Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(104)

This was a moment of quiet reflection. A short while ago her dressing room had been crowded as her maid dressed her hair and everyone else handed the maid needed items or commented upon how gorgeous Gwyneth looked and how clever it was of her to have aimed for simplicity when most brides wanted to look as fussy as it was possible to look.

“It is because Gwyneth is perfectly beautiful as she is and does not need adornment,” her Welsh aunt had said, beaming at her.

“Do you think I will weep when Ifor brings her into the church?” Gwyneth’s mother had asked.

“Yes!” everyone had chorused, except the maid, who had merely smiled.

“Well, I will not, then,” her mother had said. “Just to spite you all. Come to see Gwyn, have you, Eluned? And your mam too? Yes, yes, we can make room for two more.”

But they had not stayed after exclaiming over how lovely Gwyneth looked and kissing her cheek without touching any of her curls. It was time for them to leave for the church, and Eluned’s father had told them they must be down within one minute or else.

“Mind you, Gwyneth,” Eluned had said, laughing. “I have never yet discovered what exactly Dad means when he says or else. It is all meaningless bluster, I daresay.”

It had been time for Gwyneth’s aunt to go to church too. And time for the two bridesmaids to go and get ready themselves, especially as the third bridesmaid had just arrived. Gwyneth’s maid had gone with them to help with their hair. Her mother had gone to make sure Sir Ifor was still in possession of his sanity, and an extra linen handkerchief in the event that she would need it herself.

And Gwyneth had been left alone for a few minutes to watch the snow fall and to savor the realization that this was her wedding day. Her and Devlin’s. And she was ready.

Both her mother and Mrs. Proctor had been dubious about her choice of a wedding gown. But she had persisted, and Mrs. Proctor had outdone herself. It was of fine white wool, long sleeved, high to the neck, and falling almost straight from under her bosom. It appeared unadorned, but it shimmered with a smattering of sequins, which were otherwise almost invisible. Just yesterday the Countess of Stratton, who later today would be the dowager countess, had presented her with an heirloom brooch in the form of a spray of flowers, the largest of which had always reminded her of the star of Bethlehem, she had told Gwyneth. It was pinned to the dress now, just below the shoulder, the one splash of color on the dress itself.

Spread across her bed was the cloak she would wear, for it was winter and a dress, even with long sleeves, would not be warm enough. The cloak was a bright scarlet velvet and bordered up the sides and around the wide hood with a thick white lamb’s wool.

She was not alone for long.

“Everyone who should have left for church has done so,” her mother said, coming into Gwyneth’s bedchamber after tapping on the door. “Dad is downstairs pacing like a caged dragon.”

“I suppose,” Gwyneth said, turning from the window with a smile, “he is worried about the music as much as he is about leading me down the aisle.”

Her bridesmaids came into the room at that moment. Philippa was dressed in her pale pink gown with matching cloak. Stephanie was in pale peach. And Joy, in Stephanie’s arms and sucking her thumb, still obviously not quite sure she was not going to make a fuss about her father bringing her here and then leaving her alone with her aunts, looked like a shimmering snowflake in white. The bow in her hair must be almost as large as her head.

“Oh,” Gwyneth said. “All three of you look beautiful.” She wagged a finger at Stephanie, who had made the derisive puffing sound with the lips that was characteristic of her. “I said all three of you.” Philippa’s hair had been elaborately styled. Stephanie’s was in its usual heavy braids wrapped about her head.

“Sir Ifor is complaining that his cravat is a size too small,” Philippa said.

Stephanie clucked her tongue. “He says that every time we have a special concert,” she said. “When we were in Wales for the eisteddfod, he said it was three sizes too small.”

Joy wriggled to get down and went to pat the wool on Gwyneth’s cloak and run her hand over it.

Idris poked his head about the door. “I say,” he said. “Everyone is looking as fine as fivepence in here. Is there a person inside all those frills over there? It has white shoes. Ah, it is Joy Ellis. All right, Gwyn?”

“All right.” She smiled at him.

“Ready, then, Mam?” he asked. “It is time we were on our way. We had better get on ahead of the bride.”

Her mother hurried toward her and hugged her wordlessly before leaving the room.

“And time we followed,” Gwyneth said. Philippa crossed the room to help her on with her cloak and arrange the hood becomingly at her back.

“I am so glad happiness is returning,” she said. “Oh, you look . . . stunning, Gwyneth. Does she not, Steph? Just wait until Dev sees her!”

Stephanie was taking Joy by the hand.

It was her wedding day, Gwyneth thought as she went downstairs and her father stopped his pacing to gaze up at her with eyes that were suspiciously bright.

“Oh, Gwyn, fach,” he said. “I am speechless. Speechless I am.” And it seemed he was too after speaking those few words.

She kissed his cheek, squeezed his hand, and turned to the door, which the butler was holding open.