27. In Which a Wedding Is Planned and a Lady Is Married – Ashbourne Park, Derbyshire #2
Just Mama. Not the aunts, nor Grandmama Marguerite; not even Eleanor.
My mother.
“Good morning, darling,” she said, setting the tray on my dressing table. “How did you sleep?”
“Surprisingly well, actually.” I sat up. “I thought I’d be nervous.”
“Are you?”
I considered. “No. I’m—excited. Ready. I want to marry him, Mama.”
Mama smiled and sat beside me on the bed. “Then let’s get you ready.”
She helped me dress. Not the maid—Mama herself, lacing up my stays, helping me into my petticoats, fastening the tiny buttons up the back of my wedding gown.
Aunt Mary’s gown, actually. My something borrowed.
It had been altered to fit me, Silver tissue.
The fabric shimmered like moonlight caught in water, the metallic silver threads woven through the silk creating an almost ethereal glow.
The high-waisted gown fell in simple, elegant lines to the floor—the silhouette emphasising grace without fuss or excess ornamentation.
Mary had worn it when she married Uncle Matthew, and she’d offered it to me with tears in her eyes and a completely unsentimental speech about how it was simply practical to reuse a perfectly good dress.
I’d cried anyway and took it; I did design a beautiful dress for her!
Mama clasped her pearls around my neck and arranged my hair—simple curls pinned with violets from the Ashbourne gardens—and stepped back to look at me.
“Your mother would have loved him, you know,” she said quietly.
I looked at her in the mirror. “My first mother?”
“Eleanor. She would have loved Edward. Because he sees the real you. The one who isn’t performing. The one who doesn’t have to be in control all the time.” Mama touched my shoulder gently. “That’s who he fell in love with. And that’s who you get to be now.”
I turned and hugged her. “You’re my mother too.”
“Always,” Mama said, holding me tight. “Always, Charlotte.”
The chapel at Ashbourne Park was small but perfect.
Caroline’s flowers filled every available surface—late summer roses and dahlias, greenery from the estate, arrangements that smelled like the Derbyshire countryside. The string quartet she’d hired was playing something beautiful and vaguely Baroque.
Every pew was filled.
The entire chaotic, loving, overwhelming clan had descended on the chapel. Children were squirming. Caroline was already crying. Margaret had her watch out, timing the ceremony. Mary sat beside Matthew, holding his hand. Grandpapa was beside Grandmama Marguerite, his face full of quiet joy.
Dunmore and Miss Graves were in one of the back pews. As I passed them on Papa’s arm, I heard Dunmore whispering to her about the chapel’s architecture and Miss Graves whispering back about the clockwork mechanism in the bell tower.
They were in their own world. They were perfect.
But I barely saw any of it. Because Edward was at the altar.
Edward, in his formal black coat, his cravat perfectly tied, his blond hair slightly disordered because he’d probably been running his hands through it all morning.
Edward, who saw me walking down the aisle, and stopped breathing.
I could see it from here—the way his chest went still, the way his eyes widened, the way he looked at me like I was the answer to every question he’d ever asked.
Papa was walking me down the aisle. Lucas Ashbourne, Duke of Ashbourne, in his own home, on his own land, walking his daughter to her wedding.
He was composed. Perfectly ducal. The picture of aristocratic dignity.
And then I looked up at him and saw the tears in his eyes.
“Papa,” I whispered.
“I told myself I wouldn’t cry,” he said roughly. “I was very firm about it.”
“You’re crying.”
“I know.” He squeezed my hand. “You’re my daughter, Charlotte. My brilliant, terrifying, beautiful daughter. And I’m giving you to a good man. The best man. But that doesn’t make it any easier to let you go.”
“You’re not letting me go. You’re just—sharing me.”
Papa smiled through his tears. “Always the organiser. Always finding the perfect system.”
We reached the altar. Papa placed my hand in Edward’s, and I felt the familiar warmth of Edward’s touch, the strength in his fingers.
“Take care of her,” Papa said to Edward. “Or I will do something ducal.”
Edward smiled. “I understand, Your Grace.”
“Good.” Papa stepped back, and the ceremony began.
I barely heard the words. I was too busy looking at Edward. At the man who’d spent his whole life trying to be invisible and was now standing at an altar in front of our entire family, looking at me like I hung the moon.
When it came time for the vows, Edward’s voice was steady.
“I, Edward Richard Ashford, take thee, Charlotte Eleanor Ashbourne, to be my wedded wife. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”
My turn.
“I, Charlotte Eleanor Ashbourne, take thee, Edward Richard Ashford, to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”
The ring—his mother’s emerald—went on my finger. My ring went on his.
The vicar pronounced us man and wife.
Edward kissed me.
Not cautiously. Not tentatively. He kissed me like I was his wife and he was my husband, and we had the rest of our lives to figure out what that meant.
The chapel erupted in applause.
Caroline was sobbing. Margaret had stopped her watch and was making notes. Mary was smiling. Grandmama Marguerite looked satisfied.
And Papa—Papa was still crying, standing beside Mama with his arm around her, looking at me like he was proud and devastated in equal measure.
Edward took my hand, and we walked back down the aisle together.
Married.
The wedding breakfast was the aunts’ masterpiece. Every detail perfect. The food. The wine. The table settings. The flowers. Everything coordinated with the precision of a military campaign and the love of a family who wanted their Charlotte to have the perfect day.
And then came the toasts.
Papa went first. He stood, looking more composed now, and raised his glass.
“Charlotte,” he said. “My daughter. You have been organising this family since you were six years old. You matched your aunts with their husbands. You managed my household. You took care of everyone around you.” He paused.
“And now someone is taking care of you. Edward—welcome to the family. Officially. And thank you for seeing what we’ve always known: that our Charlotte is extraordinary. ”
Brief. Devastating. Perfectly Papa.
I was crying before he even sat down.
Grandpapa stood next. His toast was quiet and heartfelt.
“Edward. My son. You were never a burden. You were always the gift.” His voice caught. “Your mother would be so proud of the man you’ve become. And Charlotte—thank you for showing him what he always was: enough.”
Edward’s hand tightened on mine.
Caroline’s toast involved tears, naturally. She could barely get through it. Something about love and happiness and destiny, all delivered through sobs while Alexander supplied handkerchiefs.
Margaret’s toast involved statistics on step-relatives marrying within the peerage. Nobody had expected this, but everyone loved it. She had charts. Of course, she had charts.
Mary’s was dry and perfect: “Charlotte planned my wedding. Then Papa’s. Then Caroline’s. Then Margaret’s. I’m delighted she finally let us plan hers. Though I notice she still made a notebook.”
Everyone laughed. I blushed. Edward kissed my hand.
Then Eleanor stood. Eleven years old, terrifyingly competent, my right hand and my best lieutenant.
“On behalf of the younger generation,” she said, sounding exactly like me, “I would like to say: we’re very happy for Charlotte and Uncle Edward. We’ve been watching them all Season. We knew this was going to happen. We had a betting pool.”
Gasps from the adults. Giggles from the children.
“Eleanor!” Mama said.
“What? We did. I won.” Eleanor raised her glass. “To Charlotte and Edward. May you be very happy and have lots of babies so I have more cousins to organise.”
The table erupted in laughter.
After the toasts, there was dancing.
I danced with Papa first. He held me carefully, like I was something precious.
“I love you, Charlotte,” he said quietly. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I love you too, Papa.”
Then Grandpapa. He smiled at me with that same quiet warmth he always had.
“Thank you,” he said. “For loving my son.”
“Thank you for raising him,” I replied. “For making him the man I fell in love with.”
And then Edward. My husband. Mine.
We moved together like we’d been dancing for years. Like we were made to fit together.
“Happy?” he asked.
“Impossibly happy,” I said. “You?”
“More than I ever thought possible.”
Across the room, I saw Grandmama Marguerite talking to Grandpapa. She was smiling that small, satisfied smile she got when everything had gone according to plan.
“You know,” she said loud enough for nearby people to hear, “I spent five years planning that Season. Teas. Dinners. Musicales. Candidates. And she fell in love with the boy who was already sitting at our breakfast table.”
Grandpapa smiled. “The best ones usually are.”