BUNTINGFORD
SATURDAY, AUGUST 2, 1941
This is Hugh Collingwood reporting from outside a church in a village somewhere in England. If it weren’t for the war, you would hear bells pealing for this is no ordinary day. For on this day, this BBC correspondent married his intrepid air raid warden.”
Hugh smiled down at the lovely new Mrs. Collingwood, who stood with her arm around his waist and her face gleaming. Since clothes rationing had begun in June, she’d chosen to buy a suit of pale blue rather than a wedding dress, an outfit that would serve her longer. She could have worn the dowdiest of tweeds, and he wouldn’t have minded.
Tom Young slashed a hand through the air to get Hugh’s attention.
“My apologies. This correspondent is dazzled by the radiance of his bride.” Hugh grinned at Young. “Weddings are not only a time to celebrate romantic love, but to gather with family. Here as witnesses today are my parents and the bride’s aunt and uncle.” Hugh nodded to Father and Mother, to Tante Margriet and Uncle James, all beaming with joy.
“Somewhere in this churchyard, if one searched diligently, one might find my wife’s darling son, the child who brought Mrs. Collingwood into my acquaintance.”
Giggles arose across the churchyard as Teddy chased Hugh’s cousin William’s three boys under a clear blue sky. Over two months had passed since Aleida had reunited with her son. Each time they met, they grew closer, and they hoped to move the child to Collingwood Manor in a month or so.
“At weddings, we also gather with those as dear as family.” Hugh nodded to Simmons and to Julian and Dora, who would indeed be lifelong friends—then to his fellow reporters. “And we gather with those whom we barely like but must indeed tolerate.”
Louisa and Gil and Fletcher and MacLeod and Tony Da Costa broke into laughter. Gil’s eyes twinkled especially. The shift from competition to friendship had changed his demeanor on air and brought out a relaxed sincerity that elevated his reporting.
Hugh dropped the timbre of his voice. “However, weddings are also a time when we sense the passing of generations, when we remember those who are no longer with us.” His throat clamped shut. His brother, Cecil, and his sister, Caroline, should have been at his wedding. Uncle Elliott. François Jouveau.
The murder case worked its way through the courts, the scandal and sensation capturing the nation, distracting them from the war. Beatrice Granville would indeed hang for her crimes, and Albert Ridley was all but ruined.
Aleida hugged Hugh’s waist. “Sweetheart,” she whispered.
Hugh cleared his throat. “We also remember those who ought to be here and can’t, like my wife’s loved ones, who remain in the Netherlands under Nazi oppression.”
Aleida murmured and leaned against his side.
He kissed the top of her head. When the Germans invaded the Soviet Union in June, Britain had sighed in relief that Hitler had turned his eyes from her shores, but a sigh tinged with grief for another people to be afflicted.
How long until Germany could be overthrown and the Netherlands and the other occupied nations could be freed?
Hugh hefted up a smile. “Why do we celebrate weddings in wartime? Because weddings prove that love defeats hatred, that light conquers darkness, and that life triumphs over death. Love glows in the midst of the flames, and new life—new life stirs amongst the embers.”
A pretty pink blush colored Aleida’s cheeks.
“I must now say goodbye and good day to you all. Because, my dearest listeners, I must find some privacy so I can kiss my bride.”
After Young signaled that he’d ended the recording, Hugh handed him the microphone, took his bride by the hand, and led her around the side of the church.
There he leaned against ancient stone, stretching back through the generations, and he gathered Aleida close, fresh and beautiful, and hope stretched forward into generations yet to come.
“So many pretty words, Hugh Collingwood.” Aleida wound her arms around his neck and wove her fingers into his hair.
“Why, thank you, Aleida van der Zee Collingwood. Pretty words are my specialty, and I have an endless supply, particularly in regard to you.”
“So many pretty words and so much staring into my eyes as if you can see eternity.”
“Ah, but I can.” He swam in the green-blue sea, exhilarating in the warmth. “I can see the next Collingwood heir and the next and the next.”
A laugh bubbled in her throat. “You’ve never cared for such things.”
Not the estate, but he wanted their love to flow far into the future. “I care for you.”
Aleida stroked his hair. “So many pretty words in that caramel voice, and yet you don’t keep your word. You promised to kiss me.”
Hugh mustered as much caramel into his voice as possible. “That, my love, can be remedied.”
And he kissed her, as rich and as sweet and as golden as the years before them.