Chapter Twelve
HAIL sun-beams in the east are spread;
Leave, leave, fair bride, your solitary bed;
No more shall you return to it alone.
—JOHN DONNE, “EPITHALAMION AT LINCOLN’S INN”
If it hadn’t been for Rose, Emm might have forgotten to move at all. She almost hadn’t recognized him.
She’d always thought him a handsome man, but now, seeing him waiting at the altar—waiting for her—stern and severe-looking in his uniform, with its tight-fitting, heavily braided scarlet coat, white breeches and gleaming high boots, he was... magnificent.
The sight of him quite took her breath away. And for a few moments had robbed her of all intelligent thought.
Thank goodness Rose still had her wits about her. She’d given Emm a discreet shove in the small of her back and hissed, “Goon, Miss Westwood.”
And Emm had recollected herself and started the long walk down the aisle. To marry this magnificent man, this stranger that she hardly knew.
The church smelled of pine and when she noticed the little posies with the white wax flowers tied to the end of each pew, she realized the reason for the flurry of wax flower making that had occupied the girls at the school in the last week. Each flower made with love for her wedding.
And there they were, all her girls, smiling, nodding, a few waving, all misty eyed. Some already weeping.
Her eyes blurred. She blinked hard to chase the tearsaway and tried to smile. She would not cry, she would not. This was not the romantic wedding they were all dreaming of. It was a convenient arrangement, nothing more.
She reached the altar and placed her hand, cold and nerveless, in his.
“Dearly beloved...”
The ceremony passed in a blur.
“...ordained for the procreation of children...”
Yes, children. She fastened on the thought. She ached for a child of her own.
“...if any man can show any just cause...”
She waited, tense, as if somehow, ridiculously, there would be a line of people ready to come forward shouting, “Stop the wedding.” But of course, nobody made a sound.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”
There was a small stir of surprise in the congregation when Miss Mallard stepped forward to give Emm away. It was unconventional but not illegal. Emm glanced at Lord Ashendon, but he made no sign of either approval or the opposite. He looked straight ahead, his face stern and unchanging.
“Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband...”
She heard her voice repeating the vows, sounding admirably calm and collected, as if someone else were making the responses for her. She didn’t feel at all calm. Serpents writhed in the pit of her stomach.
“With this ring I thee wed...”
She felt the gold ring slide onto her finger, and it was warm, not cold, from being held in someone’s hand. His hand.
“...with my body I thee worship...”
She tried to swallow, and couldn’t.
“...I pronounce that they be man and wife...”
Man and wife. It was done.
