Page 82 of Remember Love
Our hearts in Christian love
The fellowship of kindred minds
Is like to that above
The first verse was sung by the treble voices alone, in perfect unison with one another. The following verses were sung by the whole choir in three-part harmony. But Devlin was only partially aware of how exquisite they sounded and how carefully the music and the words had been chosen—and rehearsed. For his bride was approaching on the arm of her father, and she had never looked more startlingly beautiful. Like a bright piece of Christmas, with all its promise of love and hope and peace.
But she was notlikeanything at all. She was Gwyneth. Unique and vivid and lovely. His wild child grown to womanhood. And his bride. His love.
She was smiling at him.
While he, like an idiot, was blinking back tears. He was almost not aware that he was also smiling, turned to face her as she came along the nave, and facing too his family and hers and their neighbors and friends from miles around.
There was a faintaahof sound from the congregation quite apart from the music of the choir. But whether it was for the beauty of the bride or the fact that the bridegroom’s face was lit with love and happiness was not at all clear.
And then she was beside him and taking off her gloves to hand to Stephanie while Pippa was removing her cloak and draping itover her own arm. There was a gasp from those people gathered there as Gwyneth was revealed in all the figure-hugging, slightly shimmering simplicity of her white dress. She set her hand in her father’s again, and he transferred it to Devlin’s.
They turned to face the Reverend Danver, and Devlin swallowed against what felt like a lump in his throat. The wedding was beginning.
“Dearly beloved,” the vicar said moments after the last note of the opening hymn had died away.
Feeling had been ruthlessly suppressed for many long years. It had been denied, fought against, explained away for several months since then. He had admitted to facts—the fact of love—but not to feeling, which was long gone. Which could never be resurrected. Denial could be a powerful force.
But now feeling came back in a wave of emotion.
Love was not a feeling, she had told him. No, it was not just feeling, though by God it could be felt. It was not anything that could be confined to the body or the mind or the spirit. It was not something to be understood or explained. Or owned. But whatever it was, suddenly it was fairly bursting from him.
He loved Gwyneth Rhys. He had loved her since he was a boy and she had seemed as unattainable as the wind. Or the sun.
More than that, though, heloved.
He was not just an observer of this life. He was a participant in it. And he wantedallit had to offer—every day, every experience, every pain and pleasure, every feeling from this moment until he took his dying breath. With Gwyneth. Had he told her she was the air he breathed? He thought he had. But he had not fully understood what he had meant until this moment. The air he breathed waslove.
“I do,” he said when prompted by the vicar.
“I do,” she said.
He took the ring from Ben’s steady hand—Joy was bouncing on his other arm and chuckling at something Owen must be doing—and slid it onto Gwyneth’s finger. Symbol of eternal commitment. Of eternal love. He looked up into her eyes when it was in place.
And they were husband and wife, and he was leading her off to the vestry to sign the register and make it all official and final. Ben and Philippa witnessed their signatures and Ben hugged Gwyneth and shook Devlin’s hand firmly while Pippa helped her on with her cloak and passed her the gloves Stephanie had held through the service. The vicar shook both their hands.
And then they were making their way back along the nave, her arm drawn through his. Through the open church doors he could see that it was still snowing. Sir Ifor was playing a glorious anthem on the organ. The church bells were ringing. A group of villagers were gathered on the village green, smiling and waving, perhaps even cheering. Owen and Nick and Idris and the Welsh cousins were preparing to launch an ambush in the space between the church doors and the carriage, which was all decked out with holly and ivy and ribbons and bows. Flower petals—from the Ravenswood hothouses, no doubt—rained down on their heads with the snowflakes.
Gwyneth was laughing and clinging to his hand. Devlin was laughing too and helping her into the carriage before arranging her cloak about her feet and climbing in after her.
“Well, my lady Stratton.”
“Well, my lord Stratton.” She looked at him with shining eyes.
“Gwyneth.” He took her right hand in his right while he wrapped his left arm about her shoulders.
“At least have the decency to wait until the door has beenclosed.” It was Idris calling out to them, his hands cupped about his mouth.
“Yes, Dev,” Owen called. “Remember that I am only eighteen.”
The congregation was spilling out of the church.
“To the devil with them,” Devlin said, smiling at his bride as he drew her closer and kissed her on the mouth.
There were a few piercing whistles. The organ was still playing inside the church. The bells were still pealing. The carriage door slammed shut. The carriage rocked into motion, and the unholy din of the expected pots and pans and other paraphernalia tied beneath the carriage drowned out all other sound.
Devlin lifted his head and looked at his bride. She looked back. And they both laughed.
“I love you,” he mouthed to her.
“I know,” she mouthed back.
As the carriage rumbled over the bridge on its way back to Ravenswood, he kissed her again. What else was there to do, after all?
