Epilogue

EPILOGUE

T hey were married on that cold Christmas Eve morning, under a blanket of fresh, new snow and a swag of greenery redolent with the scent of laurel, bay, fir, holly, and ivy, like hope in the air.

Jack wore his uniform one last time before he would put it away for good.

Flora wore her deep green velvet—with a new-sewn over-robe of white satin and lace, which Raines had insisted upon for bridal propriety’s sake. And instead of a posey of winter flowers, her bouquet was a handful of mistletoe and holly—a portable kissing bough with white and red berries that matched her eyes, which were reddened from crying.

“Don’t mind me,” she said as she arrived at the altar of St. Andrew’s Kirk to stand beside him. “It’s only because I’m intolerably happy.”

“You have an astonishing way of showing it. But, yes,” her darling Jack agreed. “Let’s always be this happy.”

“Yes,” Flora said on a happy sigh, whilst also pulling out a handkerchief and blowing her glowing nose. And still, she had never looked more beautiful. “As long as we’re together.”

“From now on,” he pledged, taking her hand in his.

“Do you promise?”

“Flora, my love, you are in luck—this entire ceremony we are about to undertake shall be nothing but promises to one another.”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed with a frown that did nothing to mar the perfection of her perfectly oval face. “But I want to make sure, before things get started.”

“My divine Flora, perhaps you might consider that things have already started?” He gestured to their surroundings as proof of the fact that they were indeed, at a church, about to pledge their troth to each other.

“Yes, but?—”

“Then why don’t we simply let the rector begin so we can get to the promising as soon as possible?”

“Yes,” that long suffering cleric agreed. “Let’s.” He cleared his throat to begin without any further delay. “Dearly beloved…”

Jack stood and listened and said what needed to be said, though he felt strangely detached, as if he were watching himself from a great distance. All he could do was hold her hand, so small and fragile looking, and yet so full of steely strength, and marvel at her beauty and her poise and her honesty and her persistence and wonder at his good fortune in having her by his side.

He had never been so happy.

And he had never been luckier. Because he was truly, madly, deeply, and, for the first time in his life, openly in love with his wife.

“Jack, dearest? Are you crying?”

“Only a little. And only because you’ve made it the fashion. And only because I’m so intolerably happy.”

“Yes,” she agreed on a sniff. “Just as we bloody well ought to be.”

The rector gasped his disapproval, but Jack could only laugh. “I love you, Mrs. Balfour.”

“Yes,” she smiled up at him, luminous and knowing. “Just as you ought to, my darling Captain. Just as you ought. Happy Christmas, my darling Jack.”

“Yes,” he answered. “A very Merry Christmas to us.”