Mary wiped her own eyes with the back of her glove. “Someone has to.”
The rector pronounced them married. William kissed Charlotte, gentle and thorough, and Tommy, who had been sleeping in a basket beside the altar, chose this moment to announce his opinion with a wail that echoed off the stone walls.
The congregation laughed. Charlotte scooped him up and held him between them, and William kissed the top of Tommy’s head, and the three of them stood at the altar in the French sunlight, a family at last.
Evander’s hand found Mary’s in her lap. His fingers laced through hers and held.
“To the bride and groom. And to France, which has the good sense to welcome them.”
Quentin raised his glass. The long table beneath the chestnut trees erupted in cheers, and Charlotte buried her face in William’s shoulder, laughing, and William lifted his glass with the stunned gratitude of a man who still could not believe his fortune.
The celebration filled the garden of a stone farmhouse Evander had rented for the occasion. Tables draped in white linen stretched beneath the trees, laden with bread and cheese and summer fruit and bottles of wine that the local vintner had delivered at dawn. Paper lanterns hung from the branches, unlit for now but ready for the evening, and the air smelled of cut grass and warm stone and the jasmine that grew along the garden wall.
Mary sat beside Evander at the head of the table and watched the people she loved spread across the garden. Isabella and Charlotte sat with their heads together at the far end, catchingup on a month of separation with the speed and volume of two women who had a great deal to say. Quentin had charmed Isabella’s mother into a conversation about Italian opera, and Isabella’s father had found common ground with William over the merits of French bread versus English.
Richard rose from his seat and crossed to Evander. He carried two glasses of wine and offered one.
“Lucrezia and I have news.” Richard kept his voice low, but his face gave everything away. The brightness in his eyes. The barely contained joy. “She said yes.”
Evander took the glass. “When?”
“Last week. I asked her in the garden of thepensionein Florence, and she told me my Italian was terrible and my proposal was worse, and then she kissed me and said yes.” Richard grinned. “We plan to marry this fall. In Lucrezia’s family’s church. You and Mary will come?”
“We will come.” Evander lifted his glass. “Congratulations, Richard.”
“Thank you. For everything.” Richard’s voice roughened. “For finding me. For believing me. For giving me the chance to build something instead of hiding from what I had broken.”
Evander gripped his brother’s shoulder. The gesture was brief and firm and said more than the conversation that surrounded it.
Quentin appeared at Richard’s side. “Italy. How romantic. Will there be a vineyard? I insist on a vineyard. I refuse to attend a wedding without one.”
“There will be a vineyard,” Richard said.
“And a soprano? Lucrezia must sing at her own wedding. It would be criminal otherwise.”
“She has already chosen the aria.”
“Excellent. I will clear my calendar. My very busy, very important calendar.” Quentin drained his glass. “Blackholm, your family is becoming exhaustingly well-traveled. At this rate, I shall need a Continental wardrobe.”
“You already have one,” Evander said.
“I have three. But they require updating.”
Mary laughed. Quentin bowed to her with a theatrical flourish and wandered back toward the wine table, and Richard followed, and the garden hummed with conversation and laughter and the particular, irreplaceable warmth of people gathered to celebrate something good.
Isabella dropped into the chair beside Mary, flushed from the sun and two glasses of wine. “How does it feel? Watching your sister marry the man she loves in a French garden?”
“It feels like the end of a very long story.”
“And the beginning of a new one.” Isabella glanced at Evander, who was speaking with William at the far end of the table. “You look different, Mary. Both of you. Lighter.”
“We are lighter.”
“Thetonhas been remarkably dull without you. Lady Thornton has taken to spreading rumors about Lady Abernathy’s pug again, for lack of better material.” Isabella sipped her wine. “And the story about Tommy?”
“Holding.” Mary kept her voice low. “Evander put it about that the child was a distant nephew, entrusted to our care temporarily until a relation in the country could take guardianship. There has been whispering. There is always whispering. But no one has discovered the truth, and Evander has made it quite clear that speculation will not be tolerated.”
“Dire consequences?”
