Chapter Text
Tomorrow Never Came
Twenty-Three
Six months had passed since the King legitimised Thomas, and in that time, Heyrick Park had transformed from a house holding its breath into an estate exhaling at last. Every window gleamed. Every stable door was freshly painted. The orchards blossomed heavy with fruit, as if nature itself felt compelled to celebrate.
And on a warm, golden midsummer morning, the house woke early to prepare for something it had been denied for nearly two decades:
The day dawned in shimmering colour — dew on the grass like beads of glass, birds singing as if the world had orchestrated a chorus, and a soft breeze from the coast carrying the scent of meadowsweet.
By noon, carriages lined the drive like a festival procession. The Parkers arrived first, bustling with excitement; Mary brought three shawls in case Charlotte grew cold, and Tom made such a spectacle of supervising footmen that Samuel threatened to throw him into the reflecting pool.
Georgiana Lamb swept in wearing silk the colour of deep ocean, radiant with purpose, muttering that finally—finally—a wedding in Sanditon would not end in scandal.
Lady Susan and Samuel came arm-in-arm, regal and delighted; Samuel had written and rewritten his speech three times, only to abandon all drafts in favour of weeping openly at intervals throughout the day.
Mrs. Wheatley stood at the entrance, greeting every guest as though personally responsible for the miracle unfolding.
Leonora bounded about the estate in a froth of pale blue ribbons, announcing herself the co-officiator until three different adults explained that was not in fact a role.
And then — like a ripple of awe through the crowd — the royal crest appeared at the crest of the hill.
The King himself had come.
He did not travel with pomp today; instead, he stepped from the carriage with a gentle smile, greeting Charlotte first, then Xander, with a warmth that softened his usual grandeur.
“For once,” he told Lady Susan dryly, “I arrive not to correct heartbreak, but to bless its mending.”
She winked. “Even kings must witness a happy ending occasionally.”
Thomas stood not far from the steps, dressed in a dark green coat tailored to fit his recovering frame. His eyesight had returned slowly — painfully, uncertainly — but now he could see the world in soft clarity again. He still tired easily, still squinted in bright light, but he was healing.
When Xander saw him waiting, he crossed the lawn and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“You need not walk with the guests if it tires you,” Xander murmured.
Thomas shook his head. “I would not miss any part of this.”
Xander’s throat worked. “Nor would I have it without you.”
Charlotte joined them, adjusting Thomas’s cravat. “Your father is right. You look very handsome.”
Thomas flushed. For all he had endured, he was still, at heart, a seventeen-year-old boy hearing praise from his mother.
Around them, the nuns and the clergy from the London school — feathers askew from the carriage ride — descended upon Thomas with fussing affection.
“Oh, look at you, our little scholar—”
“Brother Jonathan, look how tall he’s grown—”
“—a miracle you ever survived these two heathens—”
“And is this the famous estate? Very drafty, but serviceable—”
Thomas laughed — truly laughed — for the first time in months.
The ceremony took place beneath the great oak tree, the one where Charlotte and Xander had once shared their first shy kiss, long before either understood the shape of what they felt.
Now its branches arched above them like a cathedral ceiling, leaves shimmering with sunlight. White ribbons and wildflowers hung from the boughs, swaying gently.
Charlotte walked down the aisle on her own — a quiet declaration of the woman she had become: strong, self-made, unbroken.
But at the halfway point, Thomas stepped forward and offered his arm.
The crowd murmured in soft delight.
Xander’s eyes stung as he watched them approach — mother and son, united at last, walking toward him like the very heart of his life made visible.
The vows were simple.
Charlotte’s voice trembled only once, when she said, “I loved you then, even when fear tore us apart. I love you now, knowing exactly who you are.”
Xander’s voice cracked openly.
“I have made many mistakes. But loving you was never one of them. And I will spend the rest of my life proving worthy of the faith you show me now.”
The King cleared his throat discreetly, pretending not to wipe a tear.
When the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, Xander kissed Charlotte with the gentle reverence of a man who had nearly lost her twice — and would never risk it again.
The crowd erupted in cheers that echoed across the rolling hills.
The reception spilled across the grounds like a festival. Lanterns swung from the trees, music from Sanditon’s finest quartet drifted across the lawn, and Mrs. Wheatley coordinated the feast with the precision of a general and the pride of a mother.
The King, abandoning protocol for the evening, sampled every dish and declared Mrs. Wheatley’s lemon syllabub superior to the palace’s. She nearly fainted.
Tom Parker gave a speech so enthusiastic it nearly toppled the table.
Samuel wept openly through his.
Lady Susan gave a short, sharp toast that made the King choke on his wine.
Georgiana danced with Leonora, twirling her like a spinning top, while Mrs. Wheatley attempted to teach the nuns a country reel with limited success and spectacular enthusiasm.
And Xander…
Xander spent half the night with one hand curled around Charlotte’s waist, as though reassuring himself she was truly real.
As dusk deepened into rose-gold twilight, Thomas slipped away from the noise to sit beneath a smaller oak at the edge of the meadow. His eyes wandered over the guests, the lanterns, the music — all of it a world he had never imagined might belong to him.
He blinked, adjusting to the dimming light.
Something bright caught his vision.
A flash of red hair.
A girl stood near the wildflower border, laughing as she fed a carrot to one of Heyrick’s gentlest mares. A gentleman — her father, judging by the cut of his waistcoat — watched fondly nearby. The girl’s hair shimmered like burnished copper, her freckles bright, her smile easy and unselfconscious.
Thomas’s breath caught — not in pain, but in something startling and new.
He knew who she was.
A visiting family from Sussex.
The daughter known for rescuing injured birds and naming every cat in her village.
She looked up, as if sensing his gaze.
Their eyes met.
Her smile softened — curious, kind, luminous.
Thomas felt something pull in his chest, light and unformed.
Not love.
Not yet.
But the quiet beginning of a beginning.
Behind him, the wedding celebration roared with music and laughter.
Ahead of him, the girl stroked the mare’s neck and tilted her head in a silent greeting.
Thomas smiled — shy, hopeful — and the world felt, for the first time, full of possibility.