Oh, where was that carriage? The waiting was unbearable. She wanted this wedding over and done with.
***
The ancient medieval abbey was chilly. The interior smelled of beeswax, incense, ancient stone and Christmas, Cal thought as he entered, though Christmas was long past. He soon saw the reason: Clusters of pine and other evergreens bound with long white ribbons were attached to the end of every pew, with some kind of white and pink flower at the center of each cluster. On closer examination he saw that the flowers were made of wax and varied greatly in form and elegance. Odd, but he supposed flowers were hard to come by at this season.
Though someone had managed: Huge sprays of larkspur and lilies and Queen Anne’s lace graced carved oak pedestals on either side of the nave.
Cal ran a finger around his collar. It felt unaccountably tight.
Ned Galbraith eyed him. “Uniform don’t fit anymore?”
“It fits.” He might be on temporary leave, but he was still a soldier on His Majesty’s service, and dress uniform was the appropriate garb for his wedding.
“Nerves, then.”
“Not particularly,” Cal lied. He was, in fact, ridiculously nervous. Galbraith, on the other hand, seemed unaccountably hearty. “What’s put the smile back on your face?” he asked his friend. “Dutch courage?”
“Haven’t touched a drop. No need,” Galbraith said. “The wedding’s off.”
“Off?” Cal’s blood froze for a minute. “Oh, you mean your wedding. What happened?”
“Grandfather and the girl’s father had a falling-out. No, what am I saying? It was the Falling-Out of the Century. Couldn’t agree over the settlements. Then they started to shred each other’s characters, dredging up incidents from the dim dark ages—did I mention they’d known each other practically their whole lives?—so there was plenty to dredge. And then the girl clinched the matter by saying she thought I’d make a terrible husband, that I was a rake and a libertine, cold-hearted, irreligious, unprincipled and irredeemable!”
Cal frowned. “That’s a bit strong.”
“Lord, no, it’s all perfectly true. I don’t give a damn what she thinks of me—I was only doing it for the old man.”
“And how has he taken it?”
Galbraith gave wry grin. “The canny old bastard’s gone home in high dudgeon—no sign of him being at death’s door anymore, in fact he left here wonderfully refreshed—by the fight, in my opinion, though he claims it’s those disgusting Bath waters. At any rate, whatever the cause, for the moment at least, I’m free as a bird.” People started filing into the church. “Here they come, it’s starting. Last chance to cut and run, Rutherford.”
“No chance of that.” Cal straightened his shoulders. His stomach hollowed a little more. It was a straightforward practical arrangement, he reminded himself. A marriage of convenience.
A susurration of excited murmurs drew his attention, and he turned to see an apparently endless line of young girls, all dressed in white, filing into the church. Under the supervision of a couple of elderly ladies they seated themselves on the bride’s side, whispering and giggling.
One of the young girls caught Cal’s eye and waved enthusiastically. Lavinia Thingummy-Whatsit of the Shropshire Thingummy-Whatsits. He lifted a hand in acknowledgment, which caused a surge in the giggles and excited exchanges, followed by a flurry of teacherly shushes.
It looked as though the whole school had come to see Miss Westwood married. Good. He was glad she had someone.
The organ started playing, and his pulse leapt—was the ceremony about to start?—but it was only some bland piece, no doubt intended to reinforce an atmosphere of holy contemplation—and drown the schoolgirls’ steadily rising chatter and their teachers’ hushing.
The pews continued filling, and it was soon seen that the bride’s side was very respectably occupied, while the groom’s was lamentably sparse. It seemed Miss Westwood had a great many friends and acquaintances come to wish her well on her wedding day.
On Cal’s side, it seemed mostly made up of the curious—Aunt Dottie’s friends and acquaintances and those who’d tried to snare him for their granddaughters. He spotted “the poodle” and his grandmother, looking quite... poodle-y.
The organ stopped. Silence hung for a moment in the ancient abbey, then the music swelled. Purcell. Cal straightened. This was it, then. He turned to face his convenient bride, and his mouth dried.
She paused a moment at the head of the aisle, straight and slender and... exquisite, in cream silk and lace, dark hair clustering in tiny curls around her face, a lace veil pinned over her hair, spilling down over her shoulders, framing her alabaster countenance in mystery without quite covering it.
“You didn’t tell me she was a beauty,” Galbraith murmured in Cal’s ear.
Cal didn’t reply. He didn’t know. He hadn’t realized.
Her face was pale and set, as if prepared for an ordeal. She glanced at him and her gaze passed on, as if she were looking for someone else. Then she frowned slightly. Her gaze returned to him and her eyes widened.
For a long moment she didn’t move. They stood therestaring at each other while the music surged and swelled all around them, and the congregation watched.
He wondered for a second if she was about to turn and run but then, with a little jerk, she moved forward and began to walk toward him.
