Epilogue
ON THE MORNING of the wedding, Sarah prepared in her bedroom, with Anne and the Duchess of Northcott who had insisted on waiting on her.
“A girl needs a sister on her wedding day,” was all Mary had said, when Sarah had tried to argue against a duchess playing ladies maid.
It was lucky Mary had been so insistent, for from the moment she awoke, Anne had spent the whole day in a state of heightened emotion. The poor girls tears had been so profuse, that Mary had banished her to the kitchen to arrange the bouquet, lest she got a water stain on Sarah’s silk skirts.
“It would be a shame to ruin such a becoming gown,” Mary clucked, as she crouched to straighten the hem.
Glancing in the mirror, Sarah could only agree.
The dress had been made by a modiste in Cirencester, and was the most luxurious item she had ever owned.
ts bodice was delicately embroidered with seed pearls that caught the morning light, while the silk skirts swept to her toes in a graceful fall of rose-pink.
In her hair, she wore what she now thought of as her lucky-ribbon.
“You are the most beautiful bride to have ever lived,” Mary declared, as Sarah finally pronounced herself ready.
It was a definite case of hyperbole, but Sarah allowed it. A bride should accept compliments graciously on her wedding day, after all.
A knock sounded upon the door and before Sarah could reply, a familiar voice floated in from the hallway.
“May I come in?” came the voice of Mrs Mifford. Given her tendency to enter rooms before permission was granted, this was a touching gesture in itself.
She bustled in a moment later and took Sarah’s hands in her own.
“My dear you are radiant,” she declared, her eyes misty with tears. “I am sorry that your own mother is not here to see you wed, but I know that she would be over the moon to know that you have made, not just a love match, but a comfortable one.”
“Mama,” Mary protested her crassness.
“What?” Mrs Mifford looked affronted. “Let us not ignore that the best thing a girl can do to secure her future is to make an advantageous match. I know I have been accused of meddling—and, on one memorable occasion, manhandling—when it comes to matchmaking, but it comes from a place of love. I can rest easy now, Sarah, knowing your future is secure in the hands of Lord Deverell.”
Sarah was momentarily touched by her heartfelt declaration. Her eyes did not get a chance to water, before Mrs Mifford spoke again.
“Now,” she cleared her throat, “As you do not have your own mother with you today, I came to see if you would like me to go over what to expect from the marriage bed.”
“Mama, no,” Mary gave a strangled cry. “You forget that I am a married woman now and can share with Sarah what to expect. Why don’t you go down and tell Papa I’ll be ready in a moment?”
“Oh, alright,” Mrs Mifford agreed, before bustling away to find her husband.
As the door shut behind her, Mary gave a long-suffering sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“She means well,” the duchess said, patting the coverlet beside her for Sarah to sit. “But she gave me such a fright the morning of my wedding that I went to bed armed with a knitting needle.”
“A knitting needle?” Sarah repeated, aghast.
“To protect myself from Northcott,” Mary giggled at the memory. “Of course, I soon discovered that marriage bed can be tremendous fun. And, of course, it is a means by which a lady can expand her family.”
Mary glanced down at her stomach fondly and Sarah let out a gasp.
“You’re increasing?” she whispered, a little startled by the idea that a second Baby George would soon enter the world.
“Yes,” Mary nodded happily, “As is Eudora, if you’d credit it?”
“Well, I did hear that Lord Delaney was very committed to the process,” Sarah laughed, though before she could explain herself, her father called from downstairs that it was time to leave.
With one last glance in the mirror, the two girls rushed down the stairs, laughing and giggling as they had when they were girls.
They parted outside, with Mary clambering into a carriage with her mother and Sarah a separate carriage with her father.
“You look beautiful,” Sarah’s father said simply, once they were alone in the compartment.
“Oh, Papa,” she was momentarily heartbroken to leave him. “Are you certain you’ll be alright? I went through a month’s worth of menus with Anne and she knows what’s what in the medicine press—”
“Hush, lass,” her father urged, patting her hand affectionately. “I don’t want you worrying about my dinner on your wedding day. You’re about to become a countess, you’ll have to get used to people fussing over you for a change.”
Sarah nodded and settled back into her seat. Through the window, she watched with nostalgia at each familiar hedge and home they passed. By the time they reached Plumpton, she felt a lump in her throat at the idea of leaving the village and all her friends behind.
Mr McDowell stood outside the grocer’s to watch the procession, while Mr Henderson gave a saucy wink from his perch at the door of the butchers. Outside The Ring, as Mr Marrowbone raised his pint in toast to the passing carriage, Sarah felt a tear slip down her cheek.
“Wales isn’t so far away,” her father consoled her, as he noted her tears.
Sarah nodded and patted her eyes with a handkerchief; she was just being emotional, that was all. She’d visit Plumpton often from Abergavenny—possibly she’d even make a return visit before she’d learned to properly spell the name of her new home!
Outside St Mary’s a crowd had gathered to watch Sarah enter the church. She walked in on her father’s arm, under an arch of roses, her stomach clenched with nerves, until she saw Lucian.
He stood at the top of the church, his face turned as he anxiously awaited her arrival. As he caught sight of her, he smiled, and in that instant Sarah knew that it did not matter where she lived, as long as it was with him.
Rowan sat beside her brothers and their wives in the front pew, cheeks shining from a vigorous bath. His gap-toothed grin lit up the rafters as she walked up the aisle, and she offered him a wave.
A sea of smiling faces followed her progress. As they reached the top of the church, Mr Hughes handed her over to Lucian with one final warning glare.
I will forever be just a little afraid of your father,” Lucian murmured, as they turned to face Mr Mifford. Then, more softly, “You look beautiful, by the way.”
She smiled. He smiled back. And for the rest of Mr Mifford’s well-meant sermon, they did little more than grin at one another like a pair of gooey three-minute eggs.
When it was done and they were pronounced husband and wife, they stepped out into the sunshine to a roar of cheers from the gathered villagers. Rose petals flew, children shouted, and Mr Marrowbone led a toast from the churchyard gate.
Tears threatened again, as Sarah imagined her new life without the familiar faces of her friends close by.
Sensing her heightened emotions, Lucian pulled her close.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he whispered in her ear. “But I’ve grown rather fond of Plumpton, so I bought us a home here for when we visit—Long Acres.”
Sarah turned to him in surprise. Then, as the words sank in, she kissed him without a second thought for their audience.
The crowd erupted in cheers, and when Lucian finally let her go, even Mrs Canards was smiling.
Just then, Rowan came barreling out of the church and flung his arms around her waist, while Lucian wrapped a proud arm around them both.
And in that moment—with her family gathered close and her future shining bright—Sarah knew she was the happiest woman in all of England.