CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“You look beautiful.”
Serena stood in the doorway of Mel’s bedroom, her expression carrying the warm approval of a woman who had invested considerable effort in this moment.
The dress was simple by society standards, an ivory silk with minimal embellishment, but it was the finest thing Mel had ever worn, and she felt simultaneously transformed and uncertain in it.
“I look like someone pretending to be a duchess,” Mel said, studying her reflection in the mirror with critical attention.
“You look like someone who is about to become a duchess. There’s a distinction.” Serena moved into the room, adjusting a fold of fabric that did not actually need adjusting.
“The chapel is ready. The guests are seated. Rhys is pacing so aggressively that Benedict has threatened to tie him to a pew.”
“He’s nervous?”
“He’s terrified. Which is as it should be. A man who isn’t terrified on his wedding day isn’t taking the occasion seriously enough.”
Mel turned from the mirror to face her friend.
Over the weeks since Serena’s first visit, their relationship had evolved from mentor and student to something closer to genuine friendship.
Serena had become an unexpected ally, someone who understood the complexities Mel was navigating and offered support without judgment.
“Thank you,” Mel said. “For everything. For coming here, for teaching me, for believing that this could work.”
“I didn’t believe it could work. I knew it would work.” Serena smiled. “You’re exactly what Rhys needs. What those children need. What this family needs. I simply helped you see what was already true.”
A knock at the door interrupted whatever Mel might have said in response. Mrs. Kemp appeared, her expression carrying the particular tension of a woman managing a household during a significant event.
“Miss Grace, the children are asking for you. They’re quite insistent.”
“Is something the matter?”
“Thistle says she needs to show you something before the ceremony. She was quite emphatic about it.”
Mel exchanged a glance with Serena, who shrugged with evident amusement.
“Best to address it now rather than have her interrupt the vows.”
They found the children in the small anteroom adjacent to the chapel, dressed in their finest clothes and vibrating with barely contained excitement.
Anna had organised them into a formal receiving line, which Thistle had immediately disrupted by bouncing in place.
Viola stood quietly at the end, her hands clasped before her, her expression carrying the particular intensity she displayed during significant moments.
“Miss Grace!” Thistle rushed forward, nearly colliding with Mel’s carefully arranged skirts. “I have to show you something very important.”
“What is it?”
Thistle reached into the small bag she was carrying and produced Brutus, who regarded Mel with the impassive expression common to all toads.
“I’ve dressed him for the wedding,” Thistle announced proudly.
“See? He has a bow.”
Indeed, someone had tied a small white ribbon around Brutus’s middle, creating a festive if somewhat bizarre accessory. The toad did not appear to have opinions about this addition to his appearance.
“That’s very… thoughtful,” Mel managed. “But Thistle, I’m not certain Brutus should attend the ceremony. Toads can be unpredictable.”
“Brutus is not unpredictable. He’s very well-behaved. He promised to sit quietly in my pocket and only come out after the vows are complete.”
“Toads cannot make promises,” Anna observed. “We’ve discussed this.”
“Brutus can. You just don’t understand his language.”
Mel looked at Thistle, at the earnest face and the decorated toad and the absolute certainty that this was a reasonable plan. She could insist that Brutus remain behind. She could assert the authority she had carefully cultivated over months of managing this particular child.
But it was her wedding day, and Thistle wanted her toad to witness it, and some battles were simply not worth fighting.
“Brutus may attend,” she said. “But he must remain in your pocket throughout the ceremony. No exceptions.”
“I promise!” Thistle beamed and tucked Brutus back into her bag.
“He’s going to be so happy. He is so fond of weddings.”
“Has Brutus attended many weddings?”
“This will be his first. But I know he will positively adore it.”
The logic was impeccable in its own way. Mel decided not to pursue it further.
The chapel was small and simple, as country chapels tended to be.
Stone walls softened by candlelight, wooden pews worn smooth by generations of worshippers, a single stained glass window casting coloured light across the altar.
It was nothing like the grand cathedrals where society weddings typically occurred, and Mel found that she preferred it enormously.
The guests were few but significant, Benedict and Serena, Mr. Grieves, Mrs. Kemp and Cook and the household staff who had become family over the past months. No society figures, no distant relations, no one who was present out of obligation rather than genuine affection.
Rhys stood at the altar, dressed in dark blue that made his eyes seem brighter than usual.
He turned when she entered, and his expression shifted into something that made her breath catch.
Not the practiced charm of the rake. Not the careful composure of the duke.
Just raw, unguarded emotion that he was not even attempting to hide.
She walked toward him with measured steps, the children following behind in their assigned positions.
Anna carried a small basket of flowers with dignified precision.
Viola walked beside her sister, her quiet presence a steadying influence.
Thistle brought up the rear, one hand pressed against the bag where Brutus presumably waited.
The vicar, an elderly man who had served the Hartfell parish for thirty years, smiled benevolently as Mel took her place beside Rhys.
“Dearly beloved,” he began, his voice carrying the comfortable cadence of someone who had spoken these words many times before, “We are gathered here in the sight of our almighty to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony.”
The words flowed over Mel like water, familiar from countless weddings she had attended as a servant or observer but never as a participant. She listened and responded at the appropriate moments, her voice steady despite the magnitude of what was happening.
Rhys held her hands throughout, his grip firm and warm. He spoke his vows with a clarity that suggested he had memorised them rather than simply repeating after the vicar, his eyes never leaving her face.
“I, Rhys William Langford, take thee, Melanie Grace, 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, until death do us part.”
Melanie. She had almost forgotten that was her full name. No one had used it in years. But hearing it now, in his voice, in this moment, it sounded like something precious.
“I, Melanie Grace,” she began, her voice steady despite the emotion building in her chest, “take thee, Rhys William Langford, 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, until death do us part.”
The vicar nodded approvingly and continued with the ceremony. Rings were exchanged. Blessings were spoken. The moment approached when all would be complete and official and permanent.
“I now pronounce you…”
“Brutus, No!”
Thistle’s shriek cut through the solemnity of the moment like a cannon blast. Mel turned just in time to see a small, bow-decorated toad making a determined leap from Thistle’s bag toward the altar, apparently having decided that the ceremony required his direct participation.
Chaos erupted.
Thistle lunged for her escaping pet and Anna attempted to intercept with her flower basket.
Viola backed away with a small squeak of alarm.
The vicar paused mid-pronouncement, his expression shifting from benevolent to bewildered.
Benedict made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a groan.
Brutus, undeterred by the commotion, hopped across the stone floor with surprising speed, heading directly for the altar where Mel and Rhys stood.
Without thinking, without planning, Mel bent down and scooped the toad from the floor in one smooth motion. She straightened and Brutus clutched in her hands, his white bow now slightly askew and his expression as impassive as ever.
“I believe this belongs to you,” she said, handing the toad to Thistle, who had arrived at the altar with an expression of mortified distress.
“I’m so sorry! He promised he would stay in the bag! He’s never broken a promise before!”
“Toads cannot make promises,” Anna said, her voice carrying the particular edge of someone who had been proven right at an inconvenient moment.
“He can! He just, this is the first time he’s broken one!”
“Perhaps Brutus was simply eager to witness the conclusion of the ceremony,” Mel said, her voice calm despite the absurdity of the situation.
“He can watch from your arms. But he must remain still.”
Thistle nodded frantically, clutching Brutus with both hands. The toad, having apparently satisfied whatever urge had prompted his escape, settled into her grip without further protest.
Mel turned back to the vicar, who was watching the proceedings with an expression that suggested he had never encountered anything quite like this in thirty years of parish service.
“You were saying?” she prompted.
The vicar blinked, gathered himself, and cleared his throat.
“I now pronounce you man and wife.” He paused, glancing nervously at Thistle’s handful of toad.
“You may kiss the bride.”