Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(77)

Additional flowers had been piled into a pair of massive baskets that were strapped across the back of Beatrix’s mule, Hector. The little mule led the crowd at a dignified pace, while the women walking beside him reached into the baskets and tossed fresh handfuls of petals and blossoms to the ground. A straw hat festooned with flowers had been tied to Hector’s head, his ears sticking out at crooked angles through the holes at the sides.

“Good God, Albert,” Christopher said ruefully to the dog beside him. “Between you and the mule, I think you got the best of the bargain.” Albert had been freshly washed and trimmed, a collar of white roses fastened around his neck. The dog looked wary, clearly not liking the close-packed crowd around them any more than Christopher did.

As the women occupied one half of the street, and the men the other, Christopher caught only occasional glimpses of Beatrix. She was surrounded by village girls dressed in white, ostensibly to confuse evil spirits that might have had designs on the bride. Christopher, for his part, was surrounded by an honor guard comprised of friends from the Rifle Brigade, and a few men from his original cavalry unit.

Finally they reached the church, which was already filled. Violin music filled the air in buoyant strains.

While Christopher went to the front of the church to wait at the altar, Beatrix remained at the back with Leo.

“Beatrix,” her brother asked, “what did you do to Hector?”

“He’s a flower mule,” she said reasonably.

“I hope it won’t distress you to learn that he’s eating his hat.”

Beatrix stifled a giggle.

Bending his head over hers, Leo murmured, “When I give you away at the altar, Bea, I want you to remember something. I’m not really giving you away. I’m merely allowing him the chance to love you as much as the rest of us do.”

Beatrix’s eyes watered, and she leaned against him. “He does,” she whispered.

“I think so, too,” her brother whispered back. “I wouldn’t let you marry him otherwise.”

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed in a daze of happiness. After they exchanged vows, they left the church beneath an arch of swords held up by the honor guard. The front gate was closed—another Stony Cross tradition—and would not be opened until the groom paid the toll. Christopher reached into a velvet bag, pulled out a fistful of gold coins, and tossed them to the crowd. The shower of coins elicited squeals of glee. Three more handfuls were sent into the air, most of the glittering pieces caught before they ever reached the ground.

When every last coin had been retrieved, the assemblage swarmed to the village green, where long tables had been piled high with cakes brought by everyone in Stony Cross. Beatrix and Christopher fed each other bites of cake, while villagers showered them with crumbs to ensure the couple’s fertility.

The crowd continued their celebration on the green as the wedding party departed for Ramsay House. A massive wedding breakfast ensued, with endless rounds of toasting and merriment.

When the lengthy affair was finished, Beatrix was relieved to be able to go upstairs and remove her wedding dress. As Amelia and a housemaid helped to remove the voluminous dress, the three of them started laughing as a shower of cake crumbs fell to the floor.

“That is my least favorite Stony Cross wedding custom,” Beatrix said ruefully, brushing at the remaining few crumbs that clung to her arms. “On the other hand, it’s probably made more than a few birds happy.”

“Speaking of birds, dear . . .” Amelia waited until the maid had gone to draw a bath. “That brings to mind the line from Samuel Coleridge’s poem about spring, ‘The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—’ ”

Beatrix gave her a quizzical glance. “Why do you mention that? It’s autumn, not spring.”

“Yes, but that particular poem mentions birds pairing. I thought you might have some questions for me on that topic.”

“About birds? Thank you, but I know far more about birds than you.”

Amelia sighed, giving up the attempt to be delicate. “Forget the blasted birds. It’s your wedding night—do you want to ask me anything?”

“Oh. Thank you, but Christopher has already, er . . . provided the information.”

Amelia’s brows lifted. “Has he?”

“Yes. Although he used a different euphemism than birds or bees.”

“Did he? What did he reference, then?”

“Squirrels,” Beatrix said. And she turned aside to hide a grin at her sister’s expression.

Although they would be leaving on the morrow for a fortnight in the Cotswolds, Beatrix had assumed that they would spend their wedding night at Phelan House. She had sent a trunk containing some clothes, toiletries, and a nightgown to Christopher’s home. She was surprised, therefore, when Christopher informed her that he had different plans in mind.

After bidding her family good-bye, Beatrix went out to the front drive with Christopher. He had changed from his uniform, with its gleaming jangle of medals, and wore simple tweed and broadcloth, with a simple white cravat tied at his neck. She much preferred him this way, in rougher, simpler clothing—the splendor of Christopher in military dress was nearly too dazzling to bear. The sun was a rich autumn gold, lowering into the black nest of treetops.

Instead of the carriage Beatrix had expected, there was a single horse on the drive, Christopher’s large bay gelding.