Page 66 of Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly
“Now give me the necklace and turn around.”
Fifi did as she was told and waited in wonder as the jewels nestled against her skin and warmed her with their welcome and their message of acceptance by the woman who had no reason to do so. No reason save love of her son. And of her family. And perhaps of her.
“Now. Come show us. Turn, do. Yes, yes. They complement your sweet eyes, my dear girl.” She cleared her throat of telltale tears. “What do you think of the soon-to-be new Countess of Charlton? Annalise? Rory?”
“Lovely,” said Annalise.
“Incomparable,” proclaimed Rory.
Fifi had to swallow her own tears. Putting a hand to the gems, she gazed at the countess. “I cannot thank you enough.”
“Every word of gratitude is always enough. For today. For the now. We take all we need from the moment, and live the best for the next one. My third announcement is that I am proud to welcome you to the family, Fiona Chastain. You make my son happy. You make my daughter laugh. You make me forget and forgive with your gentle ways.”
With that, her smile became a glorious declaration and she opened her arms to Fifi.
Minutes later,Annalise and her mother declared they would rest and dress for dinner, after which they’d go off to bed early because the vicar would arrive at eight thirty to conduct the wedding ceremony.
Alone with Fifi, Rory led her toward the wall mirror to view the jewels at her throat. “When you are ready, we’ll host a house party. We’’ll have your family, your friends. Mine, too. And you must wear these.”
She fingered the innumerable stones, their heat her assurance of a sublime future. “I will. With pride.”
“Come.”
He led her out of the room, along the hall and into the green salon. Though the garden doors, he led her to the veranda that faced his mother’s flower garden. There he took the large iron chair he’d taken to sitting in with her each night since they’d arrived at his home.
The first night they’d arrived, he had taken her here for a private talk. She had just admitted to him that she did not yet feel like a bride. She wanted to. Yearned to feel the exuberance of one about to marry the one she loved. But the death of her mother had taken the stuffing out of her.
“I wonder if we might wait for a week or two.”
He’d pulled her from the matching chair and taken her to his lap. There, he’d combed her hair from her cheeks, kissed her with reverence and agreed. More than.
“You will tell me when you are ready,” he said then.
And he had waited…patiently too.
Each night they’d sat here before dinner and afterward, she in his lap, his lips upon her hair, his arms around her, and in silent communion they’d allowed the sorrows and frights of her past and his to melt further into the infinity of the universe. In the mellow acceptance of the eternity of time, they’d simply breathed in the possibilities of a future together, at peace as one.
