The Wedding Day Part 2

At ten-forty, the bells of Oriel Chapel began their slow, rhythmic tolling through the spring woods.

The ancient stone interior smelled of beeswax, fresh cut ivy, and damp limestone. Sunlight streamed through the leaded lancet windows, throwing lozenges of sapphire and amber light across the ninety-six guests packed into the dark oak pews.

Every seat was filled. The delegation was an impossible tapestry of Ernest's life: soot-stained master mechanics from the original forge sat three rows ahead of Prime Minister Ashford; Samuel sat beside the district surveyor; and King Edward himself occupied the second-row family pew, dressed in an unadorned civilian frock coat, chatting amiably with Lord Adrian.

At the chancel rail, Ernest stood adjusting his cuffs.

Beside him, Hollen looked extraordinarily uncomfortable in the dove-gray silk waistcoat, his thick fingers repeatedly testing the knot of his neckcloth.