Simon looked at Beatrice and Edward. “Well, we thought we might take breakfast together. If you’re free.”
Edward gestured toward the breakfast room. “We were just heading in.”
Amelia beamed. “Perfect.”
As the four of them walked into the breakfast room, Simon leaned toward Amelia, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with a tenderness that made her blush.
Beatrice saw it and felt a gentle warmth bloom inside her—happiness for them both. After months of turmoil, they were finally settled, finally safe, finally choosing each other without hesitation.
It felt right. It felt earned. Seeing them like this eased something inside her.
The last notes of the recessional faded as Amelia and Simon stepped back into the aisle, hand in hand, their faces luminous with quiet joy.
The wedding had been sweet and simple. Just two people who had finally found their way back to each other.
Cecily sniffed loudly from the front pew. “Oh, they’re lovely,” she whispered.
Margaret nodded with such vigor that her bonnet trembled. Beatrice laughed under her breath. Sebastian gave Simon a proud nod.
Guests rose to their feet with warm applause and murmured congratulations. Pip, now cradled in Amelia’s arms, blinked curiously at the sound, her tiny mouth forming an O of surprise. She had been bundled into a small ivory gown for the wedding, and Amelia kept smoothing it with tender strokes.
When the applause died down, the vicar beckoned the small congregation to the baptismal font. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden ribbons across the stone floor and softening the solemnity of the moment.
Beatrice stepped forward, smoothing her gloves over and over. Edward came to stand beside her, his hands clasped behind him.
They exchanged a brief nod of acknowledgment, both of them taking their places as godparents. They both knew the importance of their role today, and both turned their attention to Amelia, who approached with Pip cradled close.
Mrs. Hart, standing proudly near the front, looked so close to tears.
Simon rested a steadying hand on Amelia’s back, his new ring catching the light. He glanced down at their daughter with a smile that held immense love. “She’s ready,” he announced.
The vicar welcomed them all with a warm expression.
“Today we christen this child, born into uncertainty but now embraced in truth, family, and love. What name do her parents give her?” His voice echoed gently beneath the high arches.
Amelia swallowed, her voice trembling with emotion. “Eliza. Eliza Beatrix Pembroke.”
A soft murmur of approval rippled through the guests.
Cecily whispered, “A pretty name,” while Mrs. Hart dabbed at her eyes.
Beatrice felt warmth bloom inside her. Eliza finally had her rightful name, spoken aloud with joy, not fear.
Beatrix…
The name carried a piece of her, a soft reflection tucked into Eliza’s. It was a gift, a link she would always share with the child, a promise of care, guidance, and steadfast presence.
She straightened slightly, brimming with tender pride at being entrusted with something so precious.
The vicar looked at the godparents. “His Grace, the Duke of Wrexford, and Her Grace, the Duchess of Wrexford, do you stand as godparents to Eliza, promising to guide her in faith and in life?”
Beatrice stepped forward, her voice steady. “I do. I promise to support her with kindness and truth, and to stand by her as she grows up.”
As soon as she stepped back, she felt Edward move beside her. His reply was calm and sure. “I do. I promise to protect her, offer her counsel when she seeks it, and uphold her place in this family with honor.”
His voice wavered a little at the end.
Beatrice refused to look at him for more than a fraction of a second. It was safer that way.
