"You look," Mrs Thompson said, stepping back, "like a proper duchess."
"I don't feel like a proper duchess."
"Good. Proper duchesses are boring. You look like yourself, which is considerably better." Mrs. Thompson smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the silk. "Your mother would be proud."
Lydia felt her throat tighten. "You knew her well?"
"Everyone knew Eleanor. She was impossible not to know—all that fire and spirit, wrapped up in a lady's manners." Mrs. Thompson's voice softened. "She would have loved this. Seeing you happy. Seeing you fight for what you wanted and win."
"I almost didn't fight. I almost let fear win."
"Almost doesn't count. What counts is what you actually did." Mrs Thompson handed her a small bouquet of wildflowers, gathered from the meadows that morning. "Now. Are you ready?"
Lydia took a deep breath.
"I'm ready."
***
The walk to the church felt like a dream.
The streets were lined with villagers, all of them smiling, many of them calling out congratulations and blessings. Children threw flower petals in her path. Old Mr Davies, positioned near the church gate, tipped his hat with trembling hands and told her she was the prettiest bride he'd seen.
Thomas walked beside her, solid and steady as always. He had refused to wear anything fancier than his best Sunday coat, despite Frederick’s offer to have something tailored for him.
"I'm a blacksmith," he had said. "I shall look like a blacksmith. Anyone who doesn't like it can take it up with me personally."
No one had taken it up with him.
They reached the church doors, and Thomas stopped.
"This is where I leave you," he said. "The rest of the way, you walk alone."
"Uncle…"
"I know. I know." His voice was rough with emotion he was trying to hide. "Your father should be here. Your mother should be here. They should be the ones walking you down that aisle, giving you away."
"But you raised me. You're the one who…"
"I'm the one who got to watch you grow up, who got to see you become the woman you are." Thomas reached out and took her hands. "That was a privilege, Lydia. The greatest privilege of my life."
"I love you." The words came out choked. "I don't say it enough, but I love you. You're the only father I've ever really known."
"And you're the only daughter I ever needed." He squeezed her hands, then released them. "Now go. Go marry your duke. Make your parents proud."
He kissed her forehead, a rare gesture of affection from a man who usually showed his love through actions rather than words, and then he stepped aside, the church doors opened, and Lydia walked into her future.
The church was full.
Every pew was occupied, and every face was turned toward her. The morning light streamed through the stained glass, casting patterns of colour across the stone floor, and the air smelled of flowers, candle wax and something that might have been hope.
She saw faces she knew; Mrs Thompson, already dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief; Robert the carpenter, looking uncomfortable in his formal clothes; Molly, bouncing with barely contained excitement in the front row. She saw faces she didn't know as well; a few of Frederick’s acquaintances from London, the brave ones who had defied society's disapproval to attend.
And at the front of the church, standing beside Reverend Clarke, she saw Frederick.
He was dressed in dark blue, a color that brought out the gray-blue of his eyes. His hair was neatly combed, his cravat tied with unusual precision—Boggins' work, no doubt. He looked, Lydia thought, like a man who had been waiting his whole life for this moment.
And maybe he had.
