The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(82)
“I’m teary and useless, Miss,” Jane added. “Aside from my lady, I’ve never seen a more beautiful bride.” She fussed over the back of Oriana’s skirts, pressing out a wrinkle that caught her attention. “The Captain will be mighty proud when ’e sees ye.”
“Thank ye, Jane,” Oriana said, feeling happier than she’d ever thought possible.
After today, she’d no longer be alone. Once Mr. Pickering officiated the nuptials, she’d have a new life, a husband, a beautiful and loving sister, and a new set of parents and friends. From this day forth, she would be a lady in every sense of the word.
She turned to Chloe and her soon-to-be mother-in-law. “I am more than grateful for the kindnesses you’ve shown me ever since ye arrived,” she told them.
“Forgive us for making a fuss, Oriana.” Chloe reached out for Oriana’s hands, squeezed them, and then transferred them into her mother’s. “We are overjoyed that you are to be part of our family.”
“Yes,” Lady Walsingham said. “Without you, my darling new daughter, I would not have any children left. You saved my Chloe’s life and you’ve given me back a dead son. I will never be able to repay you.”
“I had no hand in that, my lady.” A tidal wave of emotion poured out of her heart and into her limbs, warming her through and through.
“That isn’t what Pierce told me.” Lady Walsingham let go of Oriana’s hands and placed her own trembling ones on Oriana’s shoulders. “I know it was you who convinced him it wasn’t too late to come home.”
Oriana gave a small smile and embraced Pierce’s mother, her heart heavy as she tried to keep her inner turmoil from altering her voice. “A family’s bond can never be broken unless one chooses to break it.”
Lady Walsingham kissed her forehead, patted her cheeks, and then turned to leave the room. “Come along, Chloe. We mustn’t keep your brother waiting.”
“Never,” Chloe said, flashing Oriana a smile. “The Captain would never allow it.”
Chloe reached out for her mother’s hand, and together, with Jane, they left the room, the door closing soundlessly behind them.
In the ensuing quiet, Oriana clasped Mrs. Pickering’s hand. “I—” Her voice broke.
“You did the hardest thing, Oriana, but a thing that had to be done. And now you must move on. Your brother is gone; he can never hurt you again. His followers have been rounded up, and the magistrate who assisted his misdeeds has been singled out. You are free now, my dear. Free to live the life you want.”
Oriana nodded. To buttress the fragmented edges of her heart, she tried to focus on the love Pierce had shown her and had promised to provide for the rest of her days.
“I cannot help but feel guilty,” she admitted. “I’m not accustomed to happiness.”
Mrs. Pickering ran her finger along Oriana’s jaw. “Then you must treasure what you have, always, my dear. Never let it go. Without sorrow, none of us can ever be truly happy.”
Oriana nodded, her nerves finally beginning to calm. “I am ready.”
Mrs. Pickering took her hand and led Oriana out of the parlor, through the vicarage, down the connecting corridor, and up a flight of stone stairs. Then they entered the church.
Lilac and lavender adorned oak pews dating from the Renaissance. Carved with coats of arms, intertwining foliage, figureheads, and angels, the pews lined up in rows beneath vertical windows, buttressed arches, and molded oak ribs on the ceiling. Fine slates commemorating the deaths of notable Cornish families ornamented the southern and eastern walls, and ledger stones inlaid in the aisle were carved in relief, honoring the dead.
An oak pulpit with carved panels, choir stalls carved with grapes and vines, and altar rails with their turned balusters bordered a font of Bath stone embellished with quatrefoils at the head of the sanctuary. Between them, Mr. Pickering stood smiling, a copy of Fordyce’s Sermons in his hand.
Oriana and Mrs. Pickering walked down the aisle to the altar where Pierce waited, his blue eyes drinking her in. Love flooded her veins as she looked upon him, their future so close she could barely contain herself. When they reached him, Mrs. Pickering embraced her, and as Oriana turned, she smiled at the Duke and Duchess of Blackmoor who stood in a place of honor in the very first pew. The tall, dark-headed duke stood erect next to his petite, blond wife who, like Chloe, was with child.
Oriana faced Pierce, meeting his gaze and, for the first time, she felt truly blessed. He took her hand in his, threading their fingers together.
Mr. Pickering nodded at them. As the vicar began to speak, pisky wings fluttered in Oriana’s breast. “The honor and peace of a family are much more dependent upon the conduct of daughters than of sons, and one young lady going astray shall subject her relations to such discredit and distress . . .” Mr. Pickering lowered his bespectacled eyes and gazed at Oriana.
“I am far from thinking she would assume the airs of sanctimonious prudery,” he went on, “or indulge it in the style of supercilious censure, things totally different from the form of education we have figured her to receive.”
Mrs. Pickering cleared her throat loudly, reminding Oriana that she’d asked her husband not to overemphasize Fordyce’s Sermons. In the defense of his favorite tome, Mr. Pickering had explained that Oriana was the closest thing he had to a daughter and every grand wedding included Dr. Fordyce’s advice.