Epilogue
One Month Later
“Victoria!” Joan spun around in alarm, nearly dislodging her carefully arranged hair. “What’s wrong? Are you unwell? Are you in pain?”
One month had passed since Julian’s public destruction. And now, Joan stood before the looking glass once again in a wedding gown. But this time, everything was different.
This time, she was beaming. The gown was a masterpiece, ivory silk so fine it seemed to shimmer with every breath she took.
Delicate embroidery covered the bodice in patterns of roses and ivy, each flower painstakingly stitched by hand.
The neckline was modest but elegant, the sleeves fitted to her wrists where they ended in points of Brussels lace.
The skirt fell in graceful folds to the floor, with a train that would trail behind her as she walked down the aisle. It was far more beautiful than the gown Julian had chosen, that had been expensive but cold, selected to project an image rather than to honor the woman wearing it.
This gown had been made for Joan specifically, with input from Victoria and Octavia, designed to make her feel not like a duchess, but like herself.
Behind her, Victoria worked on her hair with the focused concentration of an artist completing her masterpiece.
She had spent over an hour arranging the dark locks into braids woven through with ribbon, curls framing Joan’s face, the whole creation pinned with tiny flowers that matched the embroidery on her gown.
Joan watched her sister in the mirror, noting the way Victoria’s tongue poked out slightly as she concentrated, the way her nimble fingers never faltered despite the complexity of the arrangement.
Victoria wore a gown of pale lavender, her favorite color, which brought out the blue in her eyes and made her look ethereal and lovely.
As Victoria secured the final pin, Joan caught sight of her sister’s face in the mirror. Tears were streaming down Victoria’s cheeks, though she was smiling.
“No, no,” Victoria said, laughing even as more tears fell. She pressed her hands to her face, trying futilely to stop the flow. “I’m happy. I’m just so incredibly, overwhelmingly happy for you.”
Joan felt her own eyes begin to water. “Don’t you dare make me cry. It took you an hour to arrange my hair, and I won’t have it ruined by tears.”
But even as she said it, she was pulling Victoria into a fierce embrace, crushing the delicate fabric of both their gowns. Victoria clung to her, her shoulders shaking with sobs that were equal parts joy and relief and love.
Joan held her sister tighter, her throat aching with emotion.
Victoria pulled back slightly, her hands gripping Joan’s shoulders. Her face was blotchy with tears, but her expression was intense, earnest.
“You must worry less about Damian and me in the future,” she said firmly. “We’re grown now. We can take care of ourselves. It’s our turn to take care of you.”
“She’s absolutely right, you know.”
Both sisters turned to see Damian standing in the doorway, looking more handsome than Joan had ever seen him.
He wore formal evening dress: black coat and breeches, white waistcoat embroidered with silver thread, his cravat tied in the intricate style currently fashionable at Court.
His dark hair was carefully arranged, his boots polished to a mirror shine.
He crossed the room in three long strides and wrapped his arms around both his sisters at once, pulling them into an embrace that threatened to rumble all three of their carefully arranged appearances.
“We love you, Joan,” Damian murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He pressed kisses to each of their cheeks, first Victoria, then Joan. “More than words can ever express. And now we get to watch you be happy. There’s no greater gift you could give us.”
“I love you too,” Joan whispered, one arm around each of her siblings. “Both of you. So very much.”
“And I love you both,” Victoria added, her tears starting fresh. “We’re so lucky to have each other.”
A gentle knock at the door broke the spell. Damian released his sisters and stepped back, quickly wiping his own eyes.
“Come in,” Joan called, her voice only slightly unsteady.
Octavia entered, looking absolutely lovely in a gown of pale blue silk that complemented her golden hair and fair coloring. She had become like another sister over the past month, a friend and confidante who had proven her loyalty and kindness again and again.
Octavia took in the scene, the three siblings with their tear-stained faces and rumpled clothing, and her expression softened with understanding.
“You all look beautiful,” she said warmly. Then, with a slight smile, “Though we should probably repair Joan’s hair before we leave. Victoria, you’ve worked too hard on it to have it ruined now.”
Victoria laughed and immediately set about fixing the few strands that had come loose during their embrace. Octavia helped, the two of them working together with the easy coordination of close friends.
Damian caught Joan’s eye in the mirror and gave her a smile that held a lifetime of shared memories and unspoken love. Then he bowed formally, his hand over his heart.
“I should take my place at the cathedral,” he said. “Can’t have the bride walking down the aisle without someone to give her away.”
He paused at the door, his hand on the frame, and looked back at Joan one more time. “You’re going to make a beautiful duchess. But more importantly, you’re going to be happy. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”
Then he was gone, leaving Joan with Victoria and Octavia for the final preparations.
Victoria secured the last pin and stepped back to admire her work. “Perfect,” she pronounced. “Absolutely perfect.”
Octavia handed Joan her bouquet, white roses and lily of the valley, tied with ivory ribbon. The flowers’ sweet scent filled the air, delicate and pure.
“Are you ready?” Octavia asked softly.
Joan looked at herself in the mirror one final time. The woman staring back at her looked different from the one who had stood in this same position a month ago, preparing to marry Julian. That woman had been pale, resigned, her eyes dull with despair.
This woman was radiant. Her cheeks were flushed with happiness, her eyes bright with anticipation. She looked like someone about to begin her life, not end it.
“Yes,” Joan said, surprised by how steady her voice was. “I’m ready.”
Octavia and Victoria each took one of Joan’s hands, and together the three women made their way down the grand staircase of the Duke’s mansion.
Servants lined the hallway, all of them smiling and offering quiet congratulations.
Mrs. Henderson, the housekeeper, openly wept with joy.
Even Jenkins, the stern butler, looked suspiciously misty-eyed.
Outside, the wedding carriage waited, a magnificent vehicle painted in cream and gold, pulled by four white horses with flowers woven into their manes. The Duke’s crest adorned the door, but someone had added garlands of roses that softened the formal heraldry into something more festive.
A footman helped Joan climb inside, careful not to crush her gown or train. Victoria and Octavia settled across from her, both of them beaming.
The carriage rolled forward, and Joan watched through the window as the countryside passed by. They were heading to the cathedral in the nearby market town, the largest church in the region, with soaring Gothic arches and stained glass windows that dated back centuries.
As they drew closer, Joan could see people lining the streets. Villagers she recognized, shopkeepers, farmers, families with children perched on their shoulders to get a better view. They waved and cheered as the carriage passed, calling out blessings and congratulations.
It was so different from Julian’s wedding, where the guests had come out of obligation or morbid curiosity. These people genuinely cared. They wanted to see her happy.
The carriage pulled up before the cathedral, and Joan’s breath caught.
It was magnificent.
The ancient stone building rose against the blue sky, its spires reaching toward heaven.
Every door stood open, and she could see into the nave, where hundreds of candles had been lit, their flames creating a warm glow against the old stones.
Flowers decorated every surface, roses and peonies and sweet peas in shades of white and cream and the palest pink.
But it was the people that truly made Joan’s heart swell.
The cathedral was packed. Every pew was filled, and people stood along the walls and in the balconies.
She recognized so many faces, Timothy and his wife, dressed in their Sunday best. The physician and the vicar with their families.
Merchants from the village, farmers from the surrounding countryside, parents of her students.
And the children, oh, the children.
They lined the entire length of the aisle from the entrance to the altar, two rows of them standing at attention like little soldiers. Each child held a woven basket filled with flower petals, white and pink and yellow, the colors of spring and new beginnings.
Imogen stood at the front of the left row, her dress carefully pressed, her hair neatly braided, clutching her basket with both hands. When she caught sight of Joan through the carriage window, her face lit up with a smile so bright it could have illuminated the entire cathedral.
Percival and Edmund stood across from her, equally neat and proud, waiting for her to arrive.
The carriage door opened. A footman extended his hand to help Joan descend.
The moment her foot touched the ground, a tremendous cheer went up from the assembled crowd. It was so loud, so overwhelming, that Joan took a step backward in surprise.
Then the children began.
Starting from the front and moving backward, each child tossed handfuls of petals into the air. The flowers rained down in a fragrant shower, carpeting the path from the carriage to the cathedral entrance in soft layers of color.