Aunt Jane and Uncle Charles and Ellen would come, of course. So would Uncle André, Estelle’s father’s brother, and Aunt Annemarie, his sister, with Uncle William and their children. Cousin Isabelle and her daughter, Margaret, would be there with their husbands.
Letters came from Everleigh with great frequency. The Ormsbury ladies were as relentless in their planning as the Westcott ladies’ committee had ever been in Estelle’s experience. They were planning everything down to the finest detail and were meticulous about keeping the Marchioness of Dorchester informed. All their letters were addressed to her. Estelle, it seemed, was as unimportant to the process as Justin was. There was apparently nothing for either of them to do—except play the parts of bride and groom when the time came.
A few years ago, Estelle’s stepmother had discovered a young dressmaker whose work was exquisite, in her expert opinion. She was also a talented designer and did not rely upon fashion plates, as other dressmakers did. She lived a mere three miles from Redcliffe and was beginning to thrive as word spread that she had the exclusive dressing of the Marchioness of Dorchester, who was known far and wide for her taste and elegance.
The dressmaker was brought to Everleigh and given accommodation there for three weeks while she and her two assistants designed and produced Estelle’s wedding gown and a selection of bridal clothes, as well as an outfit for the marchioness herself and one for Oliver’s wife. Both Estelleand her stepmother spent hours looking over designs, making suggestions, rejecting, approving, and being measured and fitted.
Bertrand and his father meanwhile did what men were inclined to do when there was a wedding looming. They went out together for hours on end about estate business with Oliver. They went fishing. They spent time, Estelle suspected, at the village tavern, though Bertrand did not drink alcohol.
Estelle’s father had given his blessing to Justin, though he had acknowledged that it was not necessary. Estelle was of age. More important, she knew her own mind and had always been extremely discriminating. If she believed she would be happy with Justin Wiley, Earl of Brandon, then that was recommendation enough for her father. Nevertheless, he did take Justin away to his own private domain that first evening and questioned him over everything in his past and present that might disqualify him as a husband for his daughter. And he took Estelle to the same place the following morning and spent a whole hour with her there making sure that she had not simply had her head turned by a practiced charmer and woman chaser—though I have never heard of his being either of those dastardly things, Estelle.
He gave his blessing formally at dinner that evening, when he did indeed propose a toast with champagne—he had drunk a glass of wine in the drawing room the first day while everyone else had drunk tea.
Justin had left a couple of days later to go to his friend’s wedding. Estelle would not see him again until their own wedding in October. Six long weeks.
“But I will write,” he had assured her as he hugged her to him before climbing into his carriage. “Every day.”
She had smiled a bit ruefully as she waved him on hisway a few minutes later.Every day,she thought.Perhaps once a week if I am fortunate,she had told herself.
He wrote every day. Mostly just a single sentence or two, sandwiched between the rather flowery opening, “My beloved Estelle,” and the closing, “Yours forever and perhaps beyond that, Justin.” She came to live for the arrival of the daily post and that single sentence or two.
“Wes as a happy newlywed is a fearsome sight, but I am envious! Not to mention impatient.”
“I love you.”
“Ricky loves ‘that nice lady, Juss,’ and looks forward to seeing you again. So do I!”
“Captain loves you too—he was delighted to see me back but searched the carriage in vain for you and then looked mournful as only he can.”
“The aunts are driving me insane. I have come to the library to dream of you.”
“Writer’s cramp? Stop writing this minute—though not to me.”
“The grotto felt lonely without you this afternoon. I want my female resident hermit back.”
“I had a letter from Hilda today to say they really are all coming next week. I wish you were coming next week too.”
“What was I saying yesterday? I wish you were coming today.”
“I do not suppose I could interest you in eloping?”
“I love you.”
“I watched the sunrise from the Palladian bridge this morning. Come home!”
“I miss you more each day. Have I also mentioned that I love you?”
“I love you.”
“Bill Slater moved out of his cottage yesterday and a small army is in there today, preparing the house for Wes and Hilda and Ricky. The countess’s room next to mine has been prepared, but where is the countess?”
“What did I think about, what did I dream about, before I met you?”
“One week left. Will it be as long as the last weeks have been?”
“I am wasting away, a mere shadow of my former self. Come soon.”
“I love you and long for you.”
