West grinned at him. “I’m a farmer, Severin. When it comes to superstitions, farmers lead the pack. Incidentally, the locals say rain on the wedding day means fertility.”
Devon commented dryly, “To a Hampshireman, nearly everything is a sign of fertility. It’s a preoccupation around here.”
“What’s fertility?” Justin asked.
In the sudden silence, all gazes went to West, who asked defensively, “Why is everyone looking at me?”
“As Justin’s new father,” St. Vincent replied, making no effort to hide his enjoyment, “that question is in your province.”
West looked down into Justin’s expectant face. “Let’s ask your mother later,” he suggested.
The child looked mildly concerned. “Don’t you know, Dad?”
Tom went to the nearby window, frowning as raindrops seemed to come down faster than the pull of gravity, as if they were being shot from rifles. Cassandra might be fretting about the storm. Her shoes and the hem of her wedding dress were going to be wet and muddy, which he didn’t give a damn about, but it might distress her. He’d wanted the day to be perfect for her. Blast it, why hadn’t the Ravenels built a covered walkway to the chapel?
Winterborne came to join him at the window. “’Tis throwing down, now,” he said, watching the rain.
“If this is good luck,” Tom said acidly, “I could do with a bit less.” He gave a short sigh. “I don’t believe in luck anyway.”
“Neither do you believe in love,” Winterborne reminded him with a touch of friendly mockery. “But here you stand with your heart in your fist.”
The phrase was one of those Welshisms that sounded like a misstatement, but upon reflection made sense. A man who wore his heart on his sleeve was displaying his emotions … but a man with his heart in his fist was about to offer it to someone.
Not long ago, Tom would have responded with a mocking gibe of his own. Instead, he found himself replying with a raw humility he rarely permitted himself to show anyone. “Christ, Winterborne … I don’t know what I believe anymore. I have feelings coming at me I don’t even know the names for.”
Winterborne’s dark eyes twinkled warmly. “You’ll sort it all out.” He took an object from his coat pocket and handed it to Tom. “Here. A Welsh custom.” It was the champagne cork, with a silver sixpence partially inserted into a slit at the top. “A memento of the day,” he explained, “and a reminder that a good wife is a man’s true wealth.”
Tom smiled, reaching out to shake his hand firmly. “Thank you, Winterborne. If I believed in luck, I’d say I was damned lucky to have you as a friend.”
Another belt of lightning whipped across the dark sky, setting loose a heavy mantling of rain.
“How is Cassandra going to reach the chapel without being drenched?” Tom asked with a groan. “I’m going to tell Trenear and Ravenel to—”
“Let them take care of her for now,” Winterborne counseled. “Soon enough she’ll belong to you.” He paused before adding slyly, “And then you’ll be lighting your fire on a new hearth.”
Tom gave him a quizzical glance. “She’ll be moving into my house.”
Winterborne grinned and shook his head. “I meant your wedding night, you spoony half-wit.”
AFTER CASSANDRA REACHED the vestibule of the chapel, there was a flurry of activity involving umbrellas, toweling, and what seemed to be a canvas tarp. Tom could see little from his vantage point at the front of the chapel, but West, after folding the tarp, caught his eye and gave him a short nod. Taking it to mean they’d somehow managed to spirit Cassandra to the chapel in good condition, Tom relaxed slightly.
Within two minutes, Winterborne came to the front of the chapel to stand next to Tom, and the music began. A quartet of local musicians had been recruited to play the wedding march using small gold handbells, with exquisite results. Having only heard Wagner’s Bridal Chorus on the organ, Tom had always thought it a heavy-handed piece, but the bells gave it a delicate, almost playful lilt that was perfect for the occasion.
Pandora, as the matron of honor, proceeded demurely up the aisle, and sent Tom a quick grin before taking her place.
Then Cassandra came into view, walking toward him on Devon’s arm. She wore a dress of white satin, elegant and unusual in its simplicity, with no fussy ruffles and frills to distract from the lovely shape of her figure. Instead of wearing the traditional veil, she had drawn the sides of her hair up to the crown of her head and let the rest cascade down her back in long golden coils. Her only ornamentation was a tiara of graduated diamond stars, which Tom had sent upstairs that morning as a Christmas present. The wealth of rose-cut gems glittered madly in the candlelight, but they couldn’t eclipse her sparkling eyes and radiant face. She looked like a snow queen walking through a winter forest, too beautiful to be entirely human.
And there he stood, with his heart in his fist.
What was the name of this feeling? It was as if he’d fallen through the surface of his life into some strange new territory, a place that had always existed even though he hadn’t been aware of it. All he knew was that the careful distance he’d put between himself and other people had finally been crossed by someone … and nothing would ever be the same.
AFTER A LENGTHY Christmas feast, the family went downstairs for the annual dance in the servants’ hall, a tradition by which everyone in the household mingled freely, danced together, and drank wine and hot rum punch. Cassandra, who’d been careful to drink only a few sips of wine at dinner, indulged in a cup of the hot punch during the dance, and felt it go straight to her knees. She was happy but weary, drained from all the conversation and cheerful banter, her cheeks sore from smiling, Ironically, although it was their wedding day, she and Tom had spent practically no time together. She glanced around the servants’ hall and saw him dancing with Mrs. Bixby, the cook. The stout older woman was pink-cheeked and giggling like a girl. Tom seemed as vigorous as he had been hours earlier, with a full supply of untiring energy. Ruefully Cassandra reflected that she would have a difficult time keeping up with him.
Tom saw her from across the room. Although he was smiling, there was an assessing quality in his gaze. Cassandra straightened her posture automatically, but he’d already seen the signs of her fatigue.
In a few minutes, he’d made his way over to her. “You look like a little sunbeam, standing here,” he murmured, reaching out to lightly finger a long golden curl. “What do you say to the idea of leaving a bit sooner than we’d planned?”
She nodded immediately. “Yes, I would like that.”
“Good. I’ll whisk you out of here in short order. There’s no need for drawn-out good-byes, since we’ll only be gone for a week. By now, the train is stocked and ready to depart.”
They were scheduled to leave for Weymouth in Tom’s private railway carriage. Despite his assurances they would be comfortable, Cassandra wasn’t looking forward to spending her wedding night on a train. No matter how one presented its merits, it was, after all, a moving vehicle. However, she hadn’t objected to the plan, since they would be lodged in a nice hotel the next night. The honeymoon itself was a gift from Winterborne and Helen, who had arranged for them to travel by private yacht from Weymouth to Jersey Island, the southernmost of the Channel Islands.
“According to Winterborne,” Tom had reported, “the climate is mild, and the views of St. Aubin’s Bay from the hotel are very fine. As for the hotel itself—I know nothing about it. But we’ll have to trust Winterborne.”
“Because he’s a good friend?” Cassandra had asked.
“No, because he knows I’d kill him immediately upon our return if the hotel is shabby.”
Now, as Cassandra stood with Tom in the servants’ hall, she said wistfully, “I wish we were already on the island.” The thought of all they had yet to endure … a train ride and at least six hours on a ship … it made her shoulders droop.
Tom’s gaze was caressing. “You’ll be able to rest soon.” He pressed his l
ips to her hair. “Your luggage was taken to the railway halt earlier, and your lady’s maid laid out your traveling clothes upstairs. She’s ready to help you change whenever you wish.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me when I danced with her a few minutes ago.”
Cassandra smiled up at him. The boundless energy that had seemed so daunting before now seemed rather safe and comforting, something to be wrapped around her.
“Of course,” Tom said softly, “you could leave in your wedding dress, and go with me straight to the railway carriage … where I could help you remove it.”
A quicksilver shiver chased through her. “Would you prefer that?”
His palm smoothed over the satin of her upper sleeve, and then he rubbed an edge of the fabric gently between his thumb and forefinger. “As a man who likes to unwrap his own presents … yes.”
Chapter 22
AS CASSANDRA MIGHT HAVE expected, the private luxury carriage went far beyond anything she could have imagined. It was two carriages, technically, connected by an accordion-shaped rubber hood that created enclosed walkways between the vehicles. An experimental design, Tom explained, that had the added benefit of making the ride smoother and quieter. One carriage contained a full-sized kitchen, with a pantry and chilled larder, and accommodations for the staff.
The main carriage was a mansion on wheels, with a double stateroom and attached dressing room, lavatories with hot and cold running water, a study, a parlor, and even a drawing room. It was handsomely appointed with wide windows, high ceilings covered in embossed leather, and thick Wilton carpeting on the floors.
In contrast to the current fashion of ornate embellishments and gilded trim, the carriage had been decorated with understated elegance and an emphasis on craftsmanship. The walnut paneling on the walls had not been varnished to a high gloss, but instead hand rubbed to a quiet, rich finish.
After touring the train and meeting the staff and the chef, Cassandra returned to the stateroom, while Tom consulted with the engineer. It was a beautiful room with a lofty ceiling, built-in cabinetry, a wide fixed bed of rosewood, and stained-glass transom windows that opened on hinges. Her lady’s maid, Meg, was in the process of unpacking the valise that contained everything Cassandra would require until they boarded the ship tomorrow morning.
Meg had leaped at the chance to accompany Cassandra to a new situation, saying emphatically that she preferred town life to the country. She was an efficient and quick-witted girl, with an effervescent nature that made her a pleasant companion.
“Milady,” Meg exclaimed, “have you ever seen such a train? There’s a bathtub in the lavatory—a bathtub—the steward says as far as he knows, this is the only train in all the world that has one.” As if fearing Cassandra might not have understood, she repeated, “In all the world.” Busily Meg proceeded to lay out various items on the dresser: a traveling box of gloves and handkerchiefs, and a vanity case containing a brush, comb, racks of pins, porcelain jars of face cream and powder, and a bottle of rose perfume. “The porter told me there’s something about the train’s design that makes the ride as smooth as velvet. A special kind of axle … and who do you think invented it?”
“Mr. Severin?” Cassandra guessed.
“Mr. Severin,” Meg confirmed emphatically. “The porter said Mr. Severin may be the cleverest man alive.”
“Not about all things,” Cassandra said with a small, private smile, “but about many things.”
Meg set the valise beside the dresser. “I hung your clothes and dressing robe in the cabinet, and put your unmentionables in the dresser. Will you want to change out of your wedding dress now?”
“I think …” Cassandra hesitated, her face warming. “Mr. Severin will assist me.”
The lady’s maid blinked. Since it was a well-known fact that a man couldn’t possibly manage the intricacies of fastening a woman’s garments, any “assistance” Tom provided would be limited to the removal of clothing. And once Cassandra was undressed, there was little doubt about what would happen next.
“But …” Meg ventured, “… it’s not even dinnertime.”
“I know,” Cassandra said uncomfortably.
“It’s still light outside.”
“I know, Meg.”
“Do you think he’ll really want to—” the lady’s maid began, but broke off at Cassandra’s exasperated glance. “I’ll just go settle my things in my room, then,” Meg said with artificial brightness. “It’s in the next carriage. The steward said there’s a fine parlor and dining room for the staff.” She averted her gaze as she continued in a rush, “Also … after my older sister married … she told me it doesn’t take too long. Gentlemen and their doings, I mean. Quick as a dog can trot a mile, she said.”
Gathering that the words were meant to be reassuring, Cassandra nodded and murmured, “Thank you, Meg.”
After her lady’s maid had left, Cassandra unlocked her vanity case and lifted the lid, which was fitted with a mirror. She removed the pins from the side twists of her hair, and removed the diamond tiara from her head. As she set it on the dresser, a movement from the periphery of her vision caught her attention.
Tom had come to stand at the doorway, his warm gaze taking her in.
A nervous thrill went through her, and her fingers trembled a little as she combed them through her hair to search for any stray pins. Although they’d been alone before, relatively speaking, this was the first time they’d been alone as a married couple. No clock to declaim each passing minute, no admonishing knocks to rattle the door.
A decidedly handsome man, her husband, appearing taller than usual in the confines of the room. Dark, coolly confident, and as unpredictable as a force of nature. But she sensed a carefulness in his manner, a desire not to worry or frighten her, and that made her flush with pleasure.
“I haven’t yet thanked you for the tiara,” she said. “When I opened it this morning, I nearly fell off my chair. It’s beautiful.”
Tom came up behind her, his hands stroking her satin-covered arms, his lips gentle as they brushed the rim of her ear. “Would you like the rest of it?”
Her brows lifted in surprise as their gazes met in the little vanity mirror. “There’s more?”
For answer, he went to the other dresser, picked up a flat mahogany box, and gave it to her.
Cassandra lifted the lid, her eyes widening as she saw more diamond stars and a chain of woven platinum mesh. “A necklace? And earrings? Oh, this is too extravagant. You’re too generous.”
“Let me show you how it works,” Tom said, picking up the tiara. “The largest star can be detached, and either worn as a brooch or added to the necklace.” Deftly he disconnected the star, manipulating the tiny catches and fasteners. How like him, Cassandra thought with a surge of affection, to have given her jewelry that could be taken apart and reconfigured, almost like a puzzle.
She tried on the star-shaped earrings, and shook her head a little to make them dance. “You’ve given me a constellation,” she said with a grin, looking at her glittering reflection.
Tom turned her to face him, his hands moving lightly through her hair, letting the golden locks sift and spill through his fingers. “You’re the brightest star in it.”
Cassandra stood on her toes to kiss him, and Tom gathered her more securely against him. He seemed to luxuriate in the kiss, wanting every detail of her taste, texture, scent. Slowly his palm moved beneath the curtain of her hair and up her spine. As the delicate tugging weights of the earrings dangled from her earlobes, a few diamond points lightly touched her neck and sent a shiver through her.
Turning her mouth from his, Cassandra said breathlessly, “I have a gift for you.”
“Do you?” His lips grazed the tender skin beneath her jaw.
“A small one,” she said ruefully. “I’m afraid it can’t compare to a suite of diamond jewelry.”
“Marrying me was the gift of a lifetime,” he said. “I don’t need anythin
g else.”
“Nevertheless …” She went to the valise beside the dresser, and pulled out a parcel wrapped in tissue paper and tied with red ribbon. A little blue beadwork ornament dangled from the ribbon. “Happy Christmas,” she said, handing it to him.
Tom untied the ribbon and held up the ornament to look at it closely. “Did you make this?”
“Yes, for our tree next year.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said, admiring the tiny stitches that secured the beads. He proceeded to unwrap the gift, a book bound in red cloth with black and gilt lettering. “Tom Sawyer,” he read aloud, “by Mark Twain.”
“Proof that Americans write books,” Cassandra said cheerfully. “It was published in England a few months ago, and is just now coming out in America. The author is a humorist, and the bookseller said the novel is a breath of fresh air.”
“I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.” Tom set the book on the dresser and pulled her into his arms. “Thank you.”
Cassandra melted against him, resting her head on his shoulder. A hint of bay rum cologne, with its distinctive notes of bay leaf, cloves, and citrus, drifted to her nostrils. It was a somewhat old-fashioned scent, very masculine and crisp. How unexpectedly traditional of him, she thought with a touch of private amusement.
One of his hands came up to smooth her hair. “You’re tired, buttercup,” he murmured. “You need to rest.”
“I feel much better now that we’re away from all the clamor at Eversby Priory.” A hush gathered around them, easy and relaxed. She was not in the hands of an impatient boy, but an experienced man who was going to treat her very, very well. Anticipation filled the spaces between her heartbeats. “Will you help me change out of my clothes?” she dared to ask.
Tom hesitated for a long moment before he went to close the curtains. Her stomach suddenly felt light, as it did when a fast-moving carriage crossed a dip in the road. Pulling her hair over one shoulder, she waited for him to come up behind her. The dress laced up the back with a decorative satin cord that finished in a bow at the bottom. She considered explaining the placket of hidden buttons beneath the lacing, but suspected he would enjoy figuring it out for himself.
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