“Yes, indeed,” Betty echoed. “Me, learning to read and write. I like your teaching, Miss Celeste, but your mother makes everything so much clearer.”
Celeste laughed. “She’s been a teacher for a while. I’m still new at it. How are you coming along with that? Are you reading stories yet?”
“Only very easy ones with pictures,” Betty replied. “But I am learning.”
“So am I,” said Sally Ann. “And I’ve been doing fine sewing with Mother Sarah. She says that she thinks I might make a vocation of it.” Then the girl paused and thought. “What’s a vocation?”
“Something you want to do all your life,” Celeste answered.
“So, will Jonathan be your new vocation?” Betty teased.
“Jonathan will be my life-long companion. As for vocations, we are thinking about raising silkworms.”
“Really?” squeaked Sarah Ann. “Why would you raise worms?”
“Because they are the creatures that make the thread that is used to make silk dresses,” Martha said gently, calming what looked as if it might become a small riot. “Is that not correct, Mrs. Singer?”
“I am told that is correct. I’ve never seen one, and would be more curious to see what they look like.”
“We are just thinking about it,” Celeste said. “After all the events this year, Jonathan is worried about continuing to grow anything as lethal as monkshood, yet the orangeries were quite expensive to repair. We need to make up the difference somehow.”
“Dame Celeste, we need your mother out here and you need to be ready to go.” Sister Agatha approached weddings with the same no-nonsense manner that she used when dosing village younglings for coughs and colds.
Celeste stepped out into the summer sunshine. A tartan-clad band with bagpipes struck up the wedding march. Celeste walked down the path toward the lake – the same path where Sally Ann had run from phantasmal voices that turned out to be Warner using ventriloquism. But instead of taking the branch to the bog, Celeste followed a petal strewn path that lead to an outdoor altar. Her attendants walked with her, helping keep her train and her veil from dragging in the dirt and across the grass.
Mr. Singer met her and offered her his arm. “Little did I know,” he said, “that I would be reunited with my daughter, only to lose her to a Duke.”
“Oh, Papa! You have not lost me at all. You know I will visit you every day.”
“Oh, perhaps not every day. You will have duties to tend. Besides, your Mama would throw us both out of doors if we were too much underfoot.”
“Shhh!” Betty cautioned them. “You need to look dignified.”
“I’m too happy to be dignified,” Celeste protested. But she straightened her shoulders and tried to be more sedate.
Then she caught sight of Jonathan, waiting at the altar, and she could scarcely restrain herself from running to him. With all the outdoor work he had been doing, he had regained his tan. In addition, with a daily dose of admiration from Celeste, he was rapidly losing the hesitant manner he had displayed in her first months at Gwyndonmere.
Mr. Singer held her firmly by the elbow. “Steady, with dignity,” he said. “Make him proud.”
She walked in time to the skirling pipes and the tapping drums and paused. The village parson read out his prepared speech, and prompted them through their vows. It was happening. They were really getting married.
After they had said their “I do’s”, Celeste turned to throw her bouquet. When she did, Sally Ann instinctively reached up to catch it, then hastily thrust it at Betty, as if to ward off a bad omen.
Then, amid a shower of rice and rose petals, they ran to the dance platform where they danced the first dance. Because Celeste wanted her parents to join them on the dance floor, the first dance was a romantic waltz.
Then they cut the cake, toasted each other, and were toasted by many. Finally, they sat watching the revelry, content just to be in each other’s presence.
“I love your people, Jonathan,” Celeste said.
“Our people,” Jonathan corrected. “From now on. Our people.”
“Our people,” Celeste repeated. “And, Jonathan Harper, Duke of Gwyndonmere, I love you.”
“And I love you, Celeste Harper. You are the one I have dreamed of and longed for all these years.”
Epilogue
Jonathan Harper, Duke of Gwyndonmere, sat by his wife’s beside and extended a tentative hand toward the tiny baby who stared about him with unfocused eyes. The infant managed to free one hand and flapped it about wildly. Encountering his father’s finger, he grasped it and tried to pull it toward his mouth.
