Epilogue
Six months later
It was, perhaps, a great irony that Sabine Noble, the third and final Bride of Belgravia, the most reluctant and cynical, was the bride to insist upon a second wedding, a real wedding, with proper guests and a vicar, a breakfast feast, and music.
“Our original wedding was the most rushed of all,” Sabine told Willow and Tessa as Perry dressed her hair. They sat in Sabine’s old bedroom waiting for the summons to the tiny stone chapel on the grounds of Park Lodge. Maids rushed in and out, collecting parasols and shawls and chasing Bridget with a yellow satin bow for her neck. The gardener had come and gone three times with possible bouquets and a pail of flowers for Sabine’s hair.
“I actually had a bloody lip and a black eye at my first wedding,” recalled Sabine, frowning into the mirror.
The housekeeper came in to show off a tray of honey tarts, one of a hundred baked for the occasion. Willow approved the tarts and sent the servant away.
“Stoker,” Sabine finished, “could not fill out the special license without sending a messenger to learn my full name.”
“I think the second wedding is a brilliant idea,” said Tessa, selecting fragrant purple crocus blossoms from the pail to tuck into her hair. “I might steal the idea and stage a second wedding of my own.”
“Is it unseemly,” wondered Sabine, “for the parents of three small children to indulge in a second marriage? Especially since their first wedding was one of the grandest in the country?”
Tessa tossed a limp flower at Sabine and then intercepted a maid who’d arrived with a note about the musicians.
When the servant had gone, Willow shut the bedroom door and clicked the lock. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re putting on a proper celebration, Sabine. And to include your mother, and the Courtlands, and my aunt Mary and uncle Arthur—all of us—it’s sweet.”
“Now you’re gloating,” teased Sabine, “because your master plan has come to such remarkable fruition. You are like Wellington, parading through the streets of London after victory.”
“Stop. It is your wedding, and I am merely a guest,” Willow said. “There is nothing about which to gloat. All I did was find a way for the three of us to leave Surrey. Falling in love was this magical thing we each managed on our own.”
“We always had more to offer the world than Surrey could offer,” sighed Tessa philosophically, gazing out the window.
Sabine and Willow exchanged a look. If Sabine’s second wedding was her irony, Tessa’s irony was that she’d gone along with Willow’s scheme, despite never having given the world outside Surrey a second thought. The old Tessa St. Clair had wanted nothing more than to be someone’s pretty wife and settle down on an estate in her serene hometown village of Pixham. Now she relished her job as Harbor Master in the bustling port town of Hartlepool on the coast of the North Sea.
“Will you take your children to Berrymede, Tessa?” asked Sabine casually, speaking of Tessa’s childhood home.
Tessa shrugged. “I haven’t decided. They’ve invited us to stay as their guests, but we are settled at the Pixham Inn. Joseph says that I may choose, but I shall consider it only after I’ve seen how they regard my children at the wedding—allof my children.”
Tessa’s oldest son, Christian, was the result of an attack she’d suffered before she was married. When her parents discovered her pregnancy, they had expelled her from the family. Willow’s “Brides of Belgravia” scheme arranged for Tessa to marry Joseph Chance instead, and now he proudly raised Christian as his own son. Tessa’s family had since become conciliatory and, in their own way, repentant for turning Tessa out, but forgiveness was a struggle.
“I hope you don’t mind that I invited your parents, Tess,” said Sabine gently. “They might as well see that all of us have succeeded.”
“I look forward to showing off my children and my husband,” said Tessa. “Of course you should have invited them.”
“And your mother, Willow?” ventured Sabine, looking at her friend, now the Countess of Cassin.
“If ever I meant to promenade in victory, it would be before my mother,” said Willow. “And why not? I’ve found happiness on my own terms, and become a countess along the way.” She crossed the room to Sabine’s vanity. “The only missing guest is wretched Sir Dryden.”
“Indeed,” Sabine said bitterly, “but they do not allow furlough from Newgate Prison to attend weddings.”
“Will he hang, do you think?” Willow asked. “Your case for treason is strong.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” Sabine waved the notion away. “When all trace of Dryden and his conspirators were removed from Park Lodge, I allowed myself to move forward and not dwell on him or smuggling or the rest of it.”
Behind Sabine, Perry secured one final miniature daffodil to the crown of her head and then stepped back, clapping her hands together. “There you are, Miss Sabine, er, Mrs. Noble. Just look at you.” She beamed in the mirror.
Sabine stared back, turning her head this way and that. “Lovely, Perry. Thank you. Having you travel from Yorkshire with Lady Willow was an unexpected gift.”
“Oh, I couldn’t have you marry Mr. Stoker a second time without being properly looked after.” The maid turned to the other women in the room. “You should have seen Miss Sabine’s hair the afternoon I arrived in London. It was like the hair of a wild woman, living in the forest, no hat, not a single pin. I’ve never seen so much wild, loose hair.”
Sabine cleared her throat, hiding a smile, and Tessa said, “Well, there is a style for every occasion, isn’t there? You will discover this after you are married to his lordship’s valet, Marcus. In the meantime, rest assured your current bridal creation is a stroke of genius. She looks beautiful.”
“Simply beautiful,” agreed Willow, coming to stand behind her friend.
