EPILOGUE
UNLOCKED
STMICHAELMASFEAST.
BY NIGHT…
“Well, my beloved Hebe Jane Felicity Brook, shall we?”
As dusk descended, Hebe paused beneath the gatehouse arch to peruse her husband of seven hours – golden hair and spectacles caught the flickering light of the flambeaux, his jacket a smart burgundy with a striped waistcoat of silver and white. Buff breeches stretched and Hessian boots gleamed.
Michaelmas Day, she’d been told, was ancient and not to be missed, a marking of the end of harvest and a time to celebrate before the oncoming winter, but it had also been their wedding day – full of good cheer and jubilant tears.
“Just one thing.” Hebe reached for his wretchedly straight cravat and…yanked it crooked. “Perfect. And will I pass muster for St Michaelmas night?”
He cast his jewelled gaze to her stout-booted feet, it lingered on the golden ring upon her finger, up to her sapphire-blue gown and woollen shawl, thence to her loose flowing hair. “If I may…” He tilted her crown of aster flowers to a rakish angle. “Perfect.” Then he arched down to kiss her – deep, wicked and full of promise.
But for now…
Linking arms, they stepped through the archway and onto the moat bridge to be deluged by cascades of dried rose petals, cheers, and whistles.
For the folk of Wychmere lined the sides, hats aloft and faces lit radiant by the many blazing torches. Garlands of ivy twined the bridge railings, and maidens sprinkled the wooden boards with rosemary and juniper.
As they passed, the villagers gathered behind them to form a jubilant procession, and Hebe marvelled at the candles in small carved dishes floating upon the moat, the swans drifting in bemusement, their reflections silvered and ethereal.
Aunt Beatrice and Redmond greeted them as they stepped from the bridge to the path, fierce hugs exchanged between them all before Hebe and her new husband were ushered down the lantern lit path that arced towards the meadow, the scythed grass soft and damp beneath her feet. Autumn had slipped in with slow grace this year, and by day the woodland now glowed copper, the hedges vibrant with red berries.
Awaiting them in the meadow, the Duke of Rothwell and his flame-haired duchess Evelyn smiled broadly and gestured to a vast heap of hazelnut kindling and ash branches. For it was an age-old Wychmere tradition that the most recent bridal couple light the bonfire of St Michaelmas.
Ernest seized a flaming torch from its holder and then held out his other hand – calloused and tender – and she fiercely clasped it, his skin golden in the torchlight.
The procession of villagers encircled the unlit bonfire, the young girls drawing their shawls tight to the late September chill, and all fell silent for the time-worn ritual, the sole sound from the forest: leaves rustling in the breeze, reluctant to fall, and the hoot of owls, ready for the night.
Ernest gathered her hand beneath his and together they thrust the torch to the dark firewood…
It smouldered.
Crackled.
Sizzled and caught…
Low flames curling into rippling ribbons of fire.
Applause weaved amongst the villagers – for the St Michaelmas warmth before winter, for light through the dark – and Ernest claimed her hand and brought it to his lips.
Hebe blushed, a fiddler commenced a tune and an arm encircled her waist. “I love you, my Hebe. Since you came into my life, my heart has been filled with you. I will cherish and adore you forever and a day.”
Her breath caught, her soul seeping with warmth. “I shall be at your side evermore, Ernest. I love you so.”
And she realised…
She realised that her true self had never wished to be frozen and bitter, looking on from afar at a scene full of cheer, an onlooker as life passed her by.
Here today, amongst these people, she welcomed the joy she’d always watched in others, the joy that Ernest had uncovered in herself with his kindness and patience.
She was now a part of it. Part of Ernest. Part of life.
ERNEST CLUTCHED HIS WIFE CLOSE,wished to kiss her till they were breathless and heady–
