Chapter 1122: Chapter 1 Wedding_3

At the very least, Winters saw with his own eyes an old Dusack man digging out buried grains from under the stable, grinding them into flour, and baking them into bread. Others drove wagons into the forest, retrieving barrel upon barrel of ale from hidden cellars. Livestock hidden in the wild fields was also found, slaughtered, and cooked.

Everyone gathered at the threshing ground looked like they were celebrating a festival, dressed in their finest clothes, colorful and radiant, beautifully adorned.

And all this selfless giving, sparing no effort, was for a single wedding.

However, it was not Winters’ wedding, but the wedding of Pierre Gerardnovich Mitchell.

The groom was currently seated at the center of a long table laden with delicacies, dressed in a traditional Dusack-style white robe and blue trousers trimmed with ribbons, smiling as he received congratulations from friends and family.

Mrs. Mitchell was seated to the groom’s left, herself unusually adorned in the festive attire of Dusack women, accepting the well-wishes with evident contentment.

However, seated to Mrs. Mitchell’s left, Gerard Mitchell’s expression was far less cheerful. The old man was sulking, forcing a smile at the congratulatory remarks, while continuously pouring drink after drink down his throat.

There were many reasons for Gerard’s low spirits, but the most immediate reason that had the old Dusack sulking at his son’s wedding came down to just one:

Seated to Pierre’s right at this moment, wearing a wedding dress and veil and receiving blessings from everyone, was none other than the unfortunate widow, the maid taken in by Mrs. Mitchell–no, to be precise, she was now “Mrs. Mitchell.”

From afar, Winters observed the Mitchell family, sipping on non-alcoholic apple juice, unable to suppress a chuckle at the oddities of life.

He couldn’t help but marvel: the stern and seemingly class-conscious Mrs. Mitchell had so readily accepted her son’s choice to marry a widowed woman with a child;

Yet it was the cheerful, big-hearted, and seemingly indifferent Gerard Mitchell who found the reality of his son’s decision so hard to bear.

But no matter how dissatisfied Gerard might be, he couldn’t change Pierre’s choice. The young Dusack had convinced the old Dusack with just two sentences.

The first was: “Father, I am already a Dusack. I can take responsibility for my own choices.”

The second was: “Father, I don’t know how long I have to live. Perhaps I’ll die on the battlefield tomorrow. So please, bless us.”

Thus, all of Gerard’s objections evaporated into thin air, leaving him no choice but to drown his frustration in drink at the wedding. Unfortunately for him, his tolerance for alcohol was too good, and he was still quite sober even now.

As for Winters, he cheerfully offered his blessings to the newlyweds. He didn’t know much about Mrs. Madeleine, though he was aware of the affair between Pierre and the young widow. What he hadn’t expected was Pierre’s decision to take full responsibility for it. This stirred an inexplicable sense of unease within him.

Looking past the carefree revelers who were dancing with abandon, Winters cast his gaze toward the bridesmaids’ table on the other side of the wedding venue. Perhaps sensing his attention, Anna, seated among the bridesmaids, also turned her gaze toward him. Across the crowd of intertwining figures, their eyes met.

Winters quickly looked down as though struck by lightning, continuing to sip his apple juice in small gulps.

As the rhythm of the five-string lyres and tambourines quickened, so did the dancers in the center of the long-table-encircled space. The atmosphere of the wedding gradually reached its climax.

A drunken Dusack, saber in hand, climbed onto a table, yelling as he jumped into the middle of the space. The others shrieked and stepped aside, though none stopped him–instead, they made way for him.

Under everyone’s watchful eyes, the Dusack with the saber discarded its sheath and began performing the “Sword Dance.” He swung the saber through the air with a sharp whistling sound, tracing arcs of light around his body.

Although the alcohol made his steps unsteady, it didn’t affect his dance. At times crouching, at times leaping, his movements were comical yet entertaining–if one set aside the fact that the saber in his hand could easily sever an arm.

The onlookers clapped along to the beat of the sword dancer, cheering and shouting. Soon, others among the Dusacks brought their sabers and entered the space to join in the dance, as if in competition. The most skilled among them even wielded a saber in each hand.

The dangerous yet thrilling dance heightened everyone’s excitement. The cheers and whistles grew louder, the music quickened, and the dancers’ movements became increasingly intense.

Until, with one final soaring note, the dance, the music, and the flashing sabers all came to an abrupt halt.

After a brief silence, the crowd erupted into deafening applause. The dancers, basking in the admiration, proudly accepted drinks offered to them and were escorted out.

Soon after, the gentle sounds of string instruments and tambourines rose once more, and the revelry of drinking, laughter, and dancing continued.

“Perhaps the harder life becomes,” Winters couldn’t help but reflect, “the more people need a celebration to find joy.”

By proper Dusack custom, a wedding was no trivial affair. It wasn’t just costly–it included an elaborate and rigorous set of procedures: matchmaking, engagement gifts, bridal processions, family ceremonies, banquets, and return visits. Both the groom’s and the bride’s families had to be prepared for their wallets to take a heavy hit.

But given the hard times, and with the bride neither being a Dusack nor having a family of her own–indeed, she was a widow–many of these formalities had been skipped.