A wedding in very best taste for a widow would be a ceremony in a small church or chapel, a few flowers or palms in the chancel the only decoration, and two to four ushers. There are no ribboned-off seats, as only very intimate friends are asked. The bride wears an afternoon street dress and hat. Her dress for a church ceremony should be more conventional than if she were married at home, where she could wear a semi-evening gown and substitute a headdress for a hat. She could even wear a veil if it is colored and does not suggest the bridal white one.
Emily Price Post
For once, Estelle did not insist on providing the music. Carrying a bouquet of yellow roses and wearing an indigo gown and wide-brimmed hat trimmed in indigo ribbons, she stepped out of the music room and headed up the aisle made by the rows of chairs set up in the VanDorns’ drawing room. Forty friends and family turned to watch her, some with disapproving frowns, some with raised eyebrows, but most smiling.
No smile could be as wide as Catherine’s as she clutched her father’s arm and watched her beautiful, talented sister glide toward the fireplace, where her new husband stood as best man to Catherine’s groom.
“Even if she did elope,” Catherine murmured to Papa, “you should be proud of her.”
“We are.” He cleared his throat. “Even if they went all the way to Virginia to get married so they didn’t need our permission. If she’d waited a bit, we might have given our permission.”
“It’s the might have given your permission that was the difficulty.” Catherine patted his arm. “They’ll make you proud.”
“As traveling musicians?” He shook his head. “Outrageous.”
It was rather, but Catherine had never seen two people so happy—except for she and and her beloved.
Only three things brought them sadness on their glorious day. Georgette was not there to be Catherine’s attendant, as she and a hired companion had sailed for Rio de Janeiro the previous week. She intended to explore the Amazon, the furthest life from Tuxedo Park she could imagine. Far from seeking freedom, Ambrose waited to learn whether he would stand trial in America or England, as he had committed crimes in both. Catherine and Tristram prayed for his salvation daily.
The biggest source of Tristram’s regret was that he hadn’t heard a word from his father since telegraphing the news regarding Ambrose six weeks earlier. Catherine prayed that the marquess would at least acknowledge their wedding. Doubt that her prayer would be answered rose upon occasion, but she thanked the Lord for His will working in their lives and held on to hope even as the string quartet played the wedding music behind her, signaling her moment had come to walk toward her groom.
The minute she stepped through the drawing room doorway, she felt his eyes upon her. Along the length of the chamber, she met his dark green gaze and held it. The closer she drew to him, the more she read tenderness, love and approval in his eyes. She hoped he liked her gold satin gown and wide-brimmed hat with filmy gold veiling floating from the brim. She certainly approved of his black suit, white shirt and inability to tame his cowlick. That errant curl made her smile.
She reached Tristram’s side and handed Estelle her bouquet of creamy roses. Papa set her hand in Tristram’s and stepped back to make room for the pastor.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here—”
The drawing room door flew open. “So sorry to interrupt.”
Everyone turned toward the newcomer, a tall, elegant man in late middle age with light brown hair going gray and familiar features.
Catherine caught her breath and looked up at Tristram. Barely healed from his injuries, he had grown pale and swayed forward half a step.
She slipped her arm around his waist. “Are you all right?”
He shook his head. “Father, what are you doing here?”
“You did send me an invitation.” The Marquess of Cothbridge strode up the aisle and gripped Tristram’s shoulder. “I tried to get here sooner, but it’s difficult getting across the North Atlantic this time of year. You couldn’t have waited until spring?” He glanced at Catherine and bowed. “But of course not. How do you do, my lady?”
Catherine opened her mouth, but no words emerged.
“Better if I sit down and let this ceremony continue?”
“Yes, my lord.”
His brows arched nearly to his hairline at her forthright response, but he merely inclined his head and accepted the seat her brother had vacated for him.
“Continue,” Tristram directed the pastor in a voice that quivered with what some might have thought anger, others distress, and Catherine knew from the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, to be suppressed laughter.
His face bemused, the pastor continued with the ceremony. Tristram and Catherine spoke their vows and, against custom, exchanged rings. Then, with Tristram’s hand covering Catherine’s where it rested on his forearm, they recessed to the drawing room door to greet the well-wishers.
While the guests filed into the dining room for the wedding tea, the marquess held back so that he was the last to approach them. He bowed, then gripped both their hands. “I owe you both apologies.” He cleared his throat.
They gazed back at him.
“For what, sir?” Tristram asked.
“For being ashamed of you. For sending you into danger. For not listening when you tried to tell me about your work with the former soldiers. When I learned you were nearly killed—” He scowled. “From others, not you, I must note, I realized I’d, uh, been so determined to have a son who did the things I thought would make me proud that I didn’t realize I had a son who had already done things to make me proud.” He kissed Catherine’s cheek. “I like your wife. She spoke her vows like your mother did—like she means every word.”
“I do.” Catherine smiled, her heart swelling with joy.
Tristram slipped his arm around her shoulders. “And I love her rather intensely, the more for the fact she has put my accusing her of theft and worse behind us.”
“Then I have hope that you can put everything I’ve said and done to you behind you,” the marquess said.
Tristram reached his free hand out to his father. “I already have.”
His father clasped the proffered hand.
“Now, if you will excuse me, sir, I’d like a few minutes alone with my wife.”
“The guests are waiting for us,” Catherine said.
But she didn’t protest when, his arm still around her, Tristram led Catherine up the steps to the conservatory. With the guests in the dining room below, the room was dark, save for outside lights glowing off the snow. “I am going to miss this room.”
“Why this one?” Catherine rested her head on his shoulder.
“I think maybe I fell in love with you here overlooking the lake and the trees that first day I came to see you.”
She laughed and slipped her arm around him. “It was so cold I thought I’d freeze you out of my life.”
“Instead, you warmed me to my heart.” He turned from the frosty landscape to his radiant bride and kissed her. “I love you now and forever.”
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