Silence fell and seemed to last a very long time. The scent of flowers floated on the wind and the sun grew a little warmer. Rattling uphill came a small, black carriage pulled by a pair, but no one seemed inclined to take more than passing interest in the vehicle.
“These changes aren’t easily made,” Max said. “Kirsty and I know this. But this estate has prospered because of, not despite, the respect we hold for each other here.”
Arran nodded. “You will hear no argument from me on that subject.”
“We owe you an apology, Max,” Struan began.
“Not now noddy poll,” the dowager said, her small face severe. “Later you shall give all the many necessary apologies—as will the Mercers, no doubt, and anyone else guilty of poor judgment. For now, could we get on with the matter in hand?”
Max put his arms around Kirsty and smiled broadly. “We’ll do that. But I’ll be looking forward to the apologies.”
Struan couldn’t contain his own grin, and he said, “Insolent cur.”
Toiling up from the carriage came the Reverend Pottinger, and behind him a small boy in a white surplice who carried a large Bible. Last to join the group was the village green-grocer’s son, pipes in hand. He wore a kilt and sporran, a dark green velvet jacket, and a great deal of cascading white lace. A bright feather adorned his bonnet.
“What’s this?” Struan asked.
“I suggest you hold your tongue,” Justine said. “Just enjoy whatever comes.”
Puffing, red-faced, Pottinger confronted the congregation. He produced a stole and draped it about his neck before spreading his arms. In a sonorous voice he announced, “It is with happy hearts that we are gathered here to witness the joining of this man to this woman.”
Several gleeful cheers went up, but were quickly stifled.
“Wait!” Gathering daisies and small orange poppies, yellow tansy and purple speedwell as she went, Mairi arrived beside Kirsty and thrust the bouquet into her hands. Then she stood aside, the self-appointed attendant.
The vows were clearly spoken, declarations of the love of two people, a love that had grown from childhood, and promised to continue throughout their shared lives.
Closer and closer together drew the assembly until peasant and laird intermingled. When they prayed the prayers common to them all, the only difference was in the manner of their speech.
At last the couple faced their people and the Reverend Pottinger said, “I present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Max Rossmara. They want you to know that they have everything they ever wished for.”
The pipes soared over the sound of clapping, and Gael Mercer’s sweet, high voice sang, “Wherever ye go, I shall go. Wherever ye dwell, there shall I dwell. Your people shall be my people . . .” The pipes all but drowned out her voice before she sang, “ And our love will be the love of our lives.”
The Wish Club Page 40