A loud cough broke them apart, and in the doorway stood Lady Hurstbourne, a rather amused, if slightly annoyed, look on her face. “If you leave now, Your Grace, I can certainly pretend blindness for the next minute.”
Jasper slowly lowered Clara back down, gave her one quick kiss on the forehead, and whispered against her skin, “That was all the courage I needed.” Before he stepped out of the room and bowed to both ladies. “I look forward to seeing you at the ceremony later.” Then he was gone, leaving Clara smiling so broadly her cheeks hurt.
When her sister looked at her, Clara laughed. “You two are simply—”
“Compared to the rest of the set…” Clara said in her defence.
Hustling her back into the chamber, she said, “I don’t think that passes muster.”
“No, you’re right.” Clara cut her off. “I will simply have to settle for being as ridiculously happy as the rest of you.”
* * *
The green-flecked fieldsof the country estate where Woolwich resided had belonged to his family for centuries and were decked out to welcome its first wedding in over forty years. Moorland Park was an austere Elizabethan mansion. Its famous dark stone was golden in the light. Its slated windows, climbing parapets, and sprawling ancient floors made it an impressive build. But the impressively tall timbers and curving gables marked out Moorland Park as one of the most beautiful estates in the county, if not the whole of England, and Woolwich had always been proud to call it home. But today it was as if the house itself were smiling in the sunshine and it, too, realised the significance.
The same could be said of Woolwich, as he had been unable to stop grinning since he woke up. Undoubtedly, the servants would remark on the oddness, but Woolwich did not mind. Let them gossip to their heart’s content since he had his.
Woolwich’s mother and Clara had agreed that the reception would take place outside, and now it was in the midst of this setup that Woolwich stood. Great blooms of flowers had been shipped in, scenting the air with the happy smell of roses and lily of the valley. If someone could have told him a year ago that he would have been attending his own wedding, smiling graciously at the servants, and watching his young son walk towards him, Woolwich would have thought that person mad. But here he was, decked out in his finest black suit, his cravat smoothed, and his hair styled in a manner that Clara most approved of.
“Father,” Beau was calling. He charged away from his nursemaid, his fat little legs carrying him forward with all the energy of a four-year-old. He rushed out towards the middle of the garden where the chairs, tables, and delights were being set up, where Woolwich stood waiting for him. When he reached Woolwich, the boy smiled shyly up at him, a dimple visible on his rounded cheek. Sometimes it struck Woolwich how alike his young son looked to Annabelle, which was why he had asked the maid and the Heatherbrokes to meet him before the wedding ceremony.
Crouching down low in front of his son, Woolwich smoothed a stray blond piece of the child’s hair off his face. “Remember I said there was a secret your mother kept.”
The boy nodded, a small frown on his face as he tried to recall all the things he should know. With a quick gesture, Woolwich kissed his son’s forehead. He and Clara had discussed this, raising Beau so he would always feel able to ask questions.
“There is nothing to worry about. In fact, today is a good day. There is someone I want you to meet.” Getting to his feet, Woolwich took his son’s outstretched hand, leading his boy around one of the artfully arranged tables and to the seated family close by.
The Heatherbrokes were there, handsomely attired and clearly keen to get to the church. Woolwich’s eyes moved between the couple’s children, the little boy who was just a year younger than Beau, and then finally to the girl whose birth and very existence had broken his first marriage apart. Young Harriet, whose chin held the memory of her mother and whose dark hair showed the proof of Woolwich’s late wife’s infidelity. But Harriet was also clearly her own little person.
Woolwich had expected to feel a great many things at the sight of Annabelle’s eight-year-old daughter, but all that flowed through him at the sight of Harriet’s round questioning eyes and brown curls was a smile that graced his own face, one of reassurance. There was no bitterness left within him. He pulled his son, Beau, forward and said, “I want you to meet your sister.”
THE END.
