Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(100)

Except that—

“I suppose,” he said, drawing back his head with the greatest reluctance, “we had better go up and make the announcement and face the music.”

“You should not find it difficult,” she said as he got to his feet and helped her to hers. “After all, Marcel, you had some practice in Devonshire.”





Twenty-three





“You are quite, quite sure, Mama?” Harry asked. He was standing in the doorway of her bedchamber, looking achingly handsome and smart in his green regimentals, which someone had brushed and cleaned so that they looked almost new. “I know almost everyone was delighted to see Dorchester last night and greeted him and his announcement as though Chr— Well, as though Christmas had come. It was extraordinary. Even Cam and Abby were delighted. Even Uncle Michael shook his hand with great heartiness. But—”

“Harry,” she said, “I am quite sure.”

He relaxed visibly. “Well, then, I am happy too,” he said. “We had better be on our way. You do not want to be late for your own wedding, I am sure.”

“I think,” she said, smiling at him, “it may be the fashionable thing for a bride to do. But you are right. I do not want to be late.”

They were the last two members of the family to be still at the house. Her mother had left with Michael and Mary a few minutes ago, and Alexander and Wren had gone with them. Harry was to give her away.

“I must say,” he said, looking her over from head to foot, “you look as fine as fivepence, Mama.”

She was wearing a cream-colored dress of fine wool, plain, high waisted, high necked, and long sleeved. She had thought it was perhaps not quite festive enough for the occasion. But she was no blushing young bride to be decked out in frills and flounces, and the dress was new, purchased in Bath when she was there a few months ago. She had fallen in love with it on sight and had intended to wear it for the first time on Christmas Day. She was wearing it one day early instead, for her wedding.

“Thank you,” she said, and he strode forward to help her on with the heavy wool cloak that matched the dress in color.

“Those are not the pearls you usually wear, are they?” he asked.

“No.” She smiled quietly to herself. “They were a recent gift. And the earrings.”

“Well.” He eyed them a bit dubiously. “They are very fine.”

And they were on their way to the church in the village under skies heavy with snow clouds that had stubbornly held on to their load for several days now. But even as she thought it, one flake and then another floated down beyond the carriage window.

“Oh look,” Harry said. “Snow. Many more flakes and we may be able to use those old sleds after all.”

But Viola would think of the possibility of a white Christmas later.

Harry handed her down at the church gates and she walked along the churchyard path and into the church porch on his arm. There she removed her cloak and hung it up on a hook while she ran her hands over her dress to smooth out any wrinkles. Someone must have been on watch. The old organ began to play within moments of their arrival, and they proceeded into the church itself and along the nave toward the altar, where the vicar waited.

“Gamamama,” Sarah said, and was immediately hushed.

They walked among family and soon-to-be family. Estelle was sitting in the front pew on the left-hand side beside Abigail and Camille and Joel. Bertrand was on the right-hand side, handsome and dignified in his role as his father’s best man. And . . . Marcel, halfway into the aisle himself so that he could watch her come with intense dark eyes and austere expression. He was wearing a brown coat with a dull gold waistcoat and fawn pantaloons and white linen.

All was right with the world, Viola thought. Sometimes one did feel that way, as though one’s heart expanded to fill with all the love and well-being in the universe. As though nothing could ever happen to shake that inner tranquility no matter what troubles lay ahead. And how fitting it was that she should have that feeling now on her wedding day.

Her only real wedding day.

With Marcel.

Who had come for her and told her he loved her and asked her on bended knee to marry him.

He had even remembered to bring a special license with him.

She smiled inwardly and his eyes grew more intense and his face more austere. She was not deceived for a moment.

And then she was beside him, and his eyes were still focused upon her and her own remained on him even while she allowed her awareness to expand to feel the presence of all who were nearest and dearest to her and of his children, for whose sake he had eventually returned home.

Oh yes, all was right with the world.

The organ had stopped playing.

“Gamamama,” Sarah said again into the silence. Someone shushed her again.

“Dearly beloved,” the vicar said.



* * *



? ? ?

Marcel had not stayed long in the drawing room at Brambledean the evening before, just long enough to make his announcement and endure numerous congratulatory handshakes and more than enough hugs and several backslaps and to wish there were a big black hole into which he could step. What had startled him most, however, was the ecstatic pronouncement by young Winifred, who had apparently been allowed to spend the evening in the drawing room with the adults, that he was going to be her new grandpapa. As soon as he decently could, he had slunk off back to the village inn after a quickly exchanged kiss with Viola in the hall, in full view of an impassive footman. At the inn he had been met by a visibly anxious Estelle and a determinedly unanxious Bertrand and hugs and kisses from the former after he had announced the success of his mission. And another bone-crunching handshake from his son.