The Wedding #3
"You are in mourning." The observation escaped before he could stop it. "I had not heard—that is, no one informed me—"
"There was no time." Her voice caught. "It was very sudden. But Frederick, truly, today is not the day for such discussions. Mother is right—tonight is for you and your bride. Tomorrow I shall explain everything."
He wanted to press. Wanted to demand answers, to understand what had brought his sister back to Carthedge Hall after years of absence, why she wore black, why her children sat so still and silent in the pews as though they had learned that stillness was safety.
But Florinda was making her way toward him through the crowd, her face bright with joy and her bare feet leaving prints on the stone floor, and Caroline was right.
Tomorrow was for questions. Tonight was for this.
"Very well," he said, and squeezed his sister's hands. "But tomorrow, you shall tell me everything."
"Everything," Caroline agreed. "I promise."
He let her go and turned to meet his wife.
"Your sister looks sad," Florinda said quietly, once she had reached him. "I embraced her, but I do not think she wished to speak of it."
"She has promised explanations tomorrow."
"That is ominous."
"Extremely." Frederick tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "But you are correct—we ought not to borrow trouble from tomorrow. Today we have married. Today we are happy. Today—" He looked down at her bare feet. "Today you need to put your shoes back on."
Florinda followed his gaze. "I am comfortable."
"You are a duchess. Duchesses do not ride through the village in carriages whilst barefoot."
"Why not?"
"Because—" He stopped. Considered. "Actually, I cannot think of a compelling reason. But my mother would be horrified, and I should prefer to introduce scandal gradually rather than all at once."
"Very well." She sighed with theatrical reluctance. "For the sake of your mother's nerves. But only until we reach the Hall."
The footman who had been holding her shoes appeared with almost magical promptness—Frederick suspected he had been hovering nearby, awaiting precisely this moment—and Florinda slipped them on with the air of a woman making a significant concession.
"They still smell of fish," she observed.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Long story. Hope and Marmalade were involved." She took his arm again, her smile sharp and bright and entirely herself. "Now. I believe we have villagers to wave at. Shall we?"
The carriage ride through the village was brief but triumphant.
Word had spread, as word always did in small communities, and the streets were lined with well-wishers calling congratulations and throwing flowers.
Children ran alongside the carriage, shrieking with excitement.
The baker's wife wept openly, claiming she had known all along.
The blacksmith raised a tankard in salute.
Frederick found himself smiling—genuinely smiling—for the first time in what felt like years.
"They seem pleased," Florinda observed, waving at a group of young women who were giggling behind their hands.
"They have been waiting nine years for this wedding. I suspect they are primarily relieved."
"Nine years is a considerable wait."
"I am a slow learner." He caught her hand, raised it to his lips. "But I believe I have at last grasped the essential lesson."
"Which is?"
"That you are beyond measure." His voice roughened. "That you have always been beyond measure. And that I am the luckiest fool in England."
Florinda's eyes went bright. "You are not a fool."
"I spent nine years writing letters I never sent. I think 'fool' is charitable."
"You are my fool." She leaned closer, heedless of the watching crowd. "And I find I rather like you that way."
The carriage rolled on, through streets decorated with bunting and past faces bright with celebration. Frederick counted nothing—not the flowers, not the well-wishers, not the gold threads catching sunlight through the carriage window.
There was nothing left to count.
He had everything he needed.
Carthedge Hall rose before them as the carriage turned up the drive—grey stone and ancient dignity, the home that would now be theirs together.
"It looks different," Florinda said softly.
"It looks the same as it always has."
"No." She shook her head. "It looks like home."
Frederick's chest ached with the truth of it. For years, the Hall had been a monument to duty—a place he managed rather than loved, maintained rather than cherished. But with Florinda beside him, her hand in his and her future intertwined with the ancient stones, it had transformed into home.
"Welcome home, Your Grace," he said, and meant it in ways he could not articulate.
The carriage stopped. The footman opened the door. And Frederick, Duke of Carthedge, handed his barefoot duchess down the steps and into the beginning of everything.
The counting, he realised, had stopped at last.
One wife, he thought, the only number that had ever truly mattered. One life. One love.
It was enough.
It was more than enough.
It was everything.