"Yes, to all of it," Frederick said. "Wedding feast, road repairs, whatever you need."
"Careful," Thomas murmured from nearby. "You'll ruin yourself before the honeymoon."
"It is worth it."
The afternoon stretched on, golden and warm despite the autumn chill. Lydia found herself passed from group to group, receiving blessings and advice and occasionally dire warnings about the challenges ahead. Old Mr Davies told her that love was like a good apple tree—it needed pruning and patience and the occasional thunderstorm to keep it healthy. The chandler's wife offered recipes for keeping a husband happy, most of which involved meat pies and strong ale. Even Reverend Clarke stopped by to offer congratulations, though he also gently suggested that perhaps future kisses might take place somewhere other than the altar.
"I make no promises," Frederick told him solemnly.
Through it all, Boggins hovered at the edges of the celebration, his expression one of quiet satisfaction. When Lydia caught his eye, he offered her a small nod, an acknowledgement,perhaps, of the strange journey that had brought them all to this moment.
"Thank you," she said, finding a moment to approach him. "For bringing him the letter. For standing beside him today."
"I was merely doing my duty, Miss Fletcher." But his eyes were warm. "Though I confess, this particular duty has been considerably more rewarding than polishing silver."
"Was it your idea? The church declaration?"
"His Grace required no prompting. He knew what he needed to do." Boggins paused. "Though I may have suggested that dramatic public gestures tend to have more impact than private conversations. The theatrical arts have their uses."
"You're more than a valet, aren't you?"
"I prefer to think of myself as a facilitator of outcomes." His lips twitched. "And occasionally, a keeper of secrets that need finding."
He melted back into the crowd, leaving Lydia with the distinct impression that Boggins had been orchestrating events far more than anyone realised.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, Lydia and Frederick found a quiet moment on the bench outside the church. The celebration continued behind them, but here, in the shadow of the ancient stone walls, they had something like privacy.
"I keep thinking I'm going to wake up," Lydia said. "That this is all going to turn out to be a dream."
"If it's a dream, I don't want to wake up either." Frederick put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "I've spent thirty years dreaming of something like this and actually having it, feels almost unreal."
"What happens now? After today?"
"Now we plan a wedding. We send announcements to the papers, and we watch society collectively lose its mind." Hesmiled. "And then we build a life. The kind of life my mother wrote about, the kind where love is more important than propriety."
"It won't be easy."
"Nothing worth having ever is." He turned to face her. "Are you scared?"
"Terrified."
"Good. So am I." His hand found hers. "We can be terrified together."
Lydia thought about her parents. About her mother, who had given up everything for love and never regretted it. About her father, who had almost let fear stop him and spent the rest of his life grateful that he hadn't.
She thought about Frederick’s mother, Catherine, who had let fear win and died full of regret. And she thought about the letter hidden behind the piano, waiting decades to deliver its message.
She thought about Helena, whose fear had transformed into cruelty, and who had finally, miraculously—found the courage to let it go.
Fear was everywhere. It was woven into every life, every choice, every moment of uncertainty. The question wasn't whether to feel it, that was inevitable. The question was what to do with it.
Don't let fear make your decision for you.
Catherine's words. Catherine's wisdom, bought at the highest possible price.
Lydia had let fear make her decision once. She had walked away from Frederick because she was terrified of what their love might cost him. She had nearly destroyed everything in a misguided attempt at protection.
She wouldn't make that mistake again.
