And then all he saw was her.
The music ended and the congregation was seated again. Theyoung bridesmaids arranged themselves about Clarissa, and Joy took her bouquet. Devlin gave her hand to Matthew and took his place in the front pew beside Gwyneth.
“Dearly beloved…” the Reverend Danver began.
—
The day was a whirlwind of activity and celebration after that—the wedding itself; the stepping outside to a cheer from the gathered crowd and waving handkerchiefs and showers of petals from some of the younger guests, who had come outside and lain in wait on either side of the church doors during the signing of the register; the ride back to Ravenswood in a carriage beautifully decorated but also deafeningly noisy, with all the pots and pans tied beneath it; the hugs and kisses as all the guests returned too; the wedding breakfast for both families; the speeches and toasts.
It was all a bit overwhelming for a man who had spent most of his adult years living quietly in two small rooms above a village smithy, never seeking attention, never looking for excitement, never expecting more than he already had.
But what he had now, after a summer and autumn of change, was everything he could ever have dreamed of—if he had allowed himself to dream. He was no longer a man living somewhat on the periphery of life, a bit afraid perhaps to plunge into it lest he be hurt more than he could bear—as he had been during his childhood. Now, today, he was at the very heart of two families, the Taylors and the Wares. He was one of them. He belonged. He mattered to them as they mattered to him.
It was an immeasurable gift these past months had brought him.
Yet now, today, there was so much more—for what anchoredhim to the day and prevented him from being completely overwhelmed was Clarissa. The love of his life. The joy of his heart.
His wife.
Beautiful and vibrant and charming and happy.
And his.
It was hard to believe. Once or twice he wanted to pinch himself. Yet whenever she looked at him, which she did frequently, just as he looked at her, he saw the truth there in her sparkling eyes and in her flushed cheeks.
He was the love ofherlife. He was the joy ofherheart.
Her husband.
He touched her hand when all the speeches were finally over and everyone stood to move to the drawing room, all talking at once, it seemed.
“Shall we go home?” he asked her.
Her eyes softened and her lips parted. But even now old habits reasserted themselves.
“And abandon all the guests?” she said.
“But they are not your guests, are they?” he said. “They are Gwyneth and Devlin’s.”
Her lips curved into a slow smile. “It is true,” she said. “I am free. How absolutely marvelous. Oh yes, Matthew, let us go home.”
—
They could not simply slip away, of course. That would have been ill-mannered. And she could not simply step out of the house. It was December. She had to send a servant to fetch her cloak from her old room while Matthew had a quiet word with Devlin.
No, they could not simply slip away, for by the time the cloak had been brought and she had hugged Gwyneth and thanked her for the breakfast and everything else she had done to make this a perfect day, and Matthew had gone to shake Reginald by the hand and hug Adelaide, everyone had discovered that the bride and groom were about to leave, and all had gathered in the hallway to shake hands, slap backs, kiss cheeks, hug tightly enough to deprive one of breath, and talk and laugh and wish them well. Even the children had spilled out of the nursery, the bridesmaids looking like slightly bedraggled rosebuds. They darted among adult legs, giggling and shrieking and generally getting in the way.
But finally they were walking away from Ravenswood, hand in hand like young lovers, and taking the familiar route along the terrace, down the driveway almost to the bridge, and then along the river path, which had been widened a little since the summer and paved.
Their cottage awaited them. It was finished and fully furnished but had not yet been lived in, except by Mr. and Mrs. Hoover, Millicent’s brother and sister-in-law, who had taken up residence in the servants’ wing of the house a few days ago and dusted and scrubbed and polished every square inch of the interior since then, according to Millicent, as well as the front door, the knocker, the front steps, and the windows outside.
The windows winked at them now in the light of the late afternoon sun. The red door seemed to glow in contrast with the muted winter colors all around. And smoke curled out of the chimney, a welcome sight on what was a crisp winter day.
“Home,” she said.
“Home,” he agreed.
And they stopped by mutual consent to gaze at it, the cottageshe had not even dreamed of when she came home alone back in the late spring. The cottage that seemed like a palace to him after his rooms in the village, he had told her, laughing, a few days ago.
