by Mary Balogh
But now, when it was still only morning, something was happening at the church. Carriage after carriage was rolling up to it, and it looked as though everyone from the manor was descending from those carriages and going inside. Which seemed odd as this was Friday, not Sunday. Perhaps, someone suggested, the vicar was going to do a special thanksgiving service for the thirty years Major Westcott had spent on this earth—against the odds, it might be added, while he was still a military man.
Doors opened on houses that were within sight of the church and remained open. Some people strolled up to the church, as though they just happened by pure chance to be in this place at this time. Yet others came hurrying up lest they miss something and made no pretense of being anything other than curious. Soon there was an impressive crowd gathered about the church gates, though they kept a respectful distance from it so they would not block the path being followed by each new arrival.
And then Major Westcott himself arrived and descended from his carriage before waiting for his brother-in-law Mr. Gilbert Bennington to step out after him. Both men were dressed very smartly. But it was Major Westcott’s carriage upon which much of the attention was focused. For it was lavishly decorated with flowers and greenery and could only be—
“God love him,” someone said loudly before having her voice drowned out by a swell of murmurings. “Our Lord Harry is getting himself married.”
As the two men disappeared inside the church and the carriage moved off, at least temporarily, speculation was rife about the identity of the bride. There were a few very pretty young ladies staying at the manor, though there had been no indication all week that any one of them was affianced to Major Westcott.
“Lydia?” Denise Franks whispered to Hannah Corning after moving through the crowd to stand beside her friend. “Is it possible?”
“She has not said a word to me,” Hannah said. “And Harry has not said a word to Tom.”
And then they turned to watch with everyone else. Two large men, both strangers, were striding up the street toward them, looking a bit ferocious. The crowd instinctively parted to let them through, though they were not arriving by carriage, and there was no real indication that their destination was the inside of the church.
Behind them came another formidable-looking man, just as large as the other two, but a bit more portly, and older. He did not attract as much attention as the first ones, however, for as soon as the two in front began to move past the crowd, everyone had a clear view of the woman who was holding his arm.
Mrs. Tavernor!
She was simply dressed in green, with a straw bonnet that had been trimmed with fresh pink flowers—to match those that had been embroidered upon the hem of her dress. It struck a few of the observers that she had never appeared this dainty or this youthful and pretty when she had been the vicar’s wife.
When they looked more closely, a few people could remember seeing the older man before, and maybe the taller of the other two. They had been here for the Reverend Tavernor’s funeral, had they not? The older man was Mrs. Tavernor’s father? A man of wealth and property and influence, it was said.
The group of four made its way up the church path and into the church, and the crowd, buzzing with excitement and opinion, set itself to wait.
“Oh, Denise,” Hannah said. “I am going to cry.”
“Better not, Han,” Tom said. “I have only one handkerchief with me, and I may need that myself. My best friend is getting married.”
His wife dug him fondly in the ribs with her elbow.
Twenty-four
The church would have looked distinctly lopsided if those connected with Harry had sat on one side and those with Lydia on the other. They had therefore been redistributed. Those guests from the manor who were not related by blood to Harry or were not married to a blood relative would sit on the bride’s side with Mr. Winterbourne and his two sons. Those people included Estelle and Bertrand Lamarr, Adrian Sawyer, Sally Underwood, Miranda and Gordon Monteith, and Mrs. Leeson and her daughters. Boris joined the elder Miss Leeson there.
Harry half noticed the arrangement as he entered the church with Gil. It was something he would not have thought of himself. He would not have thought either of any decorations for the church, though he could recall that Mrs. Jenkins had made a floral garden of it for Abby and Gil’s wedding four years ago. The appearance of the church this morning more than matched it. The sweet scents of flowers competed with the usual smells of candles and old prayer books.
Grandmama Kingsley had threatened a heart attack yesterday when he returned from Lydia’s cottage and announced his wedding by special license—tomorrow morning.
Grandmama Westcott had displayed more fortitude. “And I suppose, Harry,” she had said, fixing him with a severe eye, “you have not given a single thought to flowers. Or wedding breakfasts. Or speeches. Matilda?”
“I suppose,” Avery had said sotto voce to Harry, “you did also purchase a shirt or two, Harry? Just in case someone asked?”
“I did,” Harry had assured him. “Also a wedding ring. Someone is bound to ask at any moment now.”
“Harry,” Aunt Louise had said, “I suppose you have given no thought to a ring?”
Gil had the wedding ring in his pocket now.
Harry’s legs felt as though they did not quite belong to him, and if he had eaten any breakfast at all—he had not—he would swear that a large portion of it had lodged somewhere just below his throat and was refusing to be dislodged. He was not having second or twenty-second thoughts or any doubts at all, in fact. But the possibility that Lydia was having them had kept him awake half the night.
She had been so adamant until just a few days ago that freedom and independence meant more to her than anything else and that she would never give them up to any man. She had been happy in her little cottage, cooking and doing for herself. Had she acted too impulsively in the last few days? She did occasionally speak impulsively, after all. Would she live to regret today—if she turned up today, that was?
But then, after he had been sitting on the front pew for endless minutes, gazing ahead and trying not to think at all—and thinking more than he had ever thought in his life, one thought teeming upon another without even waiting politely for the one before it to move out of the way—she came.
At least, her brothers did—large, menacing, scowling. No, unfair. Harry had not even turned his head to look at them as they appeared at the edge of his vision and took their seats in the pew across from him. He did glance their way after they were seated. They were both looking straight ahead, no discernible expression on their faces. Harry touched his tongue to his upper lip. Not as much damage had been done as he had thought yesterday. It was still a bit tender, but not swollen enough to mar his wedding day.
Good Lord, those two were about to be his brothers-in-law. But suddenly Harry was glad Lydia had such fierce defenders. She was much loved, even if that love was sometimes a bit overpossessive and provoked the sort of scold she had given them yesterday.
The Reverend Bailey appeared before them, clad in his clerical vestments, and invited the congregation to stand. Harry turned to watch Lydia come along the very short nave on the arm of her father. Looking calm and beautiful. And meeting his eyes and smiling at him and bringing all the sunshine of the outdoors inside with her.
His legs were suddenly back, and the blockage in his throat had magically cleared. His restless sleep was forgotten, and all his anxieties had dissipated.
For there was not only sunshine in her face. There was also love. And . . . trust.
And it was their wedding day.
* * *
* * *
Lydia had surprised herself by sleeping soundly all night. She might indeed have slept longer if Snowball had not been huffing beside her bed, begging to be let out.
She had thrown back the curtains from the windows and left
the front door open as her dog bounced outside. The sun was shining. The tree branches were still. The air was already warm.
She had stood in the doorway, waiting for the onslaught of doubt. She had raised her eyes to the sky. Pure blue except for a few small fluffy white clouds.
She had felt only blessings.
Today was her wedding day. To Harry.
All doubts over their decision not to wait but to marry now, today, on Harry’s birthday, before his party, had been lifted by the arrival of her father and brothers—who would be here later to walk to church with her.
She had eaten breakfast, having discovered none of the expected loss of appetite. She had donned the green dress and felt no impulse to pull it off in favor of something more sober. She had styled her hair in a simple knot at her neck to accommodate her bonnet—the straw one she had owned before her first marriage and scarcely worn during it for the usual reason, though she had never understood what was frivolous about plain, unadorned straw. It was very unadorned. That thought had sent her outside to pick some blooms from her garden—all of them pink—and some greenery. She had woven them into the straw about the crown.
Even the arrival of her father and brothers had not put a dent in her happiness, although they had all looked as if they were about to attend a funeral. But after she had laughed at the sight of them and hugged them all in turn and told them this was the happiest day of her life and their being here made it absolutely perfect, they had all cheered up and hugged her again and assured her that all they wanted for her—all they had ever wanted—was that she be happy.
“And with a good man to look after you, Lydie,” James had not been able to resist adding.
“I think it may just be possible,” her father had conceded, “that Westcott is a good man, James. Good breeding. He must get it from his mother. His father was a scoundrel.”
“The Westcotts do not seem to hold it against him that he is a bas—that his birth was irregular,” William had said. “So why should we?”
“Why indeed?” Lydia had asked, bending over his chair to kiss the top of his head.
They had walked to church, something that turned into a bit of an ordeal when it became obvious that a small crowd had gathered outside the gate. The arrival of carriages from Hinsford must have alerted everyone. They had come down the drive in a steady stream and with a great deal of noise and pomp while Lydia was still at home.
But the crowd parted before James and William, who were walking side by side ahead of Lydia and her father, and watched them proceed through the gate and up the path to the church.
And oh, she was so, so glad Harry’s whole family was here for their wedding after all. And that her father and two of her brothers were here too. She watched James and William stride on into the church and down to the front pew and then turned to her father.
He had tears in his eyes.
“Lydie.” He bent his head and kissed her cheek. “Be happy. It is all I have ever wanted for you. It is all your mother would have wanted.”
She swallowed and took his arm. And then she was walking with him to meet her bridegroom. What was that line from surely the loveliest of all the psalms?
My cup runneth over, she thought as she smiled at Harry and watched the tension and anxiety fade from his face before he smiled back.
They turned together to face the Reverend Bailey. Her father released her arm and took her hand in his instead—ready to give it to the man who was about to become her husband.
“Happy birthday,” Lydia whispered.
“Dearly beloved,” the vicar said.
* * *
* * *
By the time they came out of the vestry after signing the register, with Mrs. Bailey and Gil signing as witnesses, the members of the congregation were no longer sitting in their pews, speaking in hushed, reverential whispers, but were on their feet, talking and moving about.
His mother, Harry saw, was hugging Mr. Winterbourne, while Marcel and Joel were shaking the hands of his sons. But there was little chance to notice details, for as soon as he appeared, his bride on his arm, the church erupted in a most indecorous, irreverent burst of applause.
Lydia laughed.
Harry grinned.
Almost immediately they were engulfed in hugs and kisses and handshakes and backslappings and . . . And really everything was very much as Harry remembered Jessica and Gabriel’s wedding to have been two years ago in a small London church. Except that it felt different when one was the bridegroom instead of just a family member, and when it was one’s bride—one’s wife—who was being enfolded in the arms of Aunt Matilda and then sobbed over by her father. And when one was oneself being hugged and laughed over by two sisters who had once upon a time thought him lower on the scale of living beings than a toad, and then by a third sister who told him she loved him more than she could possibly say. And then clutched to the bosom of first one grandmother and then the other. And having his arm squeezed by a radiantly smiling Winifred.
He bent down to allow Josephine to wrap her arms about his neck and kiss his cheek and noticed that Lydia was doing the same for Alice and Sarah.
By the time Harry was able to reclaim his bride and take her arm through his to lead her from the church, he was aware that a number of the younger people, including all the children, had disappeared, and he knew what was awaiting them outside. But how absolutely splendid it felt to be the bridegroom and about to be the victim instead of the perpetrator—which he had been numerous times.
“Well, Mrs. Westcott,” he said as they approached the doors. “Are you ready to face the ordeal?”
“Oh, Harry,” she said, turning her head to smile at him—and all the sunshine was still there inside her and beaming out from her eyes and her whole face. Had she left any outside, or was it all dark and gloomy out there? “I am, am I not? I am Lydia Westcott.”
The crowd beyond the gate had surely swelled since his arrival with Gil, Harry noticed. There was a crowd inside the gate too. The church path was lined with them on both sides—all the children over the age of about five, Cousins Peter and Ivan, Adrian Sawyer, Sally Underwood. And—a grinning Tom Corning.
All of them, of course, had fistfuls of flower petals. Some of the older ones had bags bulging with extra supplies.
And there was plenty of sunshine too.
“Oh,” Lydia said, and laughed.
Harry released her arm and took her hand in his instead. He laced their fingers tightly. “They will all be horribly disappointed if we do not run for it,” he said. “Ready?”
And they dashed along the path, pelted from all sides, Harry laughing, Lydia shrieking and laughing until they were through the gate, which someone had been kind enough to open for them. But Lydia stopped abruptly.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, Harry, look.”
Her eyes were wide with wonder as she beheld the flower-bedecked carriage. It had been decorated early this morning. Harry had come to church in it. He would wager the fortune that was about to be his, however, that since then it had been further decorated—on its underside.
And then they were inside it and the door had been shut upon them. The congregation was spilling out of the church, the church bell began to ring, and the carriage moved away from the gate—to an unholy din from all the debris that had been fastened below it.
“Oh,” Lydia said again. At least, her mouth formed the word, though Harry could not hear the sound of it. He set an arm about her shoulders, cupped the side of her face with his other hand, and kissed her.
It was only as he did so and her arm came about him that he realized that had been a cheering, friendly crowd. Those who were hostile to Lydia and perhaps him too had maybe not come to watch the show, of course. Or maybe some of them were realizing that there had been no scandal at all. Only a blossoming romance.
He drew back his head and gazed
into Lydia’s eyes. “I love you,” he said.
She laughed and cupped a hand about her ear. “What?”
There was obviously no point in trying to hold any sort of conversation. Harry kissed his bride again. And if they were not both stone-deaf by the time they reached the house, it would be some sort of miracle.
* * *
* * *
Snowball welcomed Lydia back to her cottage in the middle of the afternoon with ecstatic yips and barks and bounced about Harry with only slightly less enthusiasm.
There had been a grand wedding breakfast at Hinsford, despite Harry’s plea yesterday that there be no such thing because his staff would be quite busy enough with preparations for the ball this evening. He might as well have saved his breath and accepted the fact that his authority had counted for precisely nothing since the arrival of his family one week ago. He was assured, though, that this evening’s banquet, planned to take place early, before outside guests began arriving for the ball, had been merely moved forward, with a few modifications, and they would all just peck at the leftovers before the evening’s celebrations.
Harry could not imagine the Westcotts pecking at any meal, but he would not be there to witness what exactly that would mean. After a sumptuous feast, followed by wedding cake—yes, his intrepid cook had doubtless remained up all night to produce one, as Harry remembered she had for Abby and Gil’s wedding—and champagne, toasts, and speeches, everyone needed to prepare for the ball, even if preparing consisted only of resting for an hour or so. Harry could only imagine the frenzy of activity going on belowstairs.
He and Lydia had headed for her cottage—on foot. His valet was going to come there later with his evening clothes—including one of his new London shirts—and all the rest of the paraphernalia necessary to make him presentable for the ball.