Someone to Care (Westcott #4)(101)

“You see, Papa?” Bertrand had said. “We were right.”

And indeed they had been.

And then it was morning, his wedding day, and he would have bolted for the farthest horizon if he could have taken Viola with him again, as he had done on another memorable occasion a few months ago. Oh, and the twins too. And, to be fair, her daughters and son-in-law and the three children, including the one who clearly had every intention of calling him Grandpapa. Good God, he was only forty. He did not even have rheumatic knees yet. Oh, and her son could come too if he wanted to desert from his regiment.

On the whole it had seemed wiser to stay and endure all the tedious pomp of a wedding and a wedding breakfast and more hugs and kisses and whatnot despite the fact that he had brought a special license and so avoided the horror of a meticulously planned wedding of the ilk of Margaret’s at Redcliffe recently. Isabelle had even wanted him to repaint the dining room to match the color of the flowers she and her daughter had planned. He had suggested they change the color of the flowers instead, an idea that had been greeted with faint shrieks and upflung hands and an exclamation of “Men!”

And now here he was at the church, intensely aware of Bertrand at his right and Estelle across the aisle to his left. And of the strange transformation his life had undergone in the few months since he had looked beyond a taproom door to the newly arrived guest who was bent over the register the innkeeper had turned for her signature.

And then he was intensely aware of the vicar coming from the vestry and of the organ beginning to wheeze and produce music, and of the arrival as he got to his feet and turned to look back of the fierce young puppy, who looked really quite formidable today in his full regimentals. And . . . Ah . . .

Viola.

Understated in an unadorned cream dress, allowing all her elegance and beauty to speak for themselves. And they spoke loudly and clearly to the deepest chambers of his heart. Or rather they shone and warmed his whole being. He gazed at her as she approached on her son’s arm, no longer aware of anyone or anything else. He gazed as though only by doing so could he keep her here and prevent her from disappearing while he awoke from a dream.

She was not smiling. At least her lips were not. But she had that ability he had noticed before of smiling with her eyes and her whole face and rendering the curving of lips redundant.

Viola, the love of his heart—which sugary language he did not stop to analyze.

It was only as she took her place beside him that he noticed the only adornments she wore—the large, cheap pearls about her neck and at her ears.

And she smiled, a full-on smile that everyone would see. And he became aware of everyone again—of his son on his other side, of Viola’s son on her other side, of Estelle beyond him, of all Viola’s family members, soon to be his, half filling the church behind them. He was aware of the silence as the organ stopped playing. He heard the infant granddaughter—soon to be his—identify her grandmother aloud before being shushed.

“Dearly beloved,” the vicar said.

And then it began—the rest of his life.



* * *



? ? ?

It was snowing when they stepped out of the church. Thick white flakes were descending and melting as they landed, but the heat of the ground was fighting a losing battle against the onslaught the clouds were unleashing upon it. Already the grass was turning white, as were the roofs of the carriages. But despite the weather, a number of curious villagers had gathered beyond the church gates and cheered, some of them self-consciously, when it became obvious to them that a wedding had taken place—that of the former countess, in fact. Who was now, the innkeeper’s wife was not shy about explaining, the Marchioness of Dorchester, since that was the marquess with her. He was the grand gentleman who had stayed at the inn last night.

Mildred’s boys and Winifred were out on the church path armed with colorful flower petals they had wheedled out of a reluctant gardener proud of his hothouses. They threw them over the bridal couple as they hurried along the path toward Marcel’s carriage, cackling and whooping as they did so.

“Young jackanapes,” Marcel said, brushing at his greatcoat and shaking off his hat before joining Viola inside the carriage. He was too late, as it happened. Young Ivan had kept back one fistful of petals for just this moment.

And then they were in the carriage alone, and it was moving off from the gates so that the next carriage could draw in behind it, and a grating, banging, clanging, dragging sound assailed their ears.

“We began with carriage trouble,” Marcel said, raising his voice above the din. “We might as well continue with it. I suppose there are boots attached back there and other paraphernalia. There is at least one pot. Anyone would think we had just got married.”

He turned toward her and smiled, and she smiled back.

“I think that is exactly what has just happened,” he said.

“Yes.”

He gazed at her. “And there is a wedding celebration to come,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed. “And carolers this evening and the Yule log and the wassail bowl. And Christmas tomorrow. And probably sledding and snowball fights and snow angels and goose and plum pudding.”

“And there is the time between this evening and tomorrow,” he said. “Just for you and me.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Could we practice just a little bit now?” he suggested.