Chapter Forty-four

When they finally left Paris for England and Penworth Castle, they were accompanied by a massive number of trunks and boxes filled with clothing, and more to follow. Lady Penworth insisted that they had bought only the minimum needed. Janine was delighted to have scope for her talents.

Marguerite thought—and hoped—that she now had enough clothing to last her for years. Ned had, after all, said that he preferred a quiet life and avoided the social whirl.

It was a different kind of whirl that she tumbled into when the reached the castle. Ned was there—thank Heaven. But so was the rest of his family. There were sisters and brothers and their husbands and their wives and their children. There were in-laws and cousins and friends and relations. And they all wanted to welcome her.

Marguerite had never been in a family like this. When she had been growing up, it had been her and her parents. There had been friends and acquaintances—mostly other musicians—but no relatives. That was why she had been so glad when Delphine arrived. She finally had, if not a sister, at least a cousin.

Delphine. She pushed aside the memory. Perhaps some day she could remember those early days with her cousin, the good times, but not yet. The pain was still too raw.

Now she stood at the door to the drawing room where half a dozen adults and even more children were all talking and laughing at the same time. It was difficult to come to terms with all the changes.

Ned came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “Do you mind?” he asked softly. “I expect they are all a bit overwhelming.”

“Mind?” She leaned her head back against him and considered. “I certainly don’t mind. It is just that it is so different from anything I have known before. I think…I think I like it. I think I will like being part of your family.”

The days sped by quickly with people coming and going and preparations for Christmas as well as the wedding. They gathered greens and holly, trimmed the tree, and a book of carols was discovered so Marguerite could play while the others sang.

Early on Christmas morning, Ned and Marguerite stole away to exchange Christmas gifts. While in Paris, she had found for him a medieval miniature, a painting on vellum of St. George slaying the dragon to rescue the watching maiden. He had for her a manuscript of a Chopin etude. They thanked each other without words.

At last the day of the wedding arrived. It was rather like giving a concert. Instead of only Tante Héloise, there were two of Ned’s sisters to help Janine get her dressed. Instead of black silk, she wore cream-colored satin and velvet. Instead of the short walk onto the stage, there was a long walk down the aisle of the church, with Tony beside her. There was the familiar feeling of panic when she felt the eyes of the audience on her.

No, far more panic than she had ever felt on the concert stage. She was certain someone would stand up and forbid the marriage. No matter what Ned’s parents said, surely there were some here who would object. Someone who would forbid a marriage between a musician and an aristocrat.

But at the altar was Ned, looking worried until his eyes met hers. Then he smiled, and everything was all right. She floated the rest of the way down the aisle. The other people in the church vanished from her mind. The vicar asked questions—“Will you, Marguerite…” and “Will you, Edward…”

They joined hands and made their vows. Nothing else mattered.

And then they were married. Ned looked as amazed as she felt. They began to laugh with joy and couldn’t stop as they hurried down the aisle and out of the church.

The rest of the day was a blur of people smiling and laughing and wishing them well, of music and food and more good wishes. It was not until they were in the carriage on the way to some secret destination that she felt as if she could catch her breath.

The farewell shouts faded into the distance. The carriage doors and windows fit so well that she could barely hear the sound of the horses’ hooves as they drove away. Suddenly she felt shy. She peered sideways at Ned, who was smiling a bit uncertainly.

“Wife?” he said—half greeting, half question—and reached out a hand to her.

Her hand went to his on the instant. “Husband? Is it really true?”

“It had better be.” He pulled her to him and buried his face in her hair, turning into chaos the curls Janine had so carefully arranged. “I was so afraid you would take fright, that my family would drive you mad, and you would run away.”

She in turn rubbed her cheek against the smooth silk of his ascot. “I have missed you. Even when you were there, I felt as if you were always just out of reach.”

“I thought I would go mad with longing for you.” His arms tightened around her and his mouth found hers.

Some time later, she tucked her head against his shoulder and smiled happily. “Where are we going? Can you tell me now?”

“Well, I have found a house for us. I told my family that we would go directly there. But it’s near Oxford, and we wouldn’t arrive until late tonight. I thought that perhaps you would prefer to spend the night at an inn not too far from here and continue on tomorrow?” He raised his brows in question.

“I hope the inn is not too far at all.” Her hand slid up his chest.

“Just a few more miles,” he said thickly.

It was late morning before they finally set out on their journey, but by train the trip was not long at all. Ned saw to it that his bride was well supplied with periodicals and cushions and a plaid rug, since even a first class carriage might prove drafty. Not that he wouldn’t have been more than willing to keep her warm himself.

Although they behaved with exemplary propriety, sharing a boxed lunch of cold chicken, crisp rolls, and a thermos of tea, other travelers glanced in, smiled, and decided to sit in another compartment.

On the carriage ride from the station, when the winter sun had almost set, Ned began to worry. “I’ve only leased the house, you know, so if you don’t like it, we can look for something else.”

“Why wouldn’t I like it?” She smiled at him as if she couldn’t imagine disliking anything he suggested.

“Well, it’s not terribly big or impressive. It’s nothing like the castle or Morvan.”

“And may I give thanks for that! You do remember that all my life I have lived in rooms in cities—not in country mansions. Although,” she tilted her head, “I would prefer that it not be a hovel.”

He smiled. “It isn’t a hovel, but it isn’t a mansion either. Just a simple manor house.”

“With room for a piano and for a library?”

“With room for both.” The carriage rounded a bend in the road and he looked up. “There. You can see it now.”

The setting sun struck the honey-colored stone and gleaming windows of a square Georgian house, two stories high plus dormered attics, plain except for a small porch over the front door. On one side, the lawn sloped down to a stream.

Marguerite’s eyes opened wide. “Ned, it’s lovely.”

Her enthusiasm did not wane as he led her into the house where Tante Héloise and Horace were waiting to greet them. She had nothing but praise for the drawing room and morning room and breakfast room and dining room, though she laughed and said they would have to invite guests to fill up all the space.

With a smiling shrug he said, “There are six bedrooms.” She stopped in shock, so he added, “In case we have guests.”

At the rear of the house, he led her to a pair of broad doors. “This is what I wanted to show you.” He opened the doors on a large room with windows on three sides and gaslights for evening illumination. Low shelves holding books and sheet music circled the room under the windows, with a chaise and a pair of comfortable chairs in one corner and a ceramic stove in another. But pride of place went to a platform at one end of the room on which sat a piano, gleaming in its moiré mahogany case.

She stood in silent awe, then slowly walked over to the piano. She caressed it gently with her fingertips. “My Pleyel. It is my very own Pleyel. You brought it from Paris.” She turned to face Ned. “You have brought me my parents’ gift.” Her eyes filled with tears. Running to him, she threw her arms around him. “You are the most wonderful man in the world.”

His laugh was a mixture of relief and joy at her reaction. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather have jewels? One of my brothers said that I should have bought you diamonds instead.”

“Pftt. Diamonds.” She dismissed the notion with a wave. “Paste looks better on stage, anyway. But this… I thought I had lost everything of my family. Everything that tied me to my parents.” Returning to the piano, she pressed down a few soft chords. “It’s been tuned. You even had it tuned.”

“Oxford, you know. You can find all kinds of people here.”

Left unmentioned was the effort required to unearth the name of such a craftsman, but Marguerite’s smile indicated that she knew.

Twining her arms around his neck, she said softly, “You are the kindest, most thoughtful, most generous man on the face of the earth.”

“I know.” He smiled into her smile. “That’s no doubt why you love me.”

“No doubt.”

They knew that the years to come would be filled with music.