Page 67 of Unending Joy
Westwood gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I will see you soon with your bride on my arm.”
“Not soon enough,” Freddy muttered as his old friend walked away.
Next, his father and mother wanted to speak with him. His mother was dabbing at her eyes, and Freddy embraced her. It nearly made him cry to see his mother so.
“Well, son, I am sorry we had to force you and Joy, but the two of you needed a little push.”
“What do you mean?” Freddy looked up at his father.
“It has been obvious to us from the start that the two of you were meant for each other. However, Joy was too young, and your friendship a bit…immature. You both needed to be brought to the bridle.”
Lady Gresham whimpered at the rough phrase.
“However, when it was time for her come-out, we were afraid that neither of you would see what a treasure you had in each other.”
“We almost did not.” Freddy shook his head. “I thought it devilish odd that you’d come the heavy, but am nevertheless grateful.”
His father wrapped him in a tight hug, and said no more.
Freddy let out a half-sigh, half-laugh and shook his head. He could not deny that he and Joy had been slow to see what had been right in front of them the whole time.
He stepped inside the tiny chapel: timber roof, white plaster walls, and windows of antique glass through which orchard-filtered light fell in shifting blues and greens. Two rows of polished oak benches flanked a centre aisle not five paces long. At the far end stood the rector, Reverend Clark, stout and placid, consulting his prayer book. Freddy took his position before the white-draped communion rails, Rotham at his left.
Guests arranged themselves with low rustles of conversation: Faith cradling sleepy Benjamin while Hope attempted to keep Sylvester occupied; Patience radiant beside Stuart on the right. Chairs were placed for the Dowagers Westwood and Aunts Flora and Rosemary.
Lord and Lady Gresham graced the other side of the chapel. Next came Thornhill, his gleaming duchess-to-be, Lady Maeve, Grace and Lord Carew.
The organ sighed to life, and Freddy’s heartbeat matched the rising chord. The chapel door opened. The congregation gasped, then chuckled. Joy’s laughter—soft, unmistakable—floated in as the cats preceded the bride.
Then Joy appeared on Westwood’s arm. She wore a gown of soft ivory spotted with delicate silver embroidery, and a gauze veil pinned to a wreath of hawthorn. Her spectacles glinted in the light. She moved with quiet assurance, evidentlyseeing enough to step without pause, and the trust in her gaze—directed first at Westwood, then with her brightest smile at Freddy—nearly unmanned him. As it was, he had to wipe tears discreetly from his eyes.
The final pace brought her to his side. Joy’s palm trembled once and then steadied, warm against his gloves. She inhaled deeply, but never stopped smiling. Freddy smiled back, finally feeling that all was just as it should be.
Reverend Clark began. “Dearly beloved…” Freddy scarcely heard, his heart drumming beneath his starched neckcloth. When the Reverend enquired who gave the bride, Westwood answered in a resonant baritone. When the vows came, Freddy found his voice surprisingly firm.
“I, Frederick George Marshall Cunningham, take thee, Joy Margaret Whitford, to be my wedded wife…”
Joy’s replies came clear and unwavering. As she said, “With my body I thee worship,” Lord Orville let out a plaintive protest, causing Rotham to cough behind a gloved fist. Reverend Clark soldiered on. The rings were exchanged, the blessing pronounced, the register signed. It was done.
As the bride and groom turned to face their friends, congratulations filled the chapel. Lady Gresham dabbed her eyes. Freddy bent and scooped Frederica, who had been sleeping at their feet, into his arms.
Joy reached over and scratched her behind the ears. “Do you know the day I first knew I loved you, Freddy?”
“When?”
“It was when you bought her for me.”
“I should have known then how things would be. I never could say no to you.”
Joy gurgled with laughter. “I think I am going to like being married, Freddy.”
The words felt like sunrise in his heart. He tucked Frederica against his chest and offered Joy his arm and the new-made Cunninghams stepped down the aisle, preceded by their informal menagerie.
Lord Orville led the procession with the solemnity of a field marshal, tail erect, until Mouser discovered the long white ribbon trailing from Joy’s bouquet and pounced. The sudden tug sent petals flying like an explosion and produced a collective laughter from the pews.
Before disaster could escalate, Xander sprang in to assist, seized the ribbon in his soft mouth, and attempted to trot alongside—so that bride, dog, and two cats advanced in a lurching, three-legged waltz perfectly timed to the music.
Joy only laughed harder, and Freddy melted into delighted chuckles. At the chapel door, Sylvester darted forward waving a nosegay, and Camilla sprang up, seized the posy and capered off, causing Sylvester to cry.
