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 notmarriedto 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 wasnothaving 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 occasionallyspeakimpulsively, 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 wasveryunadorned. 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 Westcottisa 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.
