Hope Between the Pages, Pepper Basham [best ebook reader android .txt] 📗

my skin than I usually exposed with my collared servants’ dresses, but Helen oohed over its delicate look and sashed waistline.

And then it happened, just like in Cinderella. The simple servant transformed into—I blinked at my reflection as Helen and her housemaid placed little white rosettes into my intricately designed hair— a lady.

A bride.

“You look like a princess,” Victoria exclaimed, sliding her fingers over my skirt.

I’d never worn white and I’d certainly never dressed in anything as delicate and lovely as this gown, but with Oliver’s love, Victoria’s admiration, and Helen’s confidence, I stepped completely into my new identity. Belonging. Hope.

“I barely recognize myself,” I whispered.

“What?” Helen laughed. “Look at that smile on your face, the blush to your cheeks, and sparkle in your eyes. If I know anything at all, I’d say we’ve merely uncovered the beauty that was there all along.”

Everything about the drive from Helen’s to the church breathed with storybook air. The quaint town, the cobblestone streets and fences, and massive oaks with branches reaching out and up as if waiting for a celestial embrace.

And then there was the church. A masterpiece of stone and steeple, poised on a little knoll which led down to a beautiful lake, all framed in by those emerald mountains. Sunlight blinked through powdery clouds and glistened against the water like fairy lights. My own little fairy tale.

“St. Peter’s Chapel,” Helen offered as the carriage drew up to the door of the church. “I was married here years ago in a quiet ceremony like this, at my request. Charles, my Mr. Camden, didn’t have a care for all the social fluff and gave me my way.” She patted my hand. “Charles and Oliver were thick as thieves up until his death three years ago, and my dear grandson is so much like his grandfather, dove.”

The endearment pooled warmth through me and I squeezed her hand back, unable to usher up a response. Helen exited the carriage first, assisted by the carriage driver, and I followed, careful to mind the dress.

“Come, let’s adjust your veil.” Helen’s cheeks creased into dimples with her grin. “And then Victoria and I shall find our seats.”

Victoria stood nearby with her hands clasped before her, her body nearly shaking with excitement, and I knew exactly what would make this wedding day even better.

“I’d like Victoria to be my flower girl, if she’s willing?”

Victoria’s eyes widened and her rosebud mouth dropped open.

Helen chuckled. “Well, dove, what’s your answer?”

The little girl looked from her grandmother to me. “But I don’t have any flowers.”

I plucked several from the generous bouquet Helen’s maid had compiled for me, a combination of seasonal crocuses, snowdrops, and irises, and pressed them into Victoria’s hands. “Now you do.”

Her giggle vaulted the distance to my heart.

The look Helen gave me when I turned back to her poured through every ounce of loneliness I’d known in my life and whispered belonging. What a makeshift family. A formerly wealthy gentleman who’d given up his inheritance for an orphaned servant, a prestigious grandmother who had been relegated to a small cottage, and a little girl who desperately longed for a loving mother.

I waited at the door as Helen went ahead and, at her entrance, a simple piano version of “Be Thou My Vision” floated to greet me. Victoria entered, tossing a grin over her shoulder before disappearing into the church, and then I followed. My gaze adjusted to the change in light and immediately found Oliver’s. He stood beside his father, both in black morning coat, gray waistcoat, and pinstriped gray trousers. Oliver wore a purple iris on his lapel, matching the ones in my bouquet—a flower of faith, hope, and courage.

Courage. I smiled and took another step. Love gave me courage.

Oliver stayed by my side from the moment he took my hand in the church to the signing of our names in the church’s registry— February 13, 1916—to the wonderfully simple reception at Helen’s, until he tugged me away with a basket of sandwiches and we were finally alone.

Alone.

As the carriage pulled away from Helen’s house, Oliver wasted no time in renewing the intimacy our few private moments had afforded so far. I didn’t mind at all the way he cradled my face and caressed my mouth, my cheeks, my neck. In fact, his lips encouraged my own exploration. I chased his kiss as he pulled back, and his chuckle dissolved into a moan as he returned his lips to mine. I didn’t know all the intricacies of being his wife, but I embraced this newfound freedom to express the vast emotions pouring through me for him. Kissing seemed an excellent way to show him what words failed to communicate sufficiently.

“Mrs. Camden, you appear to enjoy the benefits of married privacy a great deal. What would your husband think?”

I ran a palm down his cheek, still in awe of the liberties my new position not only allowed, but celebrated. “From the look on his face, I would make the assumption he rather enjoys my newfound freedom.”

“You are rather astute in your observations.”

He proved my assertions correct for another long period of appreciation as the carriage rolled along until he finally pulled away and tucked me in the curve of his side. “We are neither in the place nor the space for us to continue our mutual enjoyment, my dear, so before I lose my head and ravish you in the back of a carriage, I shall usher up all of my self-control and encourage you to think about gatehouses.”

“Gatehouses?” Surprise burst from me in a laugh and I placed one of my palms against my heated cheek. “That’s certainly a redirection from impassioned kisses, Mr. Camden.”

He raised a brow, his grin slanted. “Not as redirected as you might think.” His smile spread wide at my look of confusion. “Well, my darling Mrs. Camden, I know I wrote to you about it, but the actuality may prove a bit shocking. With our current circumstances, I