"It did take an awful lot of work to get into this," Sarah whispered in her mother's ear, "And imagine grandma's horror if, after seven seasons of waiting, I failed to make it up the aisle because you stepped on my flounce."
"I made her wait three," Julia grinned, "She would not be too surprised by it."
Julia stood back to admire her daughter, who resembled Robert more than she. Her dark hair was swept up into a chignon, though she had not yet donned her veil. Her dress was white, for white was now de rigueur thanks to Queen Victoria, who had married in it the year before. Made from heavy satin silk, it was nipped in at the waist, before puffing out into full skirts trimmed with flounces and hand-made lace from Devon.
"You are beautiful," Julia whispered, daring to tempt Madame Lloris' ire by leaning across to stroke her daughter's cheek, "And so much more besides. He is a very lucky boy."
"He is a man now," Sarah replied, cheerfully rolling her eyes, "Though I doubt either you or your friends will think of us as anything but children, even when our hair is as grey as Papa's."
"It's not grey, darling," Julia assured Robert, who had looked stricken at Sarah's words, "Merely peppered and most distinguished."
Staffordshire preened at the compliment.
"Enough!" Madame Lloris clapped her hands officiously, "The bride is permitted to be fashionably late, but not overly so. I must attend to her veil."
"I will see you there," Julia whispered to Sarah, squeezing her hand reassuringly.
She and George made for the carriage, leaving father and daughter alone to follow behind them. In Hanover Square, a rather large crowd was gathered, awaiting the arrival of the bride.
"Don't people have better things to do?" George grumbled, as he followed his mother up the steps of St George's Church, "Than watch Sarah prance about in a dress."
"It's not often that the children of two dukes wed," Julia replied absently.
"That's not true," George argued, "Hugh and Phoebe married last year."
"And there was a crowd to see them too," Julia recalled, thinking back on the marriage between Charlotte's eldest and Violet's youngest, "Now, hush, we must not chatter in church."
Julia walked up the aisle, nodding and smiling at acquaintances as she passed. She waved hello to Lord Havisham, who along with his wife Olivia, was occupying a whole pew with his brood of children. When she reached the top of the church, she paused by the pew which held Violet and her husband, to offer them her greetings.
"Can you believe it?" Violet whispered, clasping Julia's hand, "I still cannot quite believe that he summoned up the courage to ask her."
"He's not a lad to show his feelings," Orsino added, with a grin, "It might have taken him years, had Charlotte not decided to meddle."
"Who would have thought that Miss Charlotte Drew would become the matchmaking mama we know now?" Julia laughed, recalling her friend's previous zealous belief in the power of spinsterhood.
"Who would have thought that the three of us would become duchesses?" Violet asked, winking—in a church, no less—at her friend.
"I think the only person who might have thought it possible, was Aunt Phoebe," Julia replied, thinking fondly on Lady Havisham, who had been the catalyst for Julia's splendidly public apology.
"Oh, I do wish she were here," Violet's eyes misted a little, before she gave a rueful laugh, "Imagine haring it about the Orkney Isles at nearly one hundred years of age!"
"I would expect no less of her," Orsino interjected dryly, "She has promised me a stag's head for my library, should she manage to fell one. Penrith has bet me three guineas that she will not, but I expect to collect a vowel from him on Aunt Phoebe's return."
A commotion at the bottom of the church caused all heads to turn, and Julia spotted Charlotte and Penrith, accompanied by their daughter Jane, engaged in what appeared to be a heated argument.
They fell silent as they realised they were being watched, and as Jane flounced off to a pew, Charlotte and Penrith approached to say a quick hello.
"Honestly," the Duchess of Penrith rolled her eyes, "Raising a fifteen-year-old girl is the most trying thing a person can do. She is so headstrong."
"I can't think where she got it from," Penrith observed dryly, and the assembled guests hid their smiles from the duchess.
"Congratulations are in order," Penrith said, with a stiff nod to them all.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Shuggy, you are their friend, not the vicar," Charlotte sniffed at her husband, whose stiff formality had not waned over the years, "You might hug them, just the once."
"I have hugged all present many times," Penrith grumbled, but he acquiesced to his wife's demand—as he always did—and offered the ladies brief pecks on the cheek and Orsino a mangled combination that was half hand-shake half embrace.
Charlotte in turn threw her arms around Violet, then Julia, and finally George, to whom she whispered something before letting him go.
And then it was time to take their seats, as the call went up that the carriage had arrived.
Julia stood as her daughter made her way down the aisle on the arm of Staffordshire, who was beaming with pride. At the altar, there was a slight delay before Robert deposited his daughter into the care of Theodore—Teddy—Pennelegion, heir to the ducal seat of Orsino.
"What was the hold up?" Julia whispered, as Robert slid into the seat beside her.
"I was offering Teddy a menacing glare," her husband whispered back, "So that he might know to behave himself with Sarah. Unfortunately, Reverend Laurence thought I had something in my eye, and was going to try douse it with fontal water ."
Julia stifled a giggle and took her husband's hand. As the ceremony began, Julia stole a glance around the church, overwhelmed by happiness to be surrounded by those she loved. Violet caught her eye and offered her a discreet wave, and when she turned and caught Charlotte's gaze, the Duchess of Penrith gave a saucy wink.
Everyone that she loved was here, and everyone that she loved was happy—except, perhaps, one person.
"What is it, George?" Julia whispered to her son; whose face was pale.
"The Duchess of Penrith," George stammered, glancing up at his mama with fear in his eyes.
"Yes?" Julia prompted, as she wondered what on earth Charlotte had whispered in her son's ear.
"She said I'm next," George cast a petrified glance behind him, to where Jane sat beside her mama and papa.
Julia snorted with laughter, though she quickly tried to disguise it as a cough.
"George," she whispered after a moment, taking her son's hand.
"Yes?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to accept your fate, for there's no point in trying to resist the will of a wallflower."
Notes
The modern parachute was invented in the late 18th century by Louis-Sébastien Lenormand in France, who made the first recorded public jump in 1783.
In 1802, André-Jacques Garnerin, made an experimental balloon ascension and parachute descent in front of a crowd of thousands in London, UK.
Charles Green was a famous English balloonist, who experimented with using coal-gas as a means to inflate balloons, as it was a cheaper alternative to hydrogen. He made his first ascension in a coal-gas balloon in 1821, so I have taken some liberty by having him achieve the same feat in 1817.
The Rake and Lady Julia (Wilful Wallflowers Book 3) Page 16