Page 64 of In With a Chance

And they were.

Ernest stopped before the two matching headstones and drew in a long, shaky inhale. He had been the one to order the inscriptions, so they should not have been a shock, but somehow to see them there was entirely unexpected.

Charles Quintrell, Baron Frasemere

July 15, 1808 to March 3, 1841

Beloved brother, now sleeping

And right beside his brother’s, as it should have been…

The Honble. Laura Johnstone

Daughter of Arnold Johnstone, Viscount Johnstone

February 21, 1816 to March 3, 1841

Forever in our hearts

A lump came into Ernest’s throat. He had not considered two graves; in his mind, they had been buried together—which again was foolish. Had he and Lord Johnstone not agreed the two inscriptions?

He had only brought one posy.

He glanced down at it. Well, it felt rather fitting. After Ernest had pulled at the ribbon, the posy came apart in his hands and he carefully separated out the roses and the fern leaves until he had two small posies. One he tied with the ribbon. The other he enfolded in his handkerchief. Slowly, trying not to think about the past or dwell on what might have been, Ernest lowered one on his brother’s grave, and the other on the woman that they had both—

“Ernest?”

Ernest whirled around and saw two people emerging from the porch of the church. One of them was wearing a gown, and the other a top hat.

Even from this distance, he knew them.

“Lord Frasemere!” Clearly, Gwen had flushed, for despite the gap between them, Ernest could still make out her pinking cheeks.

A murmuring sound, a conversation Ernest could not quite hear, and the man in the top hat inclined his head and started along the path back to the bustling street. The woman started toward Ernest.

Ernest swallowed. This was not—he did not want to answer questions, nor reveal the tale that had brought his family to such a place, but it did not appear that his legs could move and his feet were rooted to the spot and—

“Ernest,” Gwen said quietly, her cheeks still flushed as she reached his side. “What are you doing here?”

It was a very personal question, given their location, and perhaps she recognized that, for she winced and suddenly looked down.

“Miss Chance… Gwen.” Ernest cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

It was not the best redirection, but in the circumstances, Ernest rather thought that he should be congratulated for being able to speak at all.

Gwen gestured back to the large building. “St. George’s may be unable to accommodate us, so we wished to meet with a vicar from Lord Ravenshurst’s parish.”

Obviously. It was foolish of him not to have thought of that. Any fool would have realized the marquess was with her to talk about a wedding.

Her wedding. Here. In this place.

“That… That is your brother, isn’t it?”

Ernest’s mind sharpened and he turned back to Gwen, whose cheeks had finally started to fade in color even as her eyes sparkled. Then his attention turned to the gravestone.

Charles Quintrell, Baron Frasemere.

“Yes,” he said quietly.