Epilogue
“I, Jack Peregrine Winterbourne, take thee, Tamsyn Senara Penrose, to 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 and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Tamsyn smiled as her almost-husband reluctantly loosened his grip so she could take his right hand and return those most sacred vows. Unmitigated joy shone in those flashing black eyes as she promised to love and cherish, a wink as she swore to obey, her voice echoing loud and strong in the medieval Treloor Church.
The ring, a band of Cornish gold, was slid leisurely along her finger. “With this ring, I thee wed…” his deep rumble proclaimed, and as he completed his pledge, Jack lifted her hand for a swift kiss upon this golden gift of devotion.
Sighs from the congregation offset the vicar’s swallowed cough at this scandalous addition to the ceremony – one which Tamsyn could envisage becoming popular – but the vicar nodded with a twinkle in his eye and twisted to the left, words beginning once more.
A voice full of solemn promise answered, “I, Oliver Sebastian Miggens, take thee, Loveday Treherne, to my wedded wife…”
Tears skated down Lowdy’s cheeks as the fine-looking Oliver pronounced his oath but her own voice rang clear as she affirmed the same. Tamsyn glanced to Papa who’d given both brides away and felt her throat clog as he mopped his eyes with a frayed handkerchief embroidered with Mama’s initials.
Beyond sat the congregation: her brother Ruan, grinning from ear to ear, well-wishers, neighbours and the closest of Jack’s friends who’d not batted an eyelash at the thought of travelling so far to attend his wedding. Oliver’s mother and Millie sat front row, brandishing smiles that could be seen to Land’s End.
The vicar bid them all kneel and four sets of knees fell upon blue velvet cushions.
Prayer turned to psalms and then unto sermons until the long ceremony came to an end, the vicar of Treloor, who’d christened her as babe and comforted her as girl, casting his blessing upon them. “Let us now celebrate this love,” he announced to the guests, “this new beginning. I believe Sir Jago has opened his arms and house to all that would join us in this most happy day.” He peeked at the four of them. “But first the paperwork, I’m afraid.”
After putting quill to register, Jack clutched her hand close, and they all savoured their stroll down the ancient aisle, Benjamin and Lucy strewing the floor before them with wheat, rosemary and heather.
Mrs Pencally dabbed her eyes as they passed, and Mrs Tripconey waved, her other hand firmly tucked within a tidily garbed Mr Mason’s – who would’ve thought?
Radiant sunshine and a crowd greeted them at the portal, the beaming professor brandishing a tray of champagne.
Turning, she hugged Lowdy, their matching pale-blue gowns fluttering in the slight breeze.
Friends surrounded Tamsyn’s now-husband, thumping him on the shoulder in hearty congratulation. How perfect he appeared, his coal-black coat and breeches fitting snug to his form, a cravat of simple sophistication adorning his throat. Both grooms’ waistcoats were an iridescent blue, reminiscent of Petrok’s tail feathers.
The peacock himself had today swiped side glances at a newly installed peahen, who’d taken no notice of him whatsoever, no doubt judging him a fribble.
In time, that peahen would learn to look beyond those bright feathers, to his loyal heart and staunch guard.
The Winterbournes would now divide their year between Cornwall, London and the estate in Buckinghamshire, learning and enjoying each other’s pleasures, cherishing the differences.
This evening, they would commence with some cherishing…
“Lady Winterbourne?”
Who?
Oh yes, and she swivelled.
“My lord?”
Her husband smiled and Tamsyn saw all the joy ahead of her.
Jack grasped his wife’s hand. “I merely wanted to say those words aloud.”
Indeed, he’d speak them all morning, shout them to the world this afternoon, whisper them along her naked skin tonight.
She shook her head and, with a laugh, skipped off to hug her father, who stood with Lord and Lady Rainham discussing the last known whereabouts of Napoleon’s missing drinks cabinet.
Jack’s superior had accepted his resignation with a firm handshake and declared he’d assessed the probability of that request to be one hundred per cent. Rainham had also confided that, with a peace treaty being negotiated, he was hoping to step back a little himself.
“She’s delightful, Jack.” He swung to his best man, the Earl of Rookdean, his childhood friend who’d been with him through many a traumatic day.
“Thank you, Rook. And I’m overjoyed you could come…all of you.” As behind him stood his wife, Clara, chatting to the Duchess of Rakecombe, whilst their twin babes crawled around the ladies’ silk slippers. As one decided to investigate the duchess’s petticoats with a chubby fist, Rook dashed off with a wink. “Takes after his wicked godfather…in your salad days, needless to say.”
The entire scene of friends and family caused Jack’s heart to swell, that same heart which he’d thought to be unstirred and untouched.
Absurd.
They could have married in London, of course, avoided all the travel, but he’d so wanted to return to this place where it had all begun, surrounded by the luminosity of an autumn Cornish sky.
A stout Goonhilly pony had pulled the wedding cart, led by Benjamin, whilst Mrs Mildern had sprinkled herbs on the seats and given Tam a sixpence to place in her slipper. The day had been perf–
“Peregrine.”
“Yes, that’s what I heard the vicar say too.”
“Well, Peregrine kept that quiet.”
“I wager that Peregrine is actually Peregrine’s given name and he swapped them around.”
“Hmm, and would you believe, that same Peregrine claimed he’d never feel love and had the gall to meddle in my romantic affairs?”
Twisting, Jack chortled as the Duke of Rakecombe and the Earl of Kelmarsh – another erstwhile spy, friend and his second wedding success – stood nattering like old hens. Last night, they’d all descended upon the Treloor Inn for a drink and the ragging had been relentless. It would seem they weren’t finished with him yet.
Jack patted Kelmarsh on the back, grinning. “Give Sophie my warmest regards. A rattling coach to Cornwall is no place for a woman six months with child. And no doubt you are agog to return.”
“First light,” he replied sheepishly. “But it’s a wonderful wedding. You once told me you never believed yourself capable of love.” He placed a hand to Jack’s shoulder. “But all of us believed for you – because no one deserves it more.” Jack’s eyes smarted as Kelmarsh and the duke strolled off to join the Rainham clan.
He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing tray and joined a beaming Oliver, an even-more beaming wife possessively held before him. “Congratulations, my brother.”
“Also to you, brother.”
“Mrs Miggens.” He raised her hand for a peck. “A joyous future to you both. I wish you every happiness.”
“Oh, thank you, Lord Winterbourne,” gushed the glowing bride. “And, well, perhaps now is not the time, but nevertheless I wanted to say that I will be happy to do anything within your household, anything at all, as long as I can be with my husband.” She blushed like a pippin apple but Jack frowned and threw a questioning brow at his brother.
“Ah, er…Lowdy,” stuttered Oliver. “There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Maybe we could step this way, my love?” And he led his wife to the shade of a shedding yew tree.
With a slide of silk, a loving arm linked through Jack’s, delicate fingers twining with his own. He clutched them close, brought them to his lips and kissed their joined hands. Almonds and warmth. Resilience and love. Never to be alone again on a beautiful sunlit day.
“My wife.”
He yearned to hear its equal and her lips parted, but a squeal from the yew tree distracted them.
“Ooohhh,” cried the new Mrs Miggens, with eyes as wide as her smile. “Two hundred and how many acres…?”
“The estate does need some work,” tempered Oliver, but a lightness to his stance betrayed his own pleasure, and his mother joined them, wiping the tears from her new daughter-in-law’s cheeks.
Jack gazed to Lady Winterbourne, her blue eyes so bright. Her lips parted and he waited once more to hear his new and most treasured appellation.
“To my husband,” his wife said softly, and Jack’s heart surged as she raised her glass.
This moth’s wings would flit no more, settled and content, passionate and loyal, never to forsake her even as dawn breached the dark.
With sinful eyes and a roguish grin, he fluttered close for a kiss, but raucous cheers and catcalls ruined the moment and they turned to a grinning Benjamin, backed by the crew from the Treloor Arms, ales in hand and wearing their Sunday best.
And beneath the boundless Cornish sky, with a soft breeze of salt and sea, tin tankards and crystal goblets clanked in joyful celebration of friendship, peace and above all else, love.
The End