Chapter 31 #2
With a quick shake of his head, Nigel lifted his focus to her face, partially hidden behind the antique lace veil.
The veil was so fine, it seemed to have been spun from cobwebs.
Its pattern of flowers and curling vines had yellowed slightly with age and draped over her pin-curled hair in a mist of lace and memory.
She smiled (a little knowingly, no doubt guessing his thoughts on the buttons) as she walked between her two aunties up the center aisle of the tea garden.
She held a little bunch of lavender and white chamomile blossoms in her hand, and though Nigel had thought to maintain a solemn demeanor, his mouth broke into a grin at the sight.
The vicar had arrived only five minutes previous, a bit breathless but on time.
He stood with Nigel now at the top of the garden, looking a bit perplexed but game for anything.
An old potting bench served as the altar, and the only decorations were the flowering tea bushes and herbs.
The wedding chorus was sung by little songbirds, who, having failed to migrate for winter, took their refuge in the magical atmosphere of Tealeaf Cottage.
The guests included the aunties, Gwendolyn Astoria the mare, a gaggle of geese and ducks and chickens, a couple of pint-sized goats, and a snorting sow.
All the various creatures from Luna’s stories or, at the very least, their descendants.
No cathedral, however splendidly festooned with the finest of flower arrangements, could have been more perfect, more suited to the glory of such a bride. She belonged here, in this spring-like atmosphere, framed by the magnificence of the Crimble Mountains.
As for Nigel? How had he ever become such a lucky bastard?
How could he, with all the sins he’d committed, all the mistakes he’d made, all the petty fears and grievances which had driven him to anger and selfishness and greed .
. . how could he now be standing here? He could never deserve such grace.
And yet, here he stood.
Luna reached the top of the garden. Pausing, she let her aunties lift her veil to peck her cheeks. Then she turned to face Nigel without any lace to obscure his view of her. She stepped toward him, tears in her eyes as she smiled. And she was so exquisite, he could hardly breathe.
When she held out her hand to him, he took it in both of his, drawing her near. “My dear girl,” he murmured, “you are the Dawn Angel incarnate.”
“You’re not half-bad yourself, Mr. Grimm,” she answered with a wink.
He would carry that compliment with him to his grave.
“Shall we begin?” the vicar suggested.
Thankfully, he did not ask them to turn and face him.
Because Nigel didn’t think he could take his eyes off his bride.
Not for a moment. They stood at the potting bench, her holding the little lavender and chamomile bouquet in one hand while he gripped the other in both of his.
There was a moment of confusion when the vicar asked for rings, of which they had none .
. . but Auntie Aurora stepped forward with two simple gold bands, which had once belonged to her parents.
Well, Nigel figured, they were wearing Arbuthnot and Amelia’s wedding clothes; might as well use their bands as well!
He slipped the ring on Luna’s hand, gazing deep into her eyes as he did so.
Though he’d not prepared anything to say, and the vicar hadn’t asked him to speak, he found himself incapable of letting the moment go by in silence.
“Luna,” he said, his voice thick in his throat, “I used to look upon this world and see only its cruelties. Its losses, its sorrows. I thought beauty was fleeting and goodness too fragile to last. Then I met you. You taught me that flowers bloom after winter. That wounded things can heal. That kindness is strength and joy is worth protecting. You made me believe in gardens again. You made me believe in hope. I don’t know whether the Green Mother guided you to me or simply smiled upon the miracle of our meeting, but I do know this: you are the love of my life, the delight of my heart, the glory of my every waking thought.
“I suspect I shall spend the rest of my days far too keenly aware of how undeserving I am.
But I vow that every moment I will spend endeavoring to be worthy of the heart you have given me.
I vow to cherish you, to defend you, to comfort you, to make you laugh.
I vow to make a home with you, to tend your gardens, to brew your teas, to carry your burdens when they are heavy, and to remind you every day how fiercely you are loved.
“And when my life reaches its final hour, I hope my last thought will be the same as my first thought each dawn: That somehow, impossibly, you chose me.
“I love you, Luna. With all that I am and all that I will ever be.”
She was weeping openly by the time he came to the end of his speech. When he finished, she gulped and said, “Do you have a handkerchief?”
“Oh, yes.” He hastily fished it from his pocket and handed it to her. She turned away, blowing her nose rather loudly. “Oh, Green Mother!” she gasped, turning back to face him again and laughing with red-cheeked embarrassment. “What can I possibly say in answer to that?”
“Don’t say anything,” he answered softly. “Only that you love me.”
But she took the ring from her auntie and, after one last little sniffle, stuffed the hanky up her sleeve and reclaimed his hand. Sliding the band onto his finger, she sought his gaze with hers.
“Nigel,” she said, coughing a little and trying to assume a serious tone of voice.
Her brow went stern with concentration, but he knew she was only trying to stop herself from crying more.
“You keep saying you don’t deserve me, but .
. . well, the truth is, I keep asking myself what I ever did to deserve someone like you!
You’re the kindest man I’ve ever known. Every day is brighter, every burden lighter as long as you are with me.
“I promise to stand beside you through whatever lies ahead. I promise to laugh with you, to comfort you, and to love you even when you’re being stubborn or anxious or determined to carry the whole world by yourself.
And I promise that, no matter what comes next, I will always choose you. Every day. For the rest of my life.
“I love you, Nigel Grimm. Wherever you are is my home. My only home.”
A prayer was said—Nigel hardly listened.
He probably should, given his newfound devotion to the Green Mother, but he simply couldn’t hear the vicar’s voice over the triumphant melody bursting in his head.
He didn’t hear anything until somehow, through the symphony of imagined strings and horns and timpani, the words, “You may kiss your bride,” reached him.
Then he took his wife in his arms and kissed her so thoroughly, Auntie Arabella squealed, and Auntie Aurora averted her eyes, and the vicar murmured a startled, “Goodness gracious me!”