The Victory (91 page)

Eon's last piece of work was indisputably her best. It was
the most expensive thing Héloïse had ever worn, a long-
sleeved gown of soft, exquisite, Chantilly lace. Even the best
warehouse in York could not supply material so costly: it had
had to be sent up from London, with Roberta's help. It was
cream-coloured, which better suited Héloïse's dark complex
ion, over a plain satin slip, with a close-fitting bodice, high
waist, and long, flowing skirt. The rest of her toilette was as
simple: her dark hair was dressed with white roses, the last fragile blooms of the Indian summer, and around her throat
she wore the priceless collar of diamonds Jemima had
left her.

The two women stepped back at last to view their handi
work, and even they were left breathless by what they saw.
The love that had gone into the making of. the magnificent
gown, and the joy in Héloïse's face, had performed a kind of
alchemy. On this day, the happiest day of her life, she was
beautiful, with a beauty that seemed almost more than
human.

Flon could not speak, and Marie only said, 'I wish your papa could have seen you,' but their eyes said everything.
Héloïse opened her arms to them for a loving embrace, and
then the last Stuart princess turned and went down the
chapel stairs to her wedding.

At the foot of the stairs the rest of the party was waiting,
Fanny, Mathilde, Sophie and Thomas in their new dresses,
and kind John Anstey, smiling reassuringly. She smiled at
them, but she didn't really see them, and Anstey had to lift
her hand and place it on his arm, where it rested, trembling
lightly. Inside the chapel the voices of the boys lifted in the
anthem, joyful, but clear and pure and inhuman, and she
thought it was like the sound stars would make, if stars could
sing. Two of the footmen pushed the doors back for her, and
she walked forward into the central aisle.

There were candles everywhere, competing with the late
autumn sunshine pouring in through the windows, and faces,
row upon row, turning to look at her, all smiles, as she went
past. She did not see them, either. Her eyes were fixed on the one dear, familiar form, waiting for her at the end of the aisle
before the altar. Edward was beside him as his groomsman,
and they both turned as she reached them. John Anstey
released her and stepped back, and she came to rest beside
her lover.

They had reached it at last, this goal that had seemed so
unattainable, all troubles past, all hazards survived. It hardly
seemed possible. He looked down at her, and his lips curved in
a smile that made her throat ache. It seemed almost frighten
ing to be loved so much.

Father Aislaby stepped forward. 'Dearly beloved,' he
began, and at the sound of the familiar words, James's shoul
ders relaxed in a long sigh of relief. His hand down by his side reached for hers, closed round her slim, cold fingers and
squeezed them reassuringly. I've got you, he thought, safe at
last; and the smile with which he faced Father Aislaby was
nothing short of triumphant.