“Charity, do you not look lovely,” her mother said. “I only wish you had worn the false locks. They suit you so well.”
“Mother, she does not like them,” Eleanor interjected firmly. “And she is a duchess. Surely, she may decide for herself what to wear in her own hair.”
Charity smiled. Her younger sister had grown bolder in recent months, something Charity took great delight in. Their mother opened her mouth to object, but thought better of it and said instead, “Of course. Indeed, you are a duchess now.”
“In any case,” Eleanor said, “you look beautiful. I know Eammon shall not be able to take his eyes off you.”
“I daresay that is so,” came a familiar voice.
Charity turned to find her mother-in-law, the dowager duchess, standing nearby.
“Lady Pembroke,” she said, “might I have a word with my daughter-in-law before we enter the church?”
“But of course, Your Grace,” her mother said and beckoned the others to follow her out.
“Your Grace,” Charity began.
“Call me Lydia, please, when it is just the two of us. Come, sit with me.”
“I shall, though I am not certain I can,” Charity laughed. “I have not sat since donning this gown.”
“Then let me assist you.”
With care, Lydia helped her arrange the voluminous skirts so she could perch on a bench.
The two women had grown quite close in recent months. Lydia often visited Hayward, and together they had taken Ambrose and Hector to see the village children twice each month. Eammon joined on occasion, using the time to meet with tenants and villagers. Lydia also dined with them every Sunday.
Charity was still sometimes overwhelmed by the sheer number of Eammon’s relations, but she had grown fond of them. Thomas remained Eammon’s closest confidant, and Charity was grateful, knowing how important the friendship was to her husband. Lately, she had noticed an increasing fondness between Thomas and Millie as well.
She shook away her musings and turned her attention back to Lydia.
“You look rather dreamy,” Lydia said. “Have you envisioned the ceremony?”
“I have. And it shall be glorious.”
“I am certain it will be,” Lydia replied, taking her hand. “Charity, I wished for a moment alone to thank you—for accepting Eammon for who he truly is. It has been a burden for him to keep the secret so long. A burden for his father as well.”
“Do you ever regret it?” Charity asked softly. “For Eammon still wrestles with it. I think a part of him longs to let the truth be known.”
“I understand. Sometimes I wonder, too. Would he have fared better as simply our ward? Might life have been less heavy, less concealed? And yet, I think of all he has achieved. He is respected in the House of Lords. The tenants adore him. He has done so much good.”
“Indeed, he has,” Charity said. “Though I believe he would have been just as excellent a solicitor, or colonel, or physician. He is one of those rare men who would excel in any path.”
Lydia smiled. “How fortunate that you regard my son so. And I agree. Do you think we erred in what we did?”
Charity paused. “Life may have been easier without the secret, but I do believe he was born to lead—even if not born legally to the title. I wish, truly, the Lords might change and allow wards and adopted children to inherit.”
“We tried,” Lydia sighed. “My husband’s brothers sought to persuade him to put forth just such a proposal. But he feared it would draw scrutiny to his own situation. He was not wrong. Still, I hope the day may come. Not Eammon, but for others. That brings me to something else—your children. Will you tell them the truth?”
Charity blinked.
“I do not know,” she said. “Now that my father's Book of Confidences is destroyed, there is no need for them to know the truth. It would only weigh on them.”
“I agree,” Lydia nodded. “And I believe Eammon does as well.”
“Yes,” Charity replied. She and Eammon had discussed this and agreed. If they had sons, they would not tell them. And for daughters, it mattered not.
“Well then,” Lydia said warmly, “shall we go to the chapel?”
