Page 57 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
They passed together through the corridors of Seacliff Retreat—corridors that had known crisis and triumph in equal measure. Each familiar passage echoed with memory: of confrontation, of discovery, of the relentless work of carving space where none had been granted. And now, at last, these same halls bore witness to celebration.
How strange, and how right, that this place—built not for opulence, but for purpose—should host such a ceremony. She had once regarded marriage as a bargain too costly—particularly for a woman who had already paid that price once, in the currency of silence and survival. Companionship, she had learned, could come at the expense of selfhood; and love, if it came at all, often came after duty. But Jasper had asked nothing of her that would diminish her purpose. He had not sought to shape or shelter her—but to stand beside her. In him, she had found not distraction, but direction. A union not forged out of necessity, but chosen in clarity.
This time, it felt, she was not walking away from her calling.
She was walking more deeply into it.
And yet—even in this moment—there was an absence she could not wholly silence.
Thalia had found in the Vexleys something startlingly close to family: not merely affection, but regard; not tolerance, but trust. Still, her thoughts turned—inevitably, and with no small weight—to Marcus.
Her brother’s absence was not unexpected. He had been invited; the letter declining had been courteous, brief, and framed by the usual pretext of estate obligations. But beneath the formality, Thalia had read a strain not of indifference, but of something more brittle. Not defeat. But perhaps—if only just—remorse.
It had taken her some time to admit that Marcus, too, was a creature shaped by the same system she had spent her life resisting. He had not been born cruel. Only convinced. Trained to guard legacy more than love, to treat a sister’s future like an inheritance to be managed rather than a voice to be heard. His schemes—controlling, presumptive, and at times humiliating—had never stemmed from malice. Misguided though they were, they had been meant to protect her. Or at least, to preserve the only form of safety society had taught him to value: respectability.
And though his methods had denied her agency, had endangered everything she built, she could no longer see him as enemy. Only as someone who had never been shown another way.
She did not excuse him. But neither would she let bitterness harden into permanence.
There would be a letter. Not today, perhaps. But soon.
She would write not to reproach, but to reopen. To tell him that while she did not forget, she forgave. And that if he could find a way to meet her not as guardian or adversary—but simply as brother—she would be waiting.
For all that she had lost, she was learning what might still be found.
***
The low murmur of gathered guests stilled as Thalia emerged into the winter air, her arm resting lightly on Sebastian’s. The garden—spare, windswept, and dignified in its seasonal simplicity—held no grandeur, yet every guest seemed to recognise the significance of the moment. There was no spectacle, no lavish pomp. Only the quiet certainty of two people choosing one another with full knowledge of what that choice meant.
Jasper stood near the modest archway that framed the ceremony, a dusting of frost still visible on its evergreen boughs. He was without ornament—just a dark coat brushed clean of the morning wind, and an expression that held no trace of the polished detachment so often expected of men in society. His eyes, when they met Thalia’s, held nothing back.
She stepped forward with measured grace, not as an ornament to be given, but as a woman arriving on her own terms. Sebastian paused only briefly to place her hand in Jasper’s, the gesture simple and reverent.
When the moment came, they turned to face one another, hands joined—his steady, hers warm despite the chill. The vicar spoke, his voice clear but restrained, offering only what formality required.
“I, Jasper Vexley, take thee, Thalia Greaves, to be my wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. To love thee, and to cherish thee, for as long as life is granted me. This I pledge with all my heart.”
Their hands parted for the briefest of moments before Thalia took his in turn, her expression composed, her voice clear:
“I, Thalia Greaves, take thee, Jasper Vexley, to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold from this day forward, in joy and in sorrow, in comfort and in trial, in health and in infirmity. To honour thee, and to walk beside thee, freely and faithfully, for as long as we both shall live.”
As their hands remained clasped, the officiant turned to those assembled, his voice firm but not theatrical—bearing the clarity of a moment meant to be remembered.
“Forasmuch as Jasper Vexley and Thalia Greaves have consented together in lawful wedlock, and have witnessed the same before this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth, each to the other, and have declared the same by the giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands—
I do pronounce them husband and wife.”
For a heartbeat, the space between words and breath held still—not with hesitation, but with quiet recognition. The gathered company, moved by thesolemnity of what had just passed, remained hushed—not out of uncertainty, but out of respect.
“Let none seek to part what has here been joined in trust, in honour, and in willing affection.”
The words settled gently over them, like a seal quietly pressed upon the moment—final, weightless, and lasting.
Then Jasper turned to Thalia—not to claim, but to meet her—as he had done from the first. He raised her hand to his lips with quiet reverence, and in that simple act was the entire measure of the promise just made.
They faced the gathering together now, no longer as two whose alliance had once been forged in necessity, but as a union freely chosen.
And when the applause came, it was not for spectacle, but for sincerity. A moment of recognition—not only of their bond, but of what it stood for.
