27. In Which a Wedding Is Planned and a Lady Is Married – Ashbourne Park, Derbyshire
IN WHICH A WEDDING IS PLANNED AND A LADY IS MARRIED
CHARLOTTE
ASHBOURNE PARK, DERBYSHIRE
Ihad spent my entire life organising other people.
I had matched all three of my aunts with their husbands. I had coordinated countless family gatherings. I had managed Eleanor’s education and Papa’s social calendar.
I had notebooks. Systems. Colour-coded ribbons.
And now, standing in the drawing room at Ashford Hall watching my aunts, my grandmother, and my mother transform my girlhood home into what Grandmama Marguerite had called “a masterpiece of wedding coordination,” I had been told—in no uncertain terms—to stop planning my own wedding.
“Charlotte, darling,” Mama had said three weeks ago when I’d attempted to contribute to the seating arrangements, “no.”
“But I just thought?—”
“No.”
“I have a system for?—”
“We know. We’ve seen your notebook.” Mama had taken the folio from my hands with gentle firmness. “You’ve spent years taking care of everyone else. Let us take care of you for once.”
So I’d been relegated to the role of bride. Just bride. No planning. No coordinating. No managing.
It was possibly the most difficult thing I’d ever done.
I did have a smaller notebook—I couldn’t help myself—but every time I opened it, someone would appear and gently suggest I go do something else. Read a book. Take a walk. Spend time with Edward.
The last suggestion was the only one that worked reliably.
Now, a week before my wedding, Ashbourne Park had been invaded by the entire Ashford clan plus assorted guests for what Grandmama Marguerite had dubbed “the house party.”
The house was enormous—thank God—but it still felt full to bursting.
Grandpapa and Grandmama Marguerite had made the short journey from Ashford Hall.
Aunt Mary and Uncle Matthew had come from Thornbury with their three children, all of whom were currently terrorising the younger set in the nursery.
Aunt Caroline and Uncle Alexander had driven straight up the Great North Road from Waverly with their two, and Aunt Caroline had already cried twice—once at seeing the chapel and once at breakfast for no discernible reason.
Aunt Margaret and Uncle Edmund had arrived from Lincolnshire yesterday with their two daughters and a chart.
Aunt Margaret always had a chart.
Edward was here too, of course. He’d been at Retford preparing his house—our house, I corrected myself with a thrill—and had arrived three days ago looking slightly overwhelmed by the sheer volume of Ashfords descending on Derbyshire.
“How many of us are there?” he’d asked last night.
“Including children? Thirty-seven.”
He’d gone pale. “Thirty-seven.”
“And that’s just family. The guests arrive tomorrow.”
“How many guests?”
“Twelve.”
Edward had looked at me with something approaching panic. “We could elope.”
“We absolutely could not. Mama and the aunts would hunt us down.”
Now, watching the organised chaos unfold around me, I had to admit: my family was terrifying when united toward a common goal.
Grandmama Marguerite had taken overall command.
She’d transformed Ashbourne Park—flowers from the gardens and hothouses filled every room, the menus had been planned down to the last detail, wines selected, table settings perfected.
She had a plan for every hour of every day leading up to the wedding.
Aunt Mary had seized logistics and guest management.
Rooms had been assigned with the precision of a battlefield commander.
Carriages arranged. Seating carefully managed.
She’d even positioned Lord Dunmore and Miss Amelia Graves, toward whom he had developed a marked partiality—at the same table, which suggested that even Mary could recognise a perfect match when she saw one happening naturally.
Aunt Caroline had claimed flowers, music, and what she called “atmosphere.” She’d cried at every fitting, every rehearsal, and once just looking at the chapel.
Uncle Alexander was supplying handkerchiefs at an alarming rate.
She’d also insisted on a string quartet she’d heard in London, and had written them no fewer than six letters about the music selections.
Aunt Margaret had the schedule. Timed to the minute. With a chart. And backup plans for rain, excessive heat, and—I was not making this up—“unforeseen emotional incidents.” This category had been created after Caroline’s third crying episode and now had its own colour-coded section.
Eleanor was my right hand, running between the aunts carrying messages, updating the master notebook (there was a master notebook, and I was not allowed to touch it), and managing the younger siblings and cousins with terrifying efficiency.
She was eleven years old and already more organised than most adults.
And Mama—Juliet, the Duchess of Ashbourne, my mother in every way that mattered—was quiet. Watching. Letting the others manage the spectacle. Her role, she’d told me, was to be my mother. To make sure I was happy. Ready. Cared for.
I’d cried when she said that. Which had made Aunt Caroline cry. This prompted Aunt Margaret to add another entry to her chart.
“Charlotte!” Eleanor appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath. “The guests are arriving. Mama says you should come greet them.”
I followed Eleanor down to the entrance hall, where Papa stood with Mama, looking every inch the Duke of Ashbourne. Edward had materialised at my side—he did that now, appearing when I needed him—and took my hand.
The Duke of Penworth and his wife arrived first. The old family friends greeted Papa warmly, and I saw Grandpapa join them, the two men who’d once hoped to unite their families now simply enjoying their enduring friendship.
Then Lord Dunmore’s carriage pulled up, and I watched with professional interest as he handed down a young woman in a travelling dress of pale blue.
Miss Amelia Graves.
Pretty, clever-looking, with dark hair and intelligent eyes that lit up when Dunmore pointed out some architectural detail of Ashbourne Park’s facade.
“Retford!” Dunmore bounded up the steps with the same enthusiasm he’d shown for snuffboxes. “Congratulations! Magnificent match. Absolutely first-rate.”
Edward smiled—genuinely smiled—and I realised he was actually fond of Dunmore in a way he couldn’t have been during the Season when they’d been rivals.
“Thank you, Dunmore.”
May I introduce Miss Graves?”
Miss Graves curtsied. “Lady Charlotte. Lord Retford. What a beautiful home. The moulding work is exquisite—is it original to the house or added during the last century?”
Before I could answer, Dunmore had launched into an animated discussion of architectural details that made Miss Graves’s eyes light up even more.
Within five minutes, they’d moved on to a comparison of automata mechanisms versus clockwork engineering, a conversation that was completely incomprehensible to everyone else and absolutely riveting to both of them.
I watched them disappear into the drawing room, still talking, and felt a surge of professional pride.
They really were perfect.
I hadn’t arranged it. Nobody had. Some matches just found themselves.
“You’re analysing them,” Edward murmured.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are. You’re cataloguing their compatibility.”
“She collects automata. He collects snuffboxes. They’re both scholarly. Both are enthusiastic about obscure topics. They found each other at a curiosities exhibition.” I looked up at Edward. “They’re perfect, and I didn’t arrange it, and I’m only slightly offended.”
Edward laughed and kissed my temple. “You can’t matchmake everyone, love.”
“Watch me.”
That evening, I found Edward in the library.
Of course, he was in the library. Edward gravitated toward libraries the way Caroline gravitated toward anything that might make her cry.
He was sitting in one of the wing chairs near the window, a book open in his lap, looking more relaxed than I’d seen him all week.
“Hiding?” I asked.
He looked up and smiled. “Reading.”
“Same thing with you.”
“True.” He set the book aside and held out his hand. “Come here.”
I went. Settled unto his lap in a way that would have scandalised everyone if we weren’t already engaged. He wrapped his arms around me, and I leaned back against his chest, feeling the tension of the day’s chaos drain away.
“Are you ready?” he asked quietly.
“For the wedding? I’ve been ready since the Wrotham ball.”
“I know. But are you ready for this?” He gestured vaguely toward the door, beyond which the house hummed with family and guests and wedding preparations. “All of it?”
I turned in his arms so I could see his face. “Are you worried I’ll change my mind?”
“No. I’m worried you’ll be overwhelmed. Our family is?—”
“A lot?”
“A force of nature.”
I laughed. “They are. But do you know what I realised today?”
“What?”
“This is what I did for them. All those years of organising, planning, and making sure everyone was happy. I did it because I loved them. And now they’re doing it for me.
” My throat tightened. “They’re taking care of me the way I took care of them.
And I’m letting them. For once, I’m letting someone else be in charge. ”
Edward cupped my face in his hands. “How does it feel?”
“Terrifying,” I admitted. “And wonderful. And—right.”
He kissed me then, soft and sweet, and I thought: this is what the rest of my life will be. Edward and I. Building something together.
“One week,” he murmured against my lips.
“One week,” I agreed. “And then you’re stuck with me forever.”
“I’m counting on it.”
The Wedding Day, One week later
I woke to sunshine streaming through the windows of my bedroom at Ashbourne Park.
My wedding day.
Derbyshire was golden with late summer, the countryside spread out below my window like something from a painting. August was leaving with perfect weather—warm but not hot, clear skies, and a light breeze that would make the chapel comfortable.
Margaret’s chart had not needed to activate the rain contingency.
There was a knock at my door, and Mama entered with a tea tray.