A gaily decorated open barouche awaited them outside the church gates. A crowd of villagers had gathered to enjoy the show. But they did not hurry toward the gates. The congregation spilled out behind them, and they were caught up in hugs and handshakes and smiling greetings. They were also showered with rose petals, mostly by the girls.
They were flushed and laughing by the time they had climbed into the barouche and someone had closed the door and given the coachman the signal to drive off toward Alvesley for the wedding breakfast.
Susanna sat across one corner of the seat, Peter across the other corner, their hands clasped on the seat between them, their fingers laced as they waved to the crowd in the churchyard and out on the road.
And then, apart from the stiff-backed coachman, they were alone together.
Susanna looked at Peter. He was smiling back at her.
“Come here,” he said softly.
“Why?” She smiled too.
“Because I say so,” he said, “and you are my wife.”
His eyes danced with merriment.
“Indeed?” she said, and stayed where she was.
He sighed out loud and moved across the seat toward her.
“There goes my dream of a docile wife and a happily-ever-after,” he said, setting his arms about her and drawing her very firmly against him so that her hands were splayed against his chest. “I suppose you are going to make me fight dragons for the rest of my life?”
“Every day,” she assured him.
His eyes laughed into hers, and hers laughed back.
“May I kiss you, then, Lady Whitleaf?” he asked.
“I thought,” she said, “you would never ask.”
But her laughter was cut off when his mouth covered hers.
And joy became more joyful.
How could an absolute be improved upon?
It was definitely not a problem to be pondered today.
Susanna wrapped one arm about her new husband’s neck and kissed him with all the ardor in her soul.
They could still hear the church bells pealing in the village behind them.