Twenty-five
And suddenly it was his wedding day.
“Brown,” Aunt Felicity had told him, though he had not asked for any help or advice with what he would wear to his wedding. “Brown if you possibly can, Justin. It is all I am going to say.”
It was enough.
He was wearing a brown coat with fawn pantaloons and black Hessian boots and white linen. There was lace at his cuffs, and his neckcloth was tied into an elaborate creation that delighted his valet, though the man had ruined eight starched neckcloths before he got the folds just right with the ninth. If he looked directly down at his feet, Justin thought, he was sure he would be able to see his reflection in the high gloss of his boots. He did not look directly down. In the folds of his neckcloth he was wearing a diamond pin he had not worn for thirteen years. His father had given it to him for his twenty-first birthday.
And now he was seated at the front of the village church,which, according to the aunts, was going to be just large enough to seat all the guests. He was sitting in the front pew with Wes beside him and Ricky beside Wes. Wes hadnotbeen delighted when Justin had asked him to be his best man.“What?”he had exclaimed. “With all those nobs looking on as I drop the ring, Juss? Forget it! Absolutely no way on this earth—or on the moon either. Do you want me to knock your teeth down your throat?”
Ricky had been Wes’s best man a few weeks ago, but Justin had sat beside him in order to let him know when it was time to step forward with the ring.
“Ricky can sit by you to tell you when to hand me the ring,” Justin had said. “He has experience. And if you drop it, Wes, and it rolls out of sight, he will be there to find it for you. I have considered asking a cousin. I have a number of them. But I want you. You are not going to disappoint me on my wedding day, are you?”
“Blast you to hell and back, Juss,” Wes had said before apologizing because he had uttered a blasphemy in Hilda’s hearing. “Don’t put it that way.”
“I just did,” Justin had said, grinning at him.
“It really doesn’t matter that he is an earl and rich as a king, Wes,” Hilda had said. “It matters that he’s yourfriend.”
“Aren’t wives supposed to be quiet and mind their own business?” Wes had asked.
“Who put that daft idea in your head?” his fond wife had asked. “Besides, youaremy business.”
So here Wes was, wearing his wedding suit, which really made him look quite handsome, though he looked anything but comfortable in it and had sworn on his wedding day that he would never wear it again. He was scowling. Beyond him was Ricky in his best man’s suit, beaminghappily and finding it difficult not to keep looking over his shoulder at the gathering guests.
No one was talking out loud, for they were in church. But there was a hum of subdued conversation anyway, noticeable only when it stopped and silence fell and then the organ began to play as the vicar arrived at the front of the church and signaled to Justin and the rest of the congregation that it was time to stand.
His bride was arriving.
His wedding was about to begin.
At last.
Justin stood and turned to see Watley escort the Marchioness of Dorchester to the front pew across from his own. And then his eyes focused upon the other end of the nave, where Estelle was coming toward him on her father’s arm.
***
Lady Hodgkins, forever cheerful, was a talker. She had scarcely stopped since the afternoon before, when Estelle had arrived at her house with her father and stepmother and Bertrand. The lady’s husband and children, though they appeared to be an amiable lot, could scarcely get a word in edgewise. Nor could anyone else. They all recognized the lady’s good nature, however, and the lavish display of her hospitality. They relaxed into their roles of guests and listeners.
But finally she relinquished her house to the four of them as she left for the church with her husband on the morning of the wedding, loud in her satisfaction at being the only invited guest who was not a member of either family. Except for the Morts, of course, but they scarcely counted in her estimation.
“Oh, Estelle,” the marchioness said as she watched Olga put the finishing touches to her hair. “You lookgorgeous.”
Estelle, all modesty aside, could only agree with her. Her gown, clinging close to her body from a high waist, was cream lace over the same color silk, deceptively simple in design, expert in execution. It had a scooped neck, though it was not too low, with long, close-fitting sleeves of lace without the silk underlay. There was a matching spencer with a stiff stand-up collar to be worn over the dress if the autumn weather should happen to be chilly. Estelle would indeed wear it, for it was a chilly day, though bright and sunny. She would remove it later for the wedding breakfast.
She and the dressmaker and her stepmother had decided against a bonnet. Instead, her hair was dressed high on her head and intertwined with multicolored autumn leaves, which had been waxed to preserve them. One long curled ringlet was pinned diagonally across the back of her head and hung down over her shoulder. That too was woven with leaves. Her kid gloves and her shoes were tan colored.
She looked, Estelle thought, like an autumn bride. She felt like a bride whose stomach was filled with fluttering butterflies.
This was herwedding day.
Bertrand was in her dressing room then, and Olga left. Their stepmother went into the bedchamber.
“Stell.” He took both her hands in his and held them very tightly as he took a half step back to look her over from head to feet. “What is there to say? You look lovely.”
“Will you be lonely without me, Bert?” she asked, and their eyes connected. “Will you live at Redcliffe?” Strangely, they had not talked about it during the past weeks.
