epilogue

June, 1896

Newport, Rhode Island

“Darling, I can’t believe you wouldn’t have a New York wedding.” Mother fussed over the last details of Francesca’s wedding gown. “And not even in a church. It’s a miracle that the Times is covering the event at all.”

“Don’t fret, Mother.” Francesca studied her reflection in her bedroom mirror. One last look at Miss Francesca Genevieve Wallingford before she became Mrs. Alfred Finley. “The reverend is more than happy to conduct the ceremony under heaven’s roof on our lawn.” She’d tried to talk Mother into agreeing to a seaside wedding, but Mother would not bend to that. Francesca figured the battle was not worth the struggle.

At least she and Alfred would be married within sight of the beloved ocean. Nearly two hundred guests waited on the lawn below for Francesca to appear—and that was the trimmed guest list.

The old whispers had died away after Mother’s scheming had been revealed, and the society mavens decided to leave the couple in peace. After all, it was whispered, hadn’t that sweet young Francesca Wallingford been through enough, barely escaping being wed to that philandering count?

He and Lillian were gallivanting through Europe now. At least that was the last report Mother had heard.

Sometimes during the wedding planning, Mother would sigh and remark that she could have had a count for a son-in-law. But it seemed that having a happy daughter made life much easier.

“I will go now, and let the guests know the service can commence.” Mother scurried away, her hat looking like a swan had somehow alighted upon her head.

Francesca took up her bouquet. Time to meet Father and walk to meet Alfred at the edge of their sea cliff, where a small, covered altar had been built for the occasion.

When the rear doors to Seaside opened, and Francesca saw the expanse of lawn dotted with chairs, and beyond that, the sea, her heart quickened. Surely, God had delivered her out of the fire, unscathed, through His Providence.

The violins and instruments of the small orchestra swelled, and the sound drifted across the breeze.

“Ready, daughter?”

“Yes, Father. I’m ready.”

She walked with him along the path, past their guests, and then Father released her to Alfred, whose eyes shone with love for her. All the worldly goods he could bestow on her meant nothing without that love. Perhaps the wealth would leave them one day, but so long as they had each other and the knowledge that true wealth could never be bought or sold, they would be the richest couple alive.

Alfred took her hand, and whispered, “I love you, Francesca Wallingford.”

“Alfred Finley, I love you, too.”