“It is old, but…” the old woman trailed off.
“It’s beautiful,” Faith whispered. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful piece of lace. Never.” She examined it reverently. “I wonder who made it? It’s very old. I doubt you could get such fine lace today.”
“Ma mère, she made it. She was the finest lacemaker in the district,” Marthe explained with pride. “People used to come all the way from Paris for her lace. Great ladies in the old days.” She fingered the exquisite piece of lace tenderly. “This piece she made for my wedding, nearly fifty years ago.” She contemplated it for a long moment, then she shrugged. “But le bon Dieu never blessed me with daughters. It is time Maman’s lace was brought out again for a new young bride. You will wear it, yes? For the sake of my mother and yours, who are both dead, but who loved their daughters very much.”
Faith could say not a word. She nodded and stood, unbearably moved, as Marthe took the lace from her nervous hands and draped it carefully over her hair.
The soft, lacy folds caressed Faith’s skin. The veil smelled faintly of roses, not the fresh scent of the new-cut tiny roses that remained in her hair, but an older, more enduring fragrance. The scent of roses. And of love. She felt her eyes fill.
“Enough of that! No tears, please!” The old woman said, frowning severely. Faith did her best to blink the tears away. Marthe made the final adjustments to the veil. “Enfin! Now you look like a bride should look. Your man, he will thank the bon Dieu for his luck.”
Faith had her doubts about that but said nothing. “I wish Mama—and my sisters—could have seen me, too.”
“Pah! What nonsense is this?” said Marthe briskly. “Your sisters I know nothing about, but your maman, she is here now, assuredly—and your papa, too. Did you not light the candles for them last night? Then of course they are here! Now, go, and do not keep your man waiting any longer. A little waiting, that is good, but men are impatient creatures. So go!” The old woman gave her a small push.
Faith took two steps and turned back and embraced Marthe. “Thank you, dearest Marthe,” she whispered brokenly. “I will never forget your kindness this day.”
Marthe made a dismissive sound, but she returned the embrace strongly, and when she stepped back, her eyes were wet. “Go now, petite,” she said gruffly. “Your man awaits.”
Her man.
Faith took a deep breath, took Stevens’s arm, and set out down the aisle. The journey seemed to take forever. The church smelled of incense and beeswax and roses. Only a few days ago she’d had nothing. She’d been robbed of everything, even her faith in the basic goodness of people.
Now suddenly she was showered with gifts from all directions, and her newfound cynicism was floundering. Who would have expected the sour, suspicious old woman she’d met last night to be such a comfort, so sensitive to Faith’s fears and anxieties?
The scent of roses beguiled her. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was in the small church of St. Giles, where her twin, Hope, had married Sebastian two months before, surrounded by family and friends and roses.
Twice now Faith had been married without a member of her family present, without her sisters, without her beloved twin, without even a friend. Now Marthe had stepped in with her words of comfort and her mother’s exquisite veil, and Stevens’s arm was warm and sure under her hand, and suddenly Faith felt as if this time, she was not alone.
She opened her eyes. Not at all alone. The biggest gift of all—Nicholas Blacklock—stood waiting, tall, dark and somber.
Nicholas Blacklock, who married an unknown girl to save her reputation. Nicholas Blacklock, securing Faith a future out of gallantry. How could she ever repay such a gift?
She wasn’t sure, but she was determined to try.
Chapter Six
Human nature is so well disposed towards those who are in interesting situations, that a young person, who either marries or dies, is sure of being kindly spoken of.
JANE AUSTEN
“I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU MAN AND WIFE. YOU MAY KISS THE bride.”
Faith turned to face Nicholas. She knew what to expect; she’d already been kissed in the mayor’s office. A brief, hard kiss. A mere pressure of firm, cool lips on hers.
Even so, it had been memorable. It had tingled, that almost impersonal kiss, sending a slight frisson through her that started in the tender skin of her lips and left her tingling with awareness of him. Her husband. The faint taste of him had remained, the scent and texture of his skin, the look in his eyes as he’d kissed her.
He reached for the veil and lifted the delicate folds carefully back over her hair, taking care the lace did not catch in the roses or fall to the floor. While his attention was on the arrangement of the veil, Faith examined his face. He was sending her back to England tomorrow. She wanted to memorize every detail.
His dark brows puckered with concentration, his mouth firm and serious, his lips cleanly chiseled. He was freshly shaven, his skin lightly tanned and fine-grained. His dark whiskers showed barely a hint of shadow just now. By the morning they’d be rough and sandpapery. She’d felt them that first evening, when he’d looked like an unshaven pirate, dangerous yet exciting. There was a tiny silvery scar across his chin. She’d probably never find out what caused it.
He reached around her to adjust the veil, and she inhaled the scent of him, her husband for a day. His smell was already familiar to her, familiar and somehow right—no doubt because she’d woken that first morning wrapped in his coat. Now he also smelled of some tangy fragrance, shaving soap or cologne water.
Nicholas Blacklock, her husband—it did not feel real. She had known him two days, and yet in some ways it was as if it had been forever.
He took her by the waist, holding her firmly, possessively. He drew her close against his body for the bridal kiss, close so they were standing thigh to thigh, breast to chest. She could feel the warmth of his body even through her sensible blue dress. Feeling suddenly breathless, Faith raised her face to receive his kiss.
His hard, gray eyes bored into hers, and he bent and gave her a kiss that was brief and hard and possessive. It zinged through her, and dazed, she clutched his shoulders. She swallowed, staring up at him, and licked her lips, shivering as she tasted him on her tongue.
His eyes suddenly blazed with intensity. He slid one arm around the small of her back and with the other cupped the nape of her neck, sliding his fingers up into the curls of her hair. Slowly, so slowly, he bent and captured her mouth again, first a warm claiming, then a deep, thorough possession of her mouth, until she was breathless and dizzy, tingling all over and clutching him tighter than she’d ever clutched anyone. The church shimmered around her.
“Congratulations, mes enfants!” The voice seemed to come from a long way away. The priest. Monsieur le Curé.
It was the signal for everyone to come forward and congratulate them, Marthe, and Stevens. Mac hung back, his face more fit for a funeral than a wedding.
Faith, blushing furiously, battled for composure. She did her best to respond coherently to their felicitations, hoping that Nicholas would keep his arm exactly where it was, firmly around her waist, otherwise she wasn’t sure if she could stand, let alone walk back down the aisle and out into the autumn sunshine.
She darted a sideways look up at him. He looked as calm and severe as ever. She wanted to thump him. How could he kiss her—in church!—in a way that sucked all the strength right out of her knees and made her toes curl right up inside her new blue kidskin boots, and yet remain unmoved himself? The man was inhuman.
After the wedding, they retreated to Monsieur le Curé’s front parlor. Marthe had prepared a light repast.
“Let us toast the newlyweds.” Father Anselm opened a bottle of wine and poured, while Marthe passed glasses around. The wine was ruby-colored and rich with sunshine.
They all drank the toast, and then Marthe disappeared, presumably to tend to the kitchen. However, a few minutes later she appeared with a
parcel and handed it to Faith.
“What is this?” Faith asked, puzzled. She made to unwrap the parcel, but the old woman stopped her.
“No. Open it tonight, when you are alone,” she said gruffly.
“But, Marthe,” she began. “You have already given me so—”
Marthe waved away her protest. “Pah! This is not some precious thing, like the veil of my maman. It is just an old item, no use to me any longer.” She gave a very French shrug. “Perhaps you may find a use for it.”
Father Anselm stepped forward. “I, too, have a small gift for you, my child.” Beaming, he presented Faith with a small, dark red leather-bound book.
“Poetry!” she exclaimed as she opened the book. She scanned the contents excitedly. “In English! Oh…It contains some of my very favorite poems! Oh, thank you, Father, I will treasure it always. Please, would you inscribe it for me?”
He took the book back and, smiling, wrote on the fly-leaf in a crabbed hand. He handed it back with a smile and said, “When one is in a foreign land, one of the small pleasures one misses most is the pleasure of reading in one’s own language.”
Faith hugged it to her bosom. “You are so right. I have missed reading very much since leaving…home.”
“Now, now, miss, you’re not allowed to cry on a happy day like this,” declared Stevens, stepping forward. “I have a small gift, too, miss—that is to say, Mrs. Blacklock.” Stevens corrected himself with self-conscious humor and handed her a small cylindrical parcel.
“But why is everyone giving—?”
“A weddin’ present, o’course, miss—I mean missus.”
“A wedding present.” Touched and a little embarrassed, Faith accepted it. She’d already been given so much, and it wasn’t as if she were a proper bride. She was being sent home in the morning.
She glanced at Nicholas Blacklock and was startled to find him frowning blackly. Obviously he did not think she should be getting presents, either. She hesitated. “Should I not—?” she began.
“Just open it!” he snapped.
She blinked at his bad humor. Obviously he was embarrassed, too, that the others were treating this as a real marriage. Best get it over quickly. She unwrapped the parcel. It was a small wooden, handmade flute. Her eyes flooded.
“I know it’s not much, miss, but you told me you liked—”
“Stevens, it’s beautiful. I had one like this when I was a young girl, and I loved it more than anything. My grandfather smashed it. He—he did not like me to play music.”
There was a small silence. “Play it now then, miss.”
And Faith played. It was the first time in months she’d played any music. Felix hadn’t liked it when she played music. Her role was to listen and admire his genius, and Faith did admire it. It was only now, as the notes flew from the little flute that she realized how much she’d missed making her own music.
When she finished there was a short silence, then her new husband said, “You’re good. You’re very, very good.” The others joined in, but Faith didn’t really hear, she was storing up that small piece of praise like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter.
He took her by the arm and said, “Let us go outside. I have something to say to you in private.”
Nick led her into the priest’s small, walled garden. Here, in this sheltered spot, autumn was not so far advanced. The garden was ferociously neat, with straight rows of well-tied-up vegetables and precise squares of herbs. The only discordant note in this sea of neatness lay in the center, a four-sided arch formed by a luscious tangle of late roses; the only visible outlet for Father Anselm’s romantic soul. A stone bench had been placed directly beneath the point where the four arches met.
“I see this is where you got your wedding roses.” Nick gestured to the small pink roses in her hair, now sadly wilting.
“Yes.” She sat down on the bench, eyes downcast, and folded her hands neatly. She looked like a schoolgirl awaiting punishment. A very beautiful schoolgirl, he thought. How had he not seen how truly beautiful she was? He’d hardly looked past her hurts, the cuts and bruises and blisters and the sadness in her eyes.
Nick stood in front of her, hands clasped behind his back. He felt very uncomfortable. He took his fence in a rush. “I didn’t get you a present.”
She looked up, frowning.
“I’m sorry. I should have.”
She jumped up and clutched his arm. “I thought you were cross with me. I thought you thought I shouldn’t be getting any presents, since it’s not a proper wedding.”
“It is a proper wedding!”
She waved an impatient hand. “You know what I mean, I’m not a proper bride and you’re—”
“You’re a very beautiful bride.”
She stopped and stared up at him. And then she smiled, a glorious, dazzling smile that dried Nick’s throat.
“Thank you,” she whispered tremulously. “I felt beautiful, too, with Marthe’s exquisite lace veil.”
It wasn’t the veil that made her beautiful. She wasn’t wearing it now, and she seemed to glow from within. With an effort Nick managed to clear his throat of whatever was obstructing it and say what he’d come here to say.
“I didn’t think of getting you a wedding gift, but I’ll get one for you this afternoon. What do you want?”
Her smile vanished.
“I don’t want anything. You’ve already given me so much.”
“Nonsense!”
“But you have. You gave me every single item of clothing I am wearing today, including these lovely boots.” She lifted her hem to show him the boots. “They fit perfectly, by the way—”
He cut her off with a curt gesture. “Necessities don’t count, and besides, I am your husband now; it is my duty to provide you with whatever it is you need. However, I intend to buy you a proper wedding gift—something you don’t need, but that you would like to have. What would you like?” Pearls, he thought. Or maybe a sapphire necklace to match her eyes.
“But I don’t want any—” He gave her a hard look, and she subsided. “Oh very well, but I cannot think what to suggest. I have everything I can think of.”
He gave her an incredulous look. Her possessions, she was wearing half of them, would barely fill a string bag, and she thought she had enough?
She thought for a minute. “What about some writing paper and a pen and ink?” She broke off at the look he gave her and said defensively. “I need to write some letters.”
“I’ll buy you a ream of bloody writing paper but not as a wedding present!”
“There is no call to swear at me!”
“I apologize,” he said, not sounding the least bit penitent. Writing paper indeed! “Now think of a proper present.”
She gave him a look from under her lashes. “Some people think a person should think up their own presents. Some people think the value in a present is the thought behind it.”
“Those people have never been given hideous items they never wanted!” he retorted.
She giggled. “You’re right. Oh very well. There is something I’d very much like, but it will be quite expensive, and you might not want to buy it for me.”
“Hang the expense!” Nick heard the words come out of his mouth with a faint sense of disbelief. Mac could be right. He had gone crazy, telling a woman he barely knew that expense didn’t matter. “What is it?”
She hesitated, twirling a vine around her finger. “You might not like it.”
Exasperated and cross with himself for being so remiss as to forget to buy his bride a present, especially when everyone else except Mac had given her one, Nick snapped, “I promise you, Mrs. Blacklock, whatever it is, I will like it! Now tell me what you want and, if possible, I shall buy it this afternoon.”
She looked at him with wide blue eyes, then took a deep breath and said in a rush, “Very well, and I want you to remember that you promised! I want a pistol.”
Faith heard his sharp intake of breath and hurried on, wan
ting to get her explanation in before he could refuse. “My mother always carried a small pistol in her reticule. She traveled a great deal in Italy, and having her own weapon meant she could protect herself, and us, if she needed to.”
She tried to read his expression. It had returned to grim and wooden-faced. He was probably shocked. No doubt he was like most other gentlemen of her acquaintance who thought that proper ladies did not carry weapons. They found the notion offensive, as if the lady in question did not trust her masculine protectors.
But the women in her family did carry weapons! Her mother had. Her oldest sister, Prudence, did. Aunt Gussie did. And Faith would, too!
She folded her ams and set her jaw pugnaciously. Her safety was more important than his masculine pride. “You carry pistols and who knows what else. Mr. McTavish and Stevens positively bristle with knives and other weapons—in fact, for all I know, McTavish carries a knife in that horrid big beard of his! I want to be able to protect myself, so I need a gun of my own.”
He was silent for a long moment. Faith was about to unleash another barrage of arguments when he said, “You will be perfectly safe on the Dover packet, and a private coach will take you to Blacklock Manor, but after your experiences on the journey from Paris, I can see why you might be nervous. A small pistol is an excellent suggestion—though not as a wedding gift. I will see to it this aftern—”
He didn’t finish. She jumped up and, flinging her arms around his neck, kissed him exuberantly. “Oh thank you, Nichol—I mean Mr. Blacklock. You won’t be sorry, and I promise I’ll be very careful, but oh! You don’t know how this makes me feel.”
Nick knew exactly how she felt. Soft, warm, and female. His bride. His arms tightened around her.
His bride in name only. He forced himself to put her gently aside.
True to his word, Nick purchased a pistol for his bride that day, and after lunch he took her a short way from the camp to teach her to use it. An offshore breeze had sprung up, which was a pleasant change from the still air of the past few days.
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