Indeed, someone had tied a small white ribbon around Brutus’s middle, creating a festive if somewhat bizarre accessory. The toad did not appear to have opinions about this addition to his appearance.
“That’s very… thoughtful,” Mel managed. “But Thistle, I’m not certain Brutus should attend the ceremony. Toads can be unpredictable.”
“Brutus is not unpredictable. He’s very well-behaved. He promised to sit quietly in my pocket and only come out after the vows are complete.”
“Toads cannot make promises,” Anna observed. “We’ve discussed this.”
“Brutus can. You just don’t understand his language.”
Mel looked at Thistle, at the earnest face and the decorated toad and the absolute certainty that this was a reasonable plan. She could insist that Brutus remain behind. She could assert the authority she had carefully cultivated over months of managing this particular child.
But it was her wedding day, and Thistle wanted her toad to witness it, and some battles were simply not worth fighting.
“Brutus may attend,” she said. “But he must remain in your pocket throughout the ceremony. No exceptions.”
“I promise!” Thistle beamed and tucked Brutus back into her bag.
“He’s going to be so happy. He is so fond of weddings.”
“Has Brutus attended many weddings?”
“This will be his first. But I know he will positively adore it.”
The logic was impeccable in its own way. Mel decided not to pursue it further.
The chapel was small and simple, as country chapels tended to be. Stone walls softened by candlelight, wooden pews worn smooth by generations of worshippers, a single stained glass window casting coloured light across the altar. It was nothinglike the grand cathedrals where society weddings typically occurred, and Mel found that she preferred it enormously.
The guests were few but significant, Benedict and Serena, Mr. Grieves, Mrs. Kemp and Cook and the household staff who had become family over the past months. No society figures, no distant relations, no one who was present out of obligation rather than genuine affection.
Rhys stood at the altar, dressed in dark blue that made his eyes seem brighter than usual. He turned when she entered, and his expression shifted into something that made her breath catch. Not the practiced charm of the rake. Not the careful composure of the duke. Just raw, unguarded emotion that he was not even attempting to hide.
She walked toward him with measured steps, the children following behind in their assigned positions. Anna carried a small basket of flowers with dignified precision. Viola walked beside her sister, her quiet presence a steadying influence. Thistle brought up the rear, one hand pressed against the bag where Brutus presumably waited.
The vicar, an elderly man who had served the Hartfell parish for thirty years, smiled benevolently as Mel took her place beside Rhys.
“Dearly beloved,” he began, his voice carrying the comfortable cadence of someone who had spoken these words many times before, “We are gathered here in the sight of our almighty to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”
The words flowed over Mel like water, familiar from countless weddings she had attended as a servant or observer but never as a participant. She listened and responded at the appropriate moments, her voice steady despite the magnitude of what was happening.
Rhys held her hands throughout, his grip firm and warm. He spoke his vows with a clarity that suggested he had memorised them rather than simply repeating after the vicar, his eyes never leaving her face.
“I, Rhys William Langford, take thee, Melanie Grace, to be my wedded wife. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part.”
Melanie. She had almost forgotten that was her full name. No one had used it in years. But hearing it now, in his voice, in this moment, it sounded like something precious.
“I, Melanie Grace,” she began, her voice steady despite the emotion building in her chest, “take thee, Rhys William Langford, to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part.”
The vicar nodded approvingly and continued with the ceremony. Rings were exchanged. Blessings were spoken. The moment approached when all would be complete and official and permanent.
“I now pronounce you…”
“Brutus, No!”
Thistle’s shriek cut through the solemnity of the moment like a cannon blast. Mel turned just in time to see a small, bow-decorated toad making a determined leap from Thistle’s bag toward the altar, apparently having decided that the ceremony required his direct participation.
Chaos erupted.
Thistle lunged for her escaping pet and Anna attempted to intercept with her flower basket. Viola backed away with a small squeak of alarm. The vicar paused mid-pronouncement, his expression shifting from benevolent to bewildered. Benedict made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a groan.
