“I can see that, sweetheart.” Nell pulled both children close, tucking Lily under one arm and reaching for Oliver with the other. He allowed the embrace, leaning into her side with a sigh that spoke of exhaustion finally releasing its grip.
They stayed like that for a long moment — the three of them tangled together in the warmth of the bed while snow fell silent outside the window. Safe. Whole. Together.
“Are you nervous?” Lily tilted her head back to look up at Nell’s face.
“A little.” Nell smoothed a hand over her daughter’s wild curls, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. “Are you?”
“Why would I be nervous?” Lily’s brow furrowed, and she gave a small, dramatic shrug. “I am not the one getting married. I am just throwing flowers.”
“Very important flowers.” Nell leaned down to kiss her forehead.
“Do not be nervous, Mama.” Oliver reached out and patted his mother’s hand with a gravity that was too old for a nine-year-old, yet lighter than it had been in months. “He loves you. Anyone can see it.”
Nell’s throat tightened. “When did you get so wise?”
“I have always been wise.” The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close.
Another knock sounded, and the door swung open to admit Daphne, Martha, and Philippa in a flurry of silk and chatter. Daphne’s temple still showed faint bruising where Gabriel had thrown her against the bakery shelves, the yellow-green of a healing wound, and her left wrist was splinted and bound in clean linen. She had refused to miss this day.
“Up, up!” Philippa clapped her hands, her eyes already bright with tears she was fighting to contain as she swept toward the curtains. “We have a bride to prepare! Children, off to Martha for breakfast. You will see your mother at the church.”
“But—” Lily started, her lower lip jutting forward.
“No arguments.” Martha scooped the girl off the bed with practised ease, settling her on one hip despite the fading bruise on her own jaw. “Come along. There is chocolate and toast waiting in the nursery.”
The promise of chocolate worked its magic, and Lily allowed herself to be carried off with only a few backward glances. Oliver followed more slowly. He paused at the door, his hand resting on the brass handle, and looked back at his mother.
“You look happy.” He said it quietly, almost to himself, a small nod of approval accompanying the words. “I am glad.”
Then he was gone, and Nell was left with her three attendants and a heart so full it threatened to overflow.
The next hours slipped by in warm water and rose petals, in careful hands and low instructions. Martha pinned Nell’s dark hair in an elaborate arrangement threaded with small white flowers, leaving a few loose curls to frame her face. The white streak at her temple gleamed silver against the darker strands. For once, Nell did not try to hide it. Let them see. Let them know what she had survived.
“Mama.” Lily stopped in the doorway when she returned, her flower-girl gown of white silk and pink ribbons forgotten entirely. “You look like someone out of a painting.”
“She looks like a viscountess.” Daphne corrected, her good hand working the last of the tiny silk buttons up the back of Nell’s dress while she braced the splinted wrist against her hip. “Which is what she is about to become.”
The dress was cream silk scattered with seed pearls. It fit like it had been made for her, every seam crafted to flatter her curves rather than hide them. Nell stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror and barely recognised the woman looking back. She was not the baker with flour on her hands and exhaustion in her eyes. She was not the widow running from her past. She was not the woman with bruises on her throat and terror in her heart.
She was someone new. Someone whole. Someone free.
“Oh, my dear.” Philippa pressed a lace handkerchief to her eyes, giving up any pretence of composure as she stepped closer to adjust the veil. “My nephew is the luckiest man in England. In the world. He does not deserve you.”
“He saved my life.” Nell turned from the mirror and took Philippa’s hands in hers, squeezing gently. “He saved my children. I think that earns him a little luck.”
“He would say you saved him right back.” Philippa squeezed her fingers in return. “And he would be right.”
Oliver appeared in the doorway, dressed in his first proper suit — dark blue wool with a cream waistcoat, his dark hair combed back from his face. He looked uncomfortable and proud, his shoulders squared as he attempted to appear impossibly grown up. Nell’s eyes burned at the sight of him.
“The carriage is ready.” A sudden, jagged catch in his throat betrayed him as he adjusted the fit of his new waistcoat, the sound hovering between boy and man. “Are you — are you ready?”
Nell crossed to him and cupped his face in her hands. “Ready to walk me down the aisle?”
“Ready.” He covered her hands with his own — his palms startlingly large and warm against her skin — and gave a single, solemn nod. “Let us go get you married.”
The carriage ride through the village felt like a dream. Snow had blanketed everything in white, turning the familiar streets into something magical and strange. Villagers had come out despite the cold to watch the procession pass, calling out blessings and throwing dried flowers and winter berries that scattered across the snow like crimson confetti.
The church rose before them, its ancient stone walls draped in holly and winter roses, candles glowing warm in every window. Half the ton had come, it seemed — carriages lined the lane while footmen stamped their feet against the cold and fine ladies in furs hurried inside.
