail in a vain attempt to get him to disengage.

“Oh, surely you remember! You spoke of Peter fondly. You said he reminded you of a plate of liver.”

“I didn’t!” she protested.

“Ah, but you did. I recall it as though it were yesterday.”

“It was yesterday.” And as she said this, she knew she was found out. Cecily’s brilliance was well-known, and many people had been pleased to share her bon mots with others, and so all ears turned to hear the rest of the jibe.

“You said he was like a plate of liver; probably very good for you, but frightfully hard to swallow.”

At that point, several of the wits who were standing around tittered. Cecily turned on them and said her best line of the night.

“I daresay, none of you is as good for me as Peter was,” said Cecily with venom. “But then, there you are, all armed for a battle of the wits like Samson, the great Israelite hero: with the jawbone of an ass!”

All the fops stopped their tittering and withered under her brilliance. Lady Catherine pulled out her notebook and scribbled something in it.

“I say, Lady Chaterine, you seem to have a shortage of wit in your novels,” said D’Arcy. Turning to Cecily, he whispered, “I chose to mispronounce her name, because I knew it would get under her skin. And this silly old bird should know that relating the true-life stories of the nobility is a frightful invasion of privacy.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Lady Catherine.

“You find the need to purloin the wit of the gentry for the consumption of hoi polloi. I find that practice as shameful as a thief in the night.”

“Young man!” said Lady Catherine. “I find you to be frightfully impertinent. What right do you have?”

“What right do you have, Lady Chaterine? Do you not know that the word is the beginning and the end of all consciousness? ‘In the beginning was the word’ says St. John. ‘And the word was with God and the word was God.’ Would you then take the words of others and pass them off as your own? Shame, I say, shame!”

It was clear that D’Arcy was angering Lady Catherine, but she had become such a bore by this time that D’Arcy no doubt felt sure Cecily would love him the more for shaming her. And indeed, Lady Catherine rose, in quite a fury, and strode away in a particularly manly fashion.

“D’Arcy! We must go, for you promised me a cotillon. Dear Peter, do visit us soon, won’t you?”

“I shan’t!” said the sniveling twit. “For I am in the depths of despair.”

Lady Helen Wiglesworth, who had shed some of her unsightly fat, was trying to soothe the poor dear with a pat on the hand.

“D’Arcy! You must learn to hold your tongue when you are in good company,” said Cecily, forcibly pulling him away from these poor unfortunates.

“Cecily, you astonish me!” he replied. “You with the barbed insults for all and sundry, and you tell me to hold my tongue? That is too rich! But I love you the more for it.”

And in this way, Cecily entered society and took it by storm with the brilliance of her delightfully acid tongue.

Shortly before Christmas, D’Arcy Dancer went around to Cipriani Potter’s apartments in London because he wanted to know about Little Chip’s experiences on the continent with The Parisian Nightingale.

“D’Arcy!” he said as Lord Dancer strode through the door in his remarkably well-appointed flat. “I daresay you’ve changed. What on earth is happening to you?”

“Little Chip, you haven’t changed a jot. I do believe you are drinking monkey glands or something to keep you young. Perhaps some evil spirit has taken your body hostage.”

Little Chip laughed heartily. “So, what brings you to my humble home?” he said, handing him a delightful glass of port.

“I am eager to renew our acquaintance, for, I hear, you have once again taken the Continent by storm.”

“Garance is the one who is taking Europe by storm,” he laughed. “You must know that she is a most unconventional woman.”

“I was at her wedding and shall never forget the figure she cut. Resplendent is the word I would use to describe her on that day.”

“She is more resplendent every day, dear boy,” said Little Chip. “Garance has been travelling with me and her maid Camille – you remember Camille? She is like the repository for all the dull parts of Garance that she didn’t want to include in her person.”

D’Arcy laughed, for he knew that was an accurate representation of the sturdy maid who had accompanied the starlet, Garance, for as long as anyone had known her.

“In any case, Garance travelled with me and Camille, her maid, to some of the great capitals of Europe where she performed for kings, queens, princes, and the Pope. She remains one of the standout performers of her day, and her fame was growing greater and greater with each concert we gave.”

“Yours has not suffered for your association with her, Little Chip,” said D’Arcy.

“Indeed,” he replied. “In fact, I have been inspired to write my first symphony based on the themes I wrote for their wedding.”

“Very good!” he said. “Has it had a premiere?”

“It shall. I have it to be premiered with my former teacher’s new symphony by the London Philharmonic Society.”

“You and the music of that dead Austrian?”

“Deaf Austrian, actually. He is still very much alive.

“Of course. I am sorry for the oversight.”

“That is quite alright. And yes, I arranged for him to get the commission. He is a capital composer, but rather short of funds just now, and the London Philharmonic Society is awash with cash. He was most grateful. In any case, his Ninth Symphony is to be premiered with my first. That shall be very exciting, I should think. Will you attend?”

“Yes indeed. I shall certainly be there. But tell me, what else is happening on the road?”

“Well, of course, I have returned because Garance is here for Christmas to Lincolnshire, and I understand the reunion was the most heartfelt meeting of two people in anyone’s memory. She wrote to me only yesterday about it.”

“I suppose that is good news.”

“You know, dear boy, their marriage is something wonderful. For years, people will be saying that Jonathan and Garance, who started off their marriage with such a slight chance of success, managed to create a magnificent bower of love that would eventually end in a child.”

“Is she with child?” asked D’Arcy, scandalized.

“At the moment, she is, and trust me, there’s no question as to the paternity.”

Sadly, the symphony by the Austrian master didn’t materialize in time for the concert, but Cipriani Potter’s little symphony was delightful. At the concert, Cecily appeared, dressed in the most magnificent Paris gown that anyone had ever seen in London. She sat in a box, fanning herself modestly. It was clear to all who were there that she had grown into a remarkable beauty, and it was a puzzle to all of society that she had not yet married. Peter Nunn was there, looking frightfully wealthy, having spent a fortune on a new wardrobe from the best tailors in London. Even Peter turned the heads of many of London’s most eligible spinsters.

And D’Arcy Dancer, looking more than usually interested, kept glancing at the box where Cecily sat with her mother, who looked positively grand! It was well-known that he had visited Cecily many times, and had been well-received, but never had Cecily encouraged him to propose. The mystery of her intentions was the talk of good society, of course, and someone needed to solve it, one way or the other.

There was a theory that Cecily, inspired by the great love Jonathan had for his foreign wife, was courting some unknown Frenchman. Others felt that Cecily had some mad idea that she would enter public life as a crusader for the rights of women. Of course, those who felt this were in the minority, but their voices were often heard in the houses of the wealthy, who like nothing better than an unsolvable mystery.

“Mother,” said Cecily. “I see before me a great many young men who are glancing surreptitiously at us. Do you think we have become the subject of idle gossip?”

“My dear Cecily,” replied Margaret. “The only mystery is why, as the most eligible young lady in England, you have yet to decide on your husband. I suppose we shall have to endure these minor annoyances until you make up your mind.”

“Very well mother,” said Cecily. “I shall endeavor to close that mystery within the year.”

“Oh, my dear Cecily!” cried Margaret, just as the orchestra began to play. “That would be a very great joy to me.”

“In that case, mother, I shall make it a contest.”

“A contest?”

“Yes. We shall see how these men with their wandering eyes do when put under the microscope.”

Margaret laughed. “Cecily, you are far too interested in these frightful science matters!”

“The key to science is testing a hypothesis. Consider each one of my suitors a subject of study. I shall let science decide my husband.”

The music swelled to drown out her comments, but Margaret laughed joyfully behind her fan, hoping she would be entertained for a while, and finally satisfied by the conclusion.

If you haven’t already, please leave your review on Amazon

If you want to stay updated on my next book, and want to know about secret deals, please click the button below!