Chapter Twelve

M onday the Fourteenth of June, 1813 A Most Perfect Day

The orangery at Harrison House blazed with June sunlight during the wedding breakfast, transformed by what seemed like every rose in the county into something between a formal garden and a fairy grove. The morning rain had threatened the festivities, but I found I could not regret being driven indoors. There was something fitting about celebrating surrounded by our combined horticultural triumphs.

“You seem remarkably calm, sister,” Jane observed, adjusting an errant flower in my hair. “I distinctly recall being rather more agitated on my own wedding day.”

“I believe I have finally learned which battles are worth fighting,” I replied.

At that precise moment, a tremendous crash from the entrance drew every eye. My brother-in-law, in an apparent attempt to assist with a particularly large arrangement of York and Lancaster roses, had managed to upend not only the flowers but himself as well. He now lay sprawled among scattered petals and broken pottery, looking rather stranded in his formal attire.

“Oh, good heavens,” Louisa sighed, though I noted she made no immediate move to assist him. Elizabeth Darcy, hiding her smile behind her hand, did go to help him up.

A year ago, I would have been mortified. Six months ago, I would have been quietly furious. But today...

I found myself laughing. “Well, he has given us something to remember besides the rain.”

“Caroline?” Jane peered at me with concern. “Are you quite well?”

“Perfectly.” I caught sight of my husband in the doorway, trying very hard to maintain a properly solemn expression and failing utterly. “Though I do believe we should rescue those roses. They are a particularly fine variety.”

“Trust you to think of the flowers first,” Elizabeth said, having succeeded in returning Mr Hurst to his feet.

“But of course. They are, after all, what brought us here.” I shared a private smile with my new husband. “Though perhaps we might move that arrangement slightly further from the tables?”

The day passed in a happy haze of congratulations and conversation, the hours marked by changing light through the orangery's windows. During a quiet moment, I found myself thinking of Adèle and her month-old son. She had visited last week to show him off—quite improper, perhaps, but then she had always been more than a mere lady's maid to me. Her tart observations had been the first crack in my carefully constructed facade, and I found I could not regret either her frankness then or her happiness now.

As the celebration drew to a close, James suggested we might show our guests the gardens while the evening was still fine. As we took our first turn about our combined gardens as man and wife, the breaking sunlight transformed everything it touched. The rain had left each petal jeweled with drops that caught the sun like tiny diamonds. Our guests dotted the lawn in cheerful groups—Jane and Charles sharing a private joke, Elizabeth eliciting a reluctant smile from Mr Darcy, even Louisa fussing over her still-dishevelled husband with poorly concealed affection.

My silk skirts rustled against the stone path as Mr Harrison led me along the steps. My heart still had not quite settled from the ceremony, from the moment I had finally become his wife. His eyes had not left mine, his smile soft and private.

Then my slipper caught – a loose stone in the path, treacherous beneath the delicate kid leather. I felt myself pitching forward, a small gasp escaping my lips. Mr Harrison moved instantly, breaking from the formal path to catch me, but the momentum carried us both. We spun, his arms tightening around me as he twisted, taking the fall himself.

We landed hard, Mr Harrison's shoulder and palms scraping against the rough stone path. A collective gasp rose from the assembly, and my heart seized with panic as I saw him wince.

"James! Oh heavens, are you hurt?" I struggled to right myself, mindful of my fine silk gown, my hands fluttering over his shoulders. The beautiful day suddenly seemed on the verge of ruin. He was injured at our own wedding breakfast!

But then he smiled – that particular smile that never failed to make my breath catch. His hand, scraped though it was, came up to cup my cheek. he murmured,"How can I hurt when I am holding you?" so softly only I could hear.

The tension melted from my body as he drew me closer, his arms steady and sure around me. Louisa was already hurrying forward with concerns and calls for vinegar water, but for a moment, we remained in our private moment. I ducked my head, aware of the impropriety but unable to resist the solid strength of him.

When we finally stood, Mr Harrison keeping my hand properly on his arm, the guests were torn between concern and being charmed by the tableau we presented. But I barely noticed, too caught up in the way my husband – my husband! – was looking at me, as if a few scrapes were nothing compared to the joy of having me by his side.

James guided me to a smoother section of the path. I noticed he stayed particularly attentive to my steps as we entered a secluded section of the garden.

I paused beside the flower border that had started it all, remembering my ruined walking dress and his laughing eyes. The sweet peas and roses we had planted together were thriving, formal and wild varieties unexpectedly complementing each other, much like us. A year ago, I would have found such symbolism unbearably common. Now...

“So good,” I murmured, watching the evening sun gild the rain-fresh roses. “So good.”

“I beg your pardon, my love?” James Harrison—my husband—raised an enquiring eyebrow.

“I was reflecting on how felicitously everything has arranged itself. Even our little misfortune seems providential, somehow. A gentle reminder of the folly of excessive gravity and self-importance.”

“My sweet Caroline,” he said, drawing me close, “I do believe you have bloomed into quite the philosopher.”

“Nonsense. I simply know now which gardens are worth tending.” I paused. “Though I still maintain that some degree of formality—”

He silenced me with a kiss, and for once, I did not mind having the last word stolen.

So good.

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