The Sisters #2
"Your father—" He stopped. Started again.
"I know I am not your father. I know I came into your life when you were already half-grown and possessed of more opinions than any reasonable person ought to have.
I know you did not choose me, and I know that your mother and I have not always—that is, we did not always understand—"
"My lord."
"I am making a hash of this." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so uncharacteristically flustered that Florinda felt her throat tighten.
"What I am attempting to say is that I should very much like to walk you down the aisle today.
If you would permit it. If you would want—" He stopped again, and when he met her eyes, his own were suspiciously bright.
"If you would want me there. Beside you. As your... as whatever I am to you."
Florinda could not speak.
She had not—she had not considered the aisle. Had not thought about who would walk beside her, who would give her away, who would stand in the place that ought to have belonged to a father she barely remembered and had spent most of her life pretending she did not miss.
"You do not have to," he said quickly, misreading her silence. "I understand if you would prefer Edward, or—or no one at all. I merely thought—Margot suggested—that is—"
"Yes."
He blinked. "Yes?"
"Yes." Florinda's voice emerged thick and strange.
"Yes, I should like that very much. I should like—" She had to stop, had to breathe through the tightness in her chest. "You are my father.
Not by blood, but by choice. By stubborn, persistent, irritating choice.
And I cannot think of anyone I would rather have beside me. "
He made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob. "Well," he managed. "That is... that is good, then. Settled."
"Settled."
They stood in silence for a moment, the morning light pressing close around them, and then he opened his arms and Florinda stepped into them without hesitation.
He smelled of sandalwood and paper and the particular mustiness of old buildings—the smell of home, she realised. The smell of the years he had spent rebuilding their family stone by stone, repairing what was broken, shoring up what threatened to collapse.
"I am proud of you," he said against her hair. "I hope you know that. Whatever happens today, whatever the Dowager says or the ton whispers or the scandal sheets print—I am proud of the woman you have become."
"Even when I argue with you about roof tiles?"
"Especially then." He pulled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Now. I believe your sisters are waiting, and I have been reliably informed by my daughter that if the ceremony does not begin on time, she shall be forced to eat all the wedding cake herself to prevent it going stale."
"That sounds like Hope."
"She is alarmingly practical for a four-year-old." He offered his arm. "Shall we?"
The carriage ride to the church was brief—the village was barely a mile from Ashbourne House—but it felt like an eternity.
Margot sat beside her, their hands clasped together on the seat between them. Lord Raventhorn had gone ahead to take his place, and the children had been dispatched in a separate carriage with strict instructions to Charlotte about beetle-related incidents.
"You are certain about this?" Margot asked quietly. "It is not too late to change your mind."
"I am not changing my mind."
"I know. I had to ask." Margot squeezed her fingers. "A mother's prerogative. Even a stepmother's."
The word no longer stung the way it once had. Margot was her mother—had been her mother since Florinda was twelve years old and too angry to recognise love when it was offered. The blood did not matter. The choosing did.
"He counted the threads in my hair," Florinda said. "Fourteen, the first time. He told me."
"I know. He told Edward. Edward told Ella. Ella told me." Margot's mouth curved. "The man has been desperately in love with you for nine years, Florinda. I am not certain 'certain' begins to cover it."
"He wrote me letters. Twenty-nine of them. He never sent them."
"I know that too."
"How do you know everything?"
"I am a mother. It is my sacred duty to know everything and pretend I do not.
" Margot released her hand and smoothed an invisible wrinkle from Florinda's skirt.
"You are beautiful. You are loved. And if Frederick does not weep when he sees you walking down that aisle, I shall be very surprised and moderately disappointed. "
The carriage slowed. Through the window, Florinda could see the church—small and grey and ancient, its stained glass windows glowing with coloured light.
"Oh," Margot said softly. "Here. I almost forgot."
She pressed a thing into Florinda's palm. Cool metal. A weight that felt like memory.
Florinda looked down. Her mother's locket—her real mother, the one who had died when she was too young to remember anything but the scent of roses and a voice singing in the dark.
"Margot—"
"She would have wanted you to have it today. I have been keeping it for you." Margot's voice was steady, but her eyes were bright. "A borrowed thing, and an old one. It belonged to someone who loved you before I did."
Florinda closed her fingers around the locket and did not trust herself to speak.
The church smelled of beeswax and old stone and the faint sweetness of roses.
Florinda stood in the doorway, her hand tucked into the crook of Lord Raventhorn's arm, and looked down the aisle at the small gathering who had come to witness her wedding.