"Yes, sir. We do. Again, we are willing to make a sizable donation to the church in light of the inconvenience."
The curate's astonishment gave way to a slightly more mercenary pragmatism quite quickly, and he ushered them out into the church's chancel while the clerk hurriedly dashed outside to obtain another witness for them.
When both witnesses, the clerk and a strange man wearing well-made but very disheveled clothing, were in place, the ceremony began. The curate wisely bypassed portions of it that, given their lack of guests, were unnecessary. He had them repeat their vows. When it was all done, and he'd been given permission to do so, Oliver removed a ring from his pocket and placed it on her hand. Then he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.
"I've been holding onto that for a dozen years... it's finally right where it belongs."
The remainder of the ceremony was completed in a very perfunctory manner, and then Lydia was escorted to the register. She took the pen from the curate and, for the last time in her life, signed the name Lydia Eleanor Whitby. When the register was closed and the curate declared them husband and wife, she was Whitby no longer. She had become, instead, LadyLydia Eleanor Hartwell, Viscountess Hartwell. Watching the ink dry upon the final signature she would ever place beneath her maiden name filled Oliver with a deep sense of peace. Of wholeness. Twelve years after he had first asked her to be his wife, she finally was.
Additional coins were exchanged, a few to the curate, a few to the clerk, and the additional witness. Then they departed, husband and wife at long last.
Epilogue
Hartwell Hall, six years later
Gemma dashed across the garden, uncertain whether she was rescuing Henry from a frog or the frog from Henry. Regardless, the creature looked decidedly cross while Henry, being Henry, appeared entirely oblivious to the danger. Marianne, who possessed every bit as much enthusiasm as her brother though considerably less speed, hurried after him with both hands full of her skirts. She was shouting excitedly, though whether cheering for Henry or the frog could not be determined.
"Henry," Gemma called, quickening her pace. "Leave the poor thing alone."
Henry looked over his shoulder just long enough to flash an unrepentant grin before returning his attention to the frog, which promptly disappeared beneath a clump of lavender.
Gemma caught the toe of one boot against the other and stumbled, recovering herself before she landed face-first amongst the flowers. It had become an irritatingly common occurrence of late. Her boots, practically new, already pinched whenever she ran, and Lydia insisted it was because she'd grownagain. Gemma thought it far more likely the boots had simply decided to become smaller.
By the time she reached them, the frog had evidently concluded there was no easy escape from Henry. Rather than flee, it puffed itself up to an alarming size and emitted a most indignant croak.
Henry stopped so abruptly that Marianne nearly walked into him. It was just enough of a distraction for the frog to choose freedom over valor and make its escape.
"I believe," Gemma said, folding her arms with all the dignity she could muster, "that he wished to be left alone."
Henry regarded the spot where the frog had been rather thoughtfully. "He certainly did look a bit angry."
Gemma couldn't stop her eyes from rolling. "I daresay you would as well if someone had been chased through the garden."
"I wasn't chasing him." Henry frowned. "I only wanted to see if he'd let me hold him."
Gemma raised an eyebrow. "And did he look as though he wished to be held? Not everything longs to be your pet, Henry."
Henry considered the matter with surprising seriousness before glancing once more at where the frog had been, as though it might magically reappear. When it did not, he gave a resigned sigh. "I suppose not."
"I think," Gemma replied, unable to suppress a smile, "that is the wisest thing you have said all day."
Apparently satisfied the matter had been settled to everyone's liking, Henry took off looking for another source of amusement. Some of the ornamental lavender bushes swayed as the frog made his way deeper into the shelter they provided.
"Henry," Gemma called after him. "It's very important that we don't make extra work or worry for Lydia right now. We want her and our new baby brother or sister to be healthy."
Henry turned back, his expression unexpectedly solemn and also a bit annoyed, as if he were tired of being reminded. "I know."
"Then promise me you'll think before you do something dangerous."
He nodded earnestly. "I promise."
Gemma's skepticism in that promise was well founded. Experience had taught her that Henry's promises generally lasted only until the next interesting thing presented itself. Fortunately, whatever had caught his eye this time lay beyond the yew hedge rather than amongst the lavender, and he hurried off to investigate with considerably more enthusiasm than caution.
Marianne watched him disappear before slipping her hand into Gemma's.
"Gemma?"
"Yes?"
