Bath. She had also burned her bridges by selling the school to Miss Thompson. She had instructed Hatchard, her man of business in London, to keep an eye out for young children with handicaps and no home. And if all those things were not enough to reassure him, there was the dizzying new fact that she had confided to him only yesterday. She was increasing! They were going to have a child of their own. He still had not quite absorbed this new knowledge to the full—though he had raged at her for all of thirty seconds after she told him before grabbing her and half squeezing the life out of her. She ought to have told him sooner. Good Lord, if he had only known, he would have rushed her into a marriage by special license, and to the devil with this grand wedding that his army of female relatives, headed by Wilma, had concocted without his by-your-leave. There had been another marriage by special license a couple of months ago. Either McLeith or Portia or both of them together had seen sense after leaving Alvesley on the night of the anniversary ball. They had gone to London instead of Scotland, announced their betrothal to the Balderstons, and had a small but quite respectable wedding a few days later. Joseph’s stomach was feeling decidedly queasy and Neville threw him a sympathetic glance. And then Claudia arrived, and he turned to watch her approach alone down the wide center aisle, between pews filled with guests. She was beautiful. She was…How had she described herself once after they had made love? Ah, yes. She was woman. Schoolteacher, businesswoman, friend, lover—all the things she was and had ever been were overlaid by that one central fact. She was simply woman. Typically, she was simply, neatly, elegantly dressed—with the exception of the absurdly pretty straw hat that sat atop her head, tilted slightly forward. He smiled—at the hat, at her. She smiled back and he forgot about the hat. Ah, Claudia! They turned together to face the clergyman. “Dearly beloved,” he began in sonorous tones that filled the large church. And in no time at all the nuptial service was ending and they were married, he and Claudia Martin, now Claudia Fawcitt, Marchioness of Attingsborough. For the rest of their lives. Until death them did part. Through good times and bad, sickness and health. Her eyes gazed into his. Her lips were pressed into a thin line. He smiled at her. She smiled back and the summer sun, gradually receding into autumn beyond the Abbey doors, shone warm and bright through her eyes. They signed the register and then began the long walk up the nave of the Abbey past smiling guests, who would soon crowd into the Upper Asse mbly Rooms for the wedding breakfast. It was Claudia who stopped at the second pew, where Lizzie was sitting between Anne Butler and David Jewell, gorgeously clad in a froth of pink lace with a matching satin bow in her hair. Claudia leaned past her friend, whispered something to his daughter, and drew her to her feet. And so, with half the beau monde watching, they walked up the nave, the three of them, Lizzie in the middle, her arms linked through theirs, looking radiantly happy. There were those who would be scandalized at the sight. They could go hang for all Joseph cared. He had seen his mother smiling at them and Wilma wiping a tear from her eye. He had seen his father gazing sternly at them, a look of fierce affection in his eyes. He smiled at Claudia over the top of Lizzie’s head. She smiled back, and they stepped out of the church into the Pump Room yard, which was surely as crowded as the Abbey behind them. Someone cheered and almost everyone else joined in. The Abbey bells were ringing. The sun was breaking clear of the cloud cover. “I love you,” he mouthed to Claudia, and her eyes told him that she had heard and understood. Lizzie tipped back her head and looked from one to the other of them as if she could see them. She laughed. “Papa,” she said. “And Mama.” “Yes, sweetheart.” He bent to kiss her cheek. And then, to the noisy delight of the spectators and the few guests who had already spilled out of the Abbey behind them, he leaned across her and kissed Claudia on the lips. “Both my sweethearts,” he said. Claudia’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I am not going to be a watering pot now of all times,” she said in her schoolmistress voice. “Take us to the carriage, Joseph.” Lizzie nestled her head against her shoulder. “This instant,” Claudia said in a tone that must have had fifteen years’ worth of pupils jumping to attention. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning. “No. Make that, yes, my lady.” They were all laughing as he hurried them across the yard, past crowds of well-wishers, and finally through the stone arches and a tunnel of assorted cousins and Bedwyns, all of whom had sneaked out early and armed themselves with flower petals. By the time they reached the street and the carriage, Claudia had an excuse for the tears that trickled down her cheeks. They were tears of laughter, she would have said if he had asked. He did not. He set Lizzie on one seat, took his place beside Claudia on the other, set one arm about her shoulders, and kissed her thoroughly. “What are you doing, Papa?” Lizzie asked. “I am kissing your mama,” he told her. “She is also my bride, remember.” “Oh, good,” she said, and laughed. So did Claudia. “Everyone will see,” she said. “Do you mind?” He leaned back from her to note again how vibrantly beautiful she looked. “Not at all,” she said, lifting her hand to his shoulder and drawing him back toward her as the carriage moved forward on its way to the Upper Rooms. “This is the happiest day of my life and I do not care if the whole world knows it.” And she leaned forward, took Lizzie’s hand in hers and squeezed it, and then kissed him. He spread his hand over her abdomen, which surely was slightly rounded already. All his family was here. His present and his future. His happiness. Love. I dream of love, of a family—wife and children—which is as close and as dear to me as the beating of my own heart. Had he spoken those words once upon a time? If he had not, he certainly ought to have. Except that he no longer had to dream that particular dream. It had just become reality.
