Chapter 30
The next several weeks passed by as if in a dream, and Cecelia had to pinch herself over half a dozen times to be certain that it wasn't.
Never in her life had she felt such happiness, her heart swelling further each day as almost every waking moment was spent preparing for what many were calling the wedding of the year.
The banns were read, every fine detail of the wedding planned out, invitations written, signed, sealed, and sent off with a wish that everyone they cherished would be in attendance.
She and George became like ships passing in the night, spending rare moments of affection throughout the planning as they worked hard to see their perfect day executed.
The morning of the wedding saw a bustle of activity at Fernworth that Cecelia had never experienced before. And every servant she passed stopped to congratulate her on her special day.
When she found herself standing before the mirror in her bedroom, wearing the silk wedding gown her mother had worn at her own ceremony, she couldn't quite believe it.
The gown had been adjusted here and there to fit her petite yet curvaceous frame, and as she turned this way and that to admire the handiwork of the seamstress, she couldn't help feeling as if she had never looked more put together.
Her mother, she was certain, would be proud of all the fine details she had seen to in making her look perfect.
“I have them!”
Mary swept into the room in such a flurry that it took Cecelia a moment to realize what she was talking about. In her arms, she held a basket of orange blossom flowers, their vibrant colour the perfect shade of ivory, white with just an undertone of orange.
“Finally! We can add the finishing touches to your hair!” Catherine exclaimed, and before Cecelia could say a word, her little sister grabbed her by the hand and encouraged her to the stool before her vanity table.
She was urged down into the seat, and before she knew it, Mary and Catherine were diligently weaving the orange blossoms into the updo that her maid had spent almost two hours creating.
“When we're finished with you, you're going to look like one of those fairy princesses in Mary's favourite story books,” Catherine insisted, her concentration causing an almost hilarious expression upon her face, the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth between her white teeth.
Cecelia laughed at her words, perhaps because it was the closest to a princess she had ever felt.
All morning, people had been bending over backwards to ensure she had everything she needed.
People had been in and out of her room like a revolving carousel of maids, housekeeper, and butler, all bringing her something, whether it was her dress, her jewellery, her accessories, her shoes, or even news of how the plans were forming.
Even responses to her invitations were still coming in, and to her relief, it seemed everyone would be there for their special moment.
Enjoying the sensation of her sisters playing with her hair, feeling a mixture of happiness and sadness as she imagined this being the last time they were ever like this together, she looked in the mirror and reached up her hand to her chest.
The heart pendant that had sat there ever since George returned it to her – save for the few days she had spent without it due to its being sent off to be polished – shone radiantly, almost pulsating with the affectionate energy that George had placed upon it the moment he had placed it around her neck.
A tear sprang to her eye as she once more remembered the moment when he had returned it to her, the moments that followed, his proposing and her acceptance.
And she discreetly pinched herself again, hiding her little whimper of pain when she realized once more that she was not in fact dreaming.
“How do you feel?” Mary asked, pausing to lay a hand upon Cecelia's shoulder as if she had noticed the tear.
Cecelia laid her hand on her sister's and squeezed her fingers affectionately.
“Catherine is right,” she answered, smiling at her in the mirror, “I feel as if I am in one of your fairy tales.”
Mary smiled brighter than Cecelia had ever seen, and she was surprised when she wrapped her arms around her from behind, giving her such a squeeze that it knocked the breath right out of her. “I'm ever so happy for you.”
“You're just happy for yourself,” Cecelia countered playfully. “Once this is all over, everybody will start looking to you and Walter.”
At that, her sister blushed tomato red.
“That is, if Mama approves,” Mary said, her face reddening further.
“What am I to approve of?”
The authoritative tone of their mother in the doorway caused all three of the sisters to jump.
“Nothing,” Mary insisted even as Cecelia answered, “We were just talking about the next wedding on the horizon.”
“Let us get through this one first!” her mother insisted, though she did look to Mary with affection as if she knew exactly what wedding they were discussing.
It had been no secret in the family that Mary and Walter were growing closer and closer by the day, and Cecelia was almost as excited for them as she was for herself and George.
“Yes, Mama,” Mary said, dipping a curtsey as she stepped out of the way to show Cecelia, “how does she look?”
At her mother's gasp, Cecelia couldn't help cringing. After so many years of being carefully dissected by her mother's scrutiny, she tried her hardest to ready herself for whatever comment was about to come.
“Oh, Cecelia, my darling girl,” her mother said in a tone Cecelia had never heard before. “I don't think you have ever looked more beautiful.”
The tears she had barely been holding onto started to stream down her face. “I don't think I have ever felt more beautiful,” she admitted, feeling for the first time as if she had finally passed muster.
Catherine, having finally placed the final orange blossom in Cecelia's hair, stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“There,” she said, “perfect, positively perfect.”
Her mother crossed the room, watching her in the mirror as she said, “Don't cry, dear. You shall ruin your face.”
Cecelia couldn't help smiling, for that was the mother she knew, always determined for them to have a stiff upper lip.
With her hands on Cecelia's shoulders, she looked at her through the mirror as she asked, “Are you certain you won't wear the family diamonds?”
Cecelia considered the question for a moment, her hand travelling back to her pendant.
Unable to speak, she shook her head. “I promise I shall wear them at the first ball we attend once we are married.”
That seemed to placate her mother, who nodded.
“Are you prepared?” she asked, squeezing her shoulders.
Cecelia breathed deeply. “I think perhaps as ready as I shall ever be.”
Her mother offered her kindest smile then, and assured her, “All will be well.”
Cecelia returned her mother's smile.
It was then that a gentle knock sounded upon the open door of her bedroom.
They all turned expectantly, each one ready to handle whatever came next.
“My Lady,” the butler said, bowing his head as he stood in the doorway, “your uncle has arrived.”
Cecelia looked to her mother, whose eyes widened a little at the mention of her brother.
“I truly did not believe he would come,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
Cecelia reached up a hand to where her mother sat at her shoulder.
They had not seen their uncle in some years, his travelling for business taking him well away from England for long periods.
But he had been a solid part of Cecelia's childhood, visiting every summer with gifts and tales of his travels, and since her father was not there to see her wed, she had written to him in the hopes that he might be the one to walk her down the aisle.
“Do you think that means—” she said, unable to finish for fear of the answer.
Her mother's lips pursed on a happy smile as she met Cecelia’s eye in the mirror and nodded. “I received his response a few days ago,” she admitted, shrugging her shoulders when Cecelia's mouth fell open. “I wished for it to be a surprise on your wedding day.”
At that moment, Cecelia felt as if everything was finally falling into place. All of the careful planning they had spent hours and hours upon over the last several weeks had all come down to this day.
“That is probably our sign that it is time to make our way to the chapel,” her mother said, squeezing Cecelia, who nodded.
Her mother stepped away then and gave a gesture that told them all to stand before her. “Let me look at all of my girls.”
Cecelia was almost certain she could see tears in her mother's eyes as she stood with her sisters on either side of her, their gowns similar shades of palest orange.
The scrutinizing look on her face made Cecelia certain her mother was about to have something to say.
Instead, she turned and grabbed the bouquets from where they had been set out on the bed.
Cecelia's sisters’ were smaller bouquets than her own, but all were a beautiful bundle of orange blossom, baby's breath, and pale orange roses.
And once they all held their own, and their mother stepped back to admire them once more, she mused, “Perfect, absolutely perfect,” and she gave them one final look over before she added, “Girls, give us a moment alone.”
Cecelia's throat constricted. Was there some private criticism her mother wished to give?
Just barely, she stopped herself from grabbing Mary's hand and holding on for dear life.
As if they sensed her anticipation, her sisters paused in the doorway to offer her expressions that encouraged her to be strong.
Sucking in a deep breath, she straightened her back, holding herself with all the dignity she had learned in hours and hours of comportment lessons.
When her mother stepped closer and held out her hand, Cecelia barely dared to take hold of it.
“Look at you,” her mother said in an entirely uncharacteristic emotional voice, “I don't think I have ever seen you glowing so brightly, Cecelia.”
She reached up with her free hand to cup Cecelia's cheek.