THE HOUSE AT THE END OF THE GARDEN
There's an old house at the end of the garden, the sort of place where rooms hold the morning light a little longer and open doors seem to lead somewhere other than outside. She dresses there quietly, surrounded by things that have outlived their first owners—worn floors, tall windows, an old staircase polished by generations of footsteps. Nothing is hurried. For a little while, the house belongs entirely to her. Then she begins to move through it. Down the stairs, along the hall, toward the French doors where the garden waits in brilliant contrast to the shadowed rooms behind her. Gloves are left on a table. A door remains open. The careful stillness of getting dressed gives way to something freer as she crosses the terrace and disappears among the hedges. And somewhere between the house and the far end of the garden, the bride changes too. The silhouette becomes more romantic, the proportions more dramatic, the dress seemingly made for deep green hedges, old stone and filtered ...
