Chapter 58
Lucy always felt out of place at weddings.
It was not that she wasn’t happy for those involved, but such a large group, with such high emotion, tended to make her uncomfortable. She was pleased to discover that, given a much closer connection to events, she was better able to process that emotion.
Margaret and Oliver looked as beautiful and handsome as could be, their clothes of a fine summer style, a testament to the experience of Mrs Calloway and Mr McDonald.
Lucy had seldom seen her sister happier and there seemed, in the moment, to be a sense of completion about things.
Everything, from the flowers to the seating, was precisely how Lucy had imagined it, in no small part thanks to her efforts in planning, and she could find no more fine-tuning to be done.
In the absence of further work to do, and while the pastor was speaking eloquent but familiar words, she found herself reflecting on the recent events that had led them here.
Torres, Elsa and Hekili had been the first to arrive, following the light of the blazing wreck and glad to discover that their friends had escaped that fate.
With the makeshift chain of reins that Dashwood had used to descend the cliff, they drew them upwards, Lucy first, and offered a blanket and a coat.
Torres’s coach was, for the time being, mobile, a remarkable feat given the upper half of it was utterly disintegrated.
Ulcha arrived shortly after, leading a group of men on horseback, Lord Rathbone at the front.
Margaret and Oliver had made it to Rathbone Manor, weary and filthy, but unharmed and bearing the urgent news.
As swift as Lord Rathbone had been to gather men and ride, the fleeing traitors would have escaped if not for the pursuit of the Night Racers.
On reaching the coastal road, Lord Rathbone had recognised the Irish messenger at once and followed her onwards, catching up to the rescued pair and the ruined coaches.
There would, Rathbone explained, be politics to be done.
Officially, Sir Walter and George had died in a tragic coach accident. The truth of the matter was an open secret in the district, but it was not spoken of, for the dishonour and shame of the affair was something society preferred to remain unmentioned.
With his father and brother gone, Oliver St Martin inherited the family estate, in addition to the accumulated debts.
He resolved to sell the land, but his savings and generous wedding gifts from Lord Rathbone and Captain Dashwood helped to settle the finances into a manageable state.
The next few years would be lean, but neither Oliver nor his new bride were given to excess.
There were moments of melancholy when he thought of his lost family, but also moments of happiness when he thought of the one he had gained.
A copy of the cannon design had been retained in London, and there was talk of building more, though Dashwood reported wryly that the sole test firing had been of limited success. The war would not turn overnight, but it would turn, of that he remained confident.
The ongoing business in London had kept him engaged for some time. He exchanged letters with Lucy, sometimes as idle as the itinerary of his day, sometimes as precise as the application of aerodynamics under a coach carriage.
In between letters Lucy had been kept busy with the planning of the wedding.
The focus and energy she dedicated to the task was such that she mused one morning that it was good fortune she was required to plan no more than one wedding at a time.
That very afternoon a letter arrived inviting her to do just that.
It was, she’d appreciated, eloquent and to the point, such that no hidden meaning or ambiguity might be made of it.
My dear Lucy,
I request your hand in marriage.
Yours, Captain James Dashwood
In so few words he’d demonstrated that he knew so much of Lucy Elliot that she did not doubt her reply for a moment.
My dear James,
I accept.
Yours, Lucy Elliot
That was still in the future, Lucy mused, coming back to herself, seated in the church. There was this wedding to complete first.
There was an exchange of vows, the blessing, the procession and then the transition to St Martins Hall, the meal, the dancing, all elements as orderly yet charming as could be wished for.
At the reception, Charlotte Wyndham invited her to visit in Kent and Lucy agreed, resolving that it might offer an excellent opportunity to learn to swim.
When the evening had moved on, the celebration and the noise and the people becoming slightly uncomfortable, Lucy excused herself to be alone on the patio.
The summer air was warm and still. She stood for several minutes before she heard familiar steps. Where once she might have been irked at having her privacy interrupted, now she felt comfort and, of course, that still-novel flutter of excitement.
‘I hope,’ said Dashwood, ‘that I am not too late for a dance.’
‘You might even have time for two. How was London?’
‘Hot. Busy. Crowded.’
‘That has always been my impression.’
‘I shall be here at least the week. I thought we might go over the plans for the wedding.’
‘That would be nice.’
The full moon rose slowly above the trees.
‘I also received a letter from Dante.’ He laughed softly. ‘He says the brandy is excellent and hopes to share a bottle next time we visit. And he is eager for another race.’
‘Did you come by coach?’
‘I did. I hope it is a match to your specifications.’
‘We shall have to see.’
He held out his arm. ‘Will you ride with me, Lucy?’
She slipped her arm through his, placed her hand upon his, her head on his shoulder. ‘Yes, James. I’ll ride with you.’
Surrendering to contentment she took a deep breath, taking in the scent of lavender and lemongrass, of oranges and opportunity.
She closed her eyes and pictured the road ahead.