Page 65 of Only By Grace
EPILOGUE
The little chapel on the Donnellan estate, tucked away amidst rolling emerald hills and ancient yews, had never seen such an array of joyful commotion. The late morning sun poured through the stained-glass windows, casting rays of coloured light upon the worn stone floor. The air was alive with the mingling scents of fresh flowers and polished wood, the quiet murmur of assembled guests weaving a gentle hum of anticipation.
Grace stood just outside the doors, her heart fluttering like a bird caught between freedom and the comforting nest.
She wore a delicate creation of ivory silk with lace trimming in her customary simple elegance. It fell softly to the floor, and her bonnet, adorned with fresh blooms, framed her face. Patience and Hope fussed over the folds of her gown, while Faith adjusted the veil with meticulous precision.
“Stop fidgeting, Grace,” Faith chided, though her voice carried a smile. “You are a vision.”
“I am trying to breathe,” Grace retorted, feeling a mixture of nerves and humour. “Perhaps I ought to loosen my corset.”
“Nonsense,” Patience interjected. “You look perfect. Ronan won’t be able to take his eyes from you.”
It was not Ronan’s gaze that made her nervous, although she did wish to look perfect for him. It was that she had never liked being the centre of attention.
The great oak doors creaked open, their sound resonating through the chapel like the prelude to an opera. A collective murmur rippled through the gathered guests as they stood up, and Grace, poised on the arm of Lord Westwood, drew in a steadying breath. The air inside the chapel was cool, carrying with it the faint scent of polished wood and fresh greenery. Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows, casting dappled patterns on the stone floor.
Lady Donnellan sat in the front pew, dabbing her eyes discreetly with a lace handkerchief. Lord Donnellan sat beside her, his frail frame cloaked in heavy wool. Maeve was next to them but had turned in her seat, a lightness in her countenance that Grace had long hoped to see. She offered an encouraging nod, her smile radiating genuine affection.
On the opposite side, the entire Whitford, Westwood, and Rotham families had gathered, their presence a source of immeasurable comfort. Even both dowagers and the two aunts were in attendance. It meant everything to her that they had made the journey, and she reminded herself that everyone here belonged to her family.
Grace took her first step forward, her gown brushing lightly against the floor. Her heart thudded in her chest, but her steps were sure. If nerves were to overtake her, she resolved they would not show. She allowed her gaze to sweep forward, and her eyes found Ronan’s.
He waited at the altar, in all his handsome splendour, his eyes gleaming with appreciation. It gave her the courage to keep walking.
His enchanting eyes drew her forward, unguarded and filled with an emotion so raw it made her heart ache. For a moment, everything else fell away.
At last, she reached him. Lord Westwood paused, his grip firm on her hand as he turned to Ronan. “See that you take care of her, Carew,” he said gruffly, though his voice betrayed a thread of emotion. His stern look eased slightly, tempered by the glimmer of approval in his gaze.
“With my life,” Ronan replied, his voice solemn and steady.
As Lord Westwood stepped aside, Grace felt Ronan’s warm hand clasp hers as they faced the vicar. The ceremony began, its simplicity a reflection of their shared desire for a day of quiet joy rather than pomp. The vicar’s voice rang clear through the chapel, his words weaving the bonds that would unite them. Grace barely heard the murmurs of approval from the guests or the faint sniffles from her sisters in the pews. All she could feel was the warmth of Ronan’s hand and the steady thrum of her heart.
When it came time for their vows, Ronan’s voice was steady yet tinged with emotion, his words so heartfelt that Grace’s throat tightened. She followed with her own vows, her voice soft but unwavering, each word carrying the truth of her feelings.
The vicar’s pronouncement felt both timeless and immediate. “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Ronan lifted her hand and kissed it reverently, a seal of the vows they had made, and a promise of what was yet to come.
The late-autumn air was crisp, the gardens surrounding the chapel bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun as they returned to the castle for the wedding breakfast.
The great hall was strewn with greenery and lit by thousands of candles and blazing fires at either end.
Joy ensured the celebration was anything but staid. Her exuberant laugh carried over the conversations as she danced.Mr. Cunningham entertained the guests with his amusing commentary on the events, drawing laughter and good-natured ribbing in equal measure.
Lady Maeve approached them, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of mischief and affection. Dressed in Sardinian blue that complemented her dark hair, she looked happier than Grace had ever seen her. “There is no way back now, Brother,” she teased, her tone light. “Fortunate it is that you have wed the most patient and forgiving woman alive.”
Ronan slipped his arm around Grace and pulled her close. “I am indeed the fortunate one.”
“Your time will come soon,” Grace said softly.
Maeve gave a delicate laugh, though her cheeks flushed. “Let us hope that any suitor of mine proves as stubbornly persistent as Ronan. You are fortunate to find such a man, Grace.”
“Indeed, I know it. But Maeve, I will gladly teach you all I know.”
Ronan shook his head. “A dangerous alliance, I see. If you two continue in this vein, I may find myself entirely outmatched.”
The string quartet began a waltz, and Maeve gave Grace an encouraging nudge. “Go, Sister. Enjoy your first dance as man and wife.”
