And she came toward him along the nave, her arm drawn through Bewcastle’s. And Michael, far from feeling nervous, felt a rush of gladness that a certain thunderstorm had stranded them together at the same small inn three weeks ago—was it really no longer ago than that?—and that Georgette had invited herself to take tea with Eleanor in the dining room. It was true that they would have met anyway and spent two weeks at the same house party here, but would they have made the connection if it had not been for that storm? Would the children have made the connection?
She looked familiar, beautiful, dearly beloved, and he felt himself smiling warmly at her even as she smiled at him.
Robert, he could feel, was clutching one of the tails of his coat. Georgette was peeping around Eleanor and beaming at him.
They turned together to face the clergymen. And so it began— their new life together, a new dream to replace the old. No, not to replace it—to add to it. For they had both sincerely loved before and they had both suffered loss. They had both mourned and would forever remember. But now, today, there was another dream to promise present and future happiness.
Nervousness fled as soon as Eleanor stepped inside the church and saw Christine and Hazel awaiting her there and Georgette, her face alight with excitement. She was actually jumping up and down on the spot, her pink froth of a dress notwithstanding.
“I am going to hold your gloves and your flowers,” she said, “and I am not going to crease the gloves or crush the flowers or drop anything, and I am—”
Eleanor cupped her face with her hands and kissed her.
“I know, sweetheart,” she said, recognizing terrible nervousness when she saw it. “But it would not matter dreadfully even if you did do any of those unspeakable things.”
And then, as she made her way along the nave on Wulfric’s very sturdy arm and saw Michael waiting for her, looking immaculate and elegant in black and snowy white, it was the happiness and the kindness in his face that struck her more than anything else. She had never in her life done anything more right than what she was doing now, she thought. She had never been happier—and she was not even married yet.
Robert, clutching one of the tails of his father’s coat, was peering around his leg, his eyes wide, his hair wild and adorable.
And then the nuptial service began, and while Eleanor was still trying to concentrate upon and savor every single moment of it, it was over and Charles, beaming kindly from one to the other of them, was informing them that they were man and wife. Eleanor thought she might well burst with happiness.
“Papa,” a whispered voice asked, “may we call her Mama now?”
The congregation laughed—and applauded. It was an astonishing moment. Applause inside a church at the conclusion of a solemn ceremony? Michael bent down and scooped Robert up with one arm, and Eleanor wrapped an arm about the shoulders of Georgette, who had moved up close beside her.
“You may,” she said softly, looking from one to the other of the children as Michael set his free hand on his daughter’s head. “Oh, yes, indeed you may.”
And they went off together as a family with their chosen witnesses—Wulfric and the Earl of Ravensberg—to sign the register. And then they were back inside the church and walking up the nave, smiling from side to side at their guests gathered there, and Eleanor knew that this was without any doubt the happiest day of her life, as a woman’s wedding day ought to be.
“Oh—trouble,” she said without any great surprise as they emerged from the church into bright sunshine and looked along the winding path of the churchyard to the gates and the gathering of numerous villagers beyond them. But within the gates and beneath the shade of the great elm tree that hung over the path, waited the Bedwyn men and the spouses of the Bedwyn women and a few of the other male house guests and some of the older children too. They all clutched fistfuls of flower petals, which were soon raining down upon the bride and groom and their children.
“It would be mean-spirited,” Michael said, “to saunter along the path as though we did not mind or even enjoyed the experience, would it not? Shriek, Georgette. Roar, Robert. Take my hand, Eleanor, and prepare to dash.”
They broke into a run, laughing helplessly as they went while Georgette obligingly screamed and Robert giggled and clung to his father’s neck.
The ordeal was not over when they were through the gates, of course. The open barouche, decorated festively with flowers and ribbons, also bore all the old, metallic paraphernalia that Eleanor remembered from other people’s weddings. As soon as the carriage was in motion, the noise would be deafening. Now the noise was only joyful. There was the sound of people calling out and laughing, and the church bells were pealing out the news of a new marriage.
They settled in the barouche as the congregation—or what was left of it—began to spill from the church. They were all on the same seat, Robert on Eleanor’s lap, Georgette squeezed between her and her father.
“Lean back for a moment, Georgie,” Michael said, spreading one arm over the back of the seat as the barouche rocked into motion. And he leaned across his daughter and kissed Eleanor on the lips and smiled into her eyes.
The bells pealed joyously, the guests and the villagers cheered the kiss—and an unholy din blocked it all out. His smile turned to laughter as Eleanor laughed back at him and Robert clapped his hands over his ears and Georgette threw back her head and whooped at the summer sky.
