It was the day of Edward’s christening. February had passed in a blur at Treweham Hall, with all the hullabaloo of his unexpected, early arrival, and the days had shifted into early spring, bringing the cheery sunshine. Daffodils waved in the grounds, crocuses peeped out from the earth like colourful jewels, and the early blossom of the trees was bursting into life. The smell of freshly cut grass and a warm, mild breeze filled the air, whilst the birds sang their merry songs.
As expected, Beatrice was in full swing organising the event, whilst Aunt Celia stood on the sidelines, showing her usual signs of irritation. Megan was just plain relieved that Beatrice was acting true to form and taking over as it gave her more time to catch up on her sleep, after what had seemed like endless nights of tending to Edward. Only now, two and a half months after he’d entered their lives, had her son allowed her a fairly decent nap. Tobias had helped, but instinctively it was Megan who lay in bed listening and watching his tiny chest rising and falling.
The two couldn’t imagine life without him. Grandma Beatrice worshipped him. Uncle Sebastian adored him. Even Henry was enamoured, in his own way. Megan gently poked his wriggling little arms and starfish hands through the sleeves of the very elaborate white christening gown. It was a family heirloom, which each generation of the Cavendish-Blakes had worn for decades. Megan imagined Beatrice doing the same with Tobias and she smiled to herself.
‘All ready?’ Tobias entered the nursery, looking handsome in a navy-blue suit. He lovingly stroked his son’s head, then kissed Megan.
‘Almost. It’s quite a tricky thing to get on.’ She pointed to all the folds of silk and lace draped over the changing unit.
‘I know,’ laughed Tobias. ‘It’s hard to think of me and Sebastian in that.’ Outside, from down the corridor they could hear the commotion Beatrice was causing in preparing for the event and they exchanged knowing smiles.
*
Sebastian couldn’t fail to hear it too. Chuckling to himself, he straightened his tie in the mirror and ran his hands through his blond hair. There, that’d do, he told himself and then he reached for his phone to ring Jamie, who ought to have arrived by now.
‘Hi there, everything OK?’
‘Yeah, just running a bit late. I’ll be about fifteen minutes. The posters look amazing, by the way.’ Jamie had collected them from the printers that morning. They depicted the cast of his upcoming production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream all resplendent in their costumes, surrounded by the lush, green woods of the Treweham Hall estate, in bright, vibrant colours.
‘Excellent!’ gushed Sebastian.
His new theatre company, The Folly Players, was really taking off now, due to his relentless determination and effort, although he was often fighting fatigue. He was regularly counselled by Jamie to ease off and take time out; that the main benefit of running your own company meant doing things at your own pace.
He had attended his first appointment at the MS clinic, which had proved encouraging. There had been no change in Sebastian’s symptoms and it looked like his condition had stabilised for the time being, rather than worsening.
*
Marcus and Finula had just arrived at The Templar. As usual, Dermot stood waiting at the entrance with a huge beaming smile on his face. Finula hugged him hard, then stood back in astonishment.
‘You’ve sold it!’ She looked up at the ‘Sold’ sign standing outside the pub.
‘Certainly have. Only just, though. Thought I’d let you see for yourself,’ he laughed. Already he had his eye on a cottage in the village, which had only been on the market a week.
Marcus joined them. He was looking forward to his stay in Treweham. Having made good progress with the documentary, he was treating himself to a bit of a break. He was keen to put his time to good use and fully intended to read his father’s diaries whilst he was here.
‘Who’s bought it?’ he asked.
‘A young couple. I think it’s a huge investment for them, but they seem pretty keen.’
‘Oh, good. I’m so glad it’s not been swallowed up by a big brewery wanting to rip out the heart and soul of the place.’ Finula gazed at the beautiful stone pub, which had been her childhood home. Now it looked like it would be someone else’s.
*
Dylan and Flora were rushing to get ready. Dodging each other as they pelted about their bedroom, Flora suddenly gasped.
‘I forgot to get a christening card!’
‘But you did get a present?’ Dylan asked, buttoning his shirt.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Oh, it’ll do. Come on, or we’ll be late.’
Together they scrambled into the car and drove past the training yard on the way to Treweham Hall. Flora saw Phoenix in the paddock and blew him a kiss through the window and Dylan shook his head in amusement.
*
Gary and Tracy Belcher had remembered to get both a card and a present. Tracy was wrapping the silver spoon engraved with the baby’s name on it in pale blue paper.
‘Very apt,’ chuckled Gary.
‘Why?’ asked Tracy.
‘If ever there was a baby being born with a silver spoon in its mouth, it’s Edward Richard Henry Cavendish-Blake,’ he answered with mirth.
‘They won’t think we’re having a dig, do you?’ Tracy asked concerned.
‘Nah, will they ’eck.’
Together they walked through the estate leading onto the gravel driveway of Treweham Hall. Gary was pleased he managed the brisk walk easily, without puffing for breath. Due to his fitness regime, he had once more transformed his body into the toned, muscled one he had had previously. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Tracy, or Dylan for that matter, who had given him a few horse-riding lessons as promised.
All the guests were greeted at the Hall by the proud parents and guided up the stairs into the chapel. Rays of sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows and the air was filled with the scent of roses and tulips that decorated the sills in pretty arrangements. Friends and family shuffled sideways into the small, wooden pews, then turned to face the stone font. Finula and Marcus stood next to Tobias and Megan, as godparents to baby Edward.
‘Edward Richard Henry, I baptise you in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,’ the priest recited, whilst sprinkling the crying baby’s head with holy water.
Marcus looked into the font and saw his mam’s face reflected in the water. Not the sallow, sick face of a dying woman, but one with a healthy glowing complexion, rosy cheeks and a wide smile, just as he remembered her as a little boy being chased through the wildflower meadows of Roscommon. There she was, grinning at him. He gave a shaky smile back. In his heart he knew she’d guided him to Treweham. He was meant to find his brothers. He was meant to find Finula. He was no longer alone.