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Epilogue
It was Rebecca’s wedding day.
After she and Ben had decided to return to Lower Alderwood and have banns read, they had told their plans to Rebecca’s family. All had been agreeable to the news; Mama and Papa had been ready to return home anyway. Susan and Aylesham had said they would follow when the date was closer at hand.
Ben had then dashed off a letter to his mother in the hopes that she and Lord Kelso hadn’t left Edinburgh for London yet. Fortunately, his letter had arrived in time. “Mother has always followed her own schedule,” Ben had said when her letter of reply arrived at Lower Alderwood. “She wasn’t specific when she wrote saying she and Kelso were coming to London, and I have gotten used to having to assume she could arrive on my doorstep within a few days or a few weeks. Now, at least, she has an actual date by which she must arrive. And I am free of the guilt of causing her any imposition had they traveled to London only to find that we weren’t there.”
His mother and Lord Kelso were here in Lower Alderwood now, having arrived yesterday, and had chosen to stay at the inn in town rather than with Ben. “It will be your bridal getaway, and the last thing you will need is your mother present,” she had said.
Rebecca had only briefly met her soon-to-be in-laws last evening, but what she had already been able to discern was that while his parents had been cordial in their marriage and in the rearing of their only child, Ben hadn’t had a home full of expressions of love. Rebecca’s own family truly must have been something of a revelation to him.
Case in point: Lady Kelso had greeted little Rose by looking down at the little toddler and patting her on the head. “Lift her so I may see her better,” she had said to Ben. He’d done so, and Lady Kelso had studied her closely. “She hasn’t your coloring at all, has she, Winton? Lighter brown, then. Much more in keeping with my side of the family, it would seem.” She’d patted Rose on the head again. “Lady Rose, my little namesake. You look to be a lovely child.”
And then her attention had turned to discussing wedding plans with Mama.
That had been the extent of it.
Ben had glanced at Rebecca with a look of relief, however, which Rebecca immediately understood, even if her heart ached for the lack of affection his mother had shown Rose. If his mother was content that the toddler looked like her side of the family, there would be no questioning of Rose’s parentage, and that was additional good fortune, for all their sakes.
The other good fortune was that after a few cloudy days and some showers, the day of their wedding had dawned with blue skies and puffy white clouds. Rebecca could almost feel autumn waiting in the wings to make its appearance.
There was a tap on the door, and Mama poked her head in. “Are you ready?” she asked before stepping inside. “Oh, good. I can see that you are. Susan and Aylesham just left for the church, and somehow, all of the children have remained clean thus far, which is unheard of, naturally, when they are in their best clothes. I am leaving now with Thomas and Isobel; we are the last to arrive at the church before you and your papa do. Oh, Rebecca! What a simply perfect day this is going to be! I can feel it!”
“Thank you, Mama.” She gave Mama a hug, not caring if she wrinkled either of their gowns. “For all my dreams about London and the Season, I have learned that home and family and love are the most desirable dreams to have in one’s heart.”
“Ah, I see your experience in Towndidteach you something,” Mama said, her eyes twinkling.
“I learned a great many things,” Rebecca said. “I would enumerate them for you, but then I’d be late for my own wedding, and I cannot wait any longer to be married to Ben.”
“Rebecca Fortescue, Countess of Winton,” Mama said.
“True,” Rebecca said. “But I believe I will always prefer the title of ‘Ben’s wife.’” Ben—the gentleman who had hidden his title from everyone so he could simply be himself as he healed. Her Ben.
Mama smiled. Rebecca knew Mama understood. “Now, don’t keep your papa waiting,” Mama said. “We have a wedding to attend!”
Rebecca nodded. She took one last look in the mirror, one last look at Rebecca Jennings, the young lady, the dreamer. The next time she gazed at her reflection in a mirror, she would be Rebecca Fortescue, the same . . . but different.
She rejoiced in what that difference would be and the happiness it portended for her and for Ben. And then she stood and straightened her gown and went to find Papa.
Rebecca barely registered the drive to the church. She barely recalled Papa assisting her from the carriage or entering the doors of the chapel and stepping inside. But now she stood, her hand resting on Papa’s arm, waiting as the congregation came to their feet and the organ began to play and all of her nephews in their very best attire and all of her little nieces in their frilliest frocks and hair adorned with flowers proceeded down the aisle before her.
Finally, she and Papa began the slow walk up the aisle to the front of the church, to her brother Isaac.
And then she turned her gaze upon her dearest love.
Ben.
Rebecca’s heart sang, so full of joy she was.
* * *
After the wedding luncheon, after the many toasts to the bride and groom, everyone gathered in the back garden to continue the celebrations. The locals who usually provided the music for assemblies and dances arrived with their instruments in tow and began playing lively sets of songs. The children gathered around Artie and Delia and Lavinia, who entertained them by reenacting fairy tales and even drawing some of the children into the enactments too.
“It’s all a bit . . . common . . . wouldn’t you say?” Ben’s mother whispered to Ben before taking a sip of lemonade as she looked about the garden.
Ben could clearly see what she could see: the actors, the children, the folk musicians, and villagers, from shopkeeper to servant. Yes, it was common—at least it would seem common to his mother, who followed the rules of Society carefully and was keenly aware of her place therein.
So, while he could see what she saw, his perspective of the tableau before him had changed this summer and was now entirely the opposite. He saw friends. He heard music—yes, it was more rustic than one might hear at the finest homes in London, but it was full of heart. He saw the smiles and heard the laughter.
