She did her best not to think of her dream, the white clapboard house and the faceless man who always turned away just when she called out to him. It had always been doubtful she would meet that man. Still she thought about him, especially this morning while she hung between two worlds, one she desperately wanted to exist and one that tragically did.
“It’s time, miss. Your uncle’s downstairs. Oh, miss, you do look beautiful!” Margaret dabbed her eyes. “You’re so lovely, I’m sorry I won’t be there.”
Alana turned from the window and forced herself to smile. “But if you leave now, I’m sure you can find room in the pew with the other servants.”
“How can I, miss? After what I did to your dear Mr. Sheridan?” Another bout of tears threatened Margaret.
Alana gathered her bouquet, unable to meet Margaret’s eyes, especially after those last words. “You didn’t know the man barging in here yesterday was my hus—” She coughed, unable to believe her near mistake. “Fiancé,” she corrected quickly.
Typically, Margaret could go from tearful contrition to heated indignation in lightning speed. “But the man should know better! You weren’t married yesterday! He had no right to come into your bedroom!”
Alana smiled uneasily, thinking just how much right Sheridan did have in the bedroom. “Please fetch Kevin and go to the church. It won’t be the same if you’re not there.”
“Oh, miss, can it be that you’re a bride today? Wasn’t it only yesterday when you and your dear sweet sister were wearin’ short dresses?” Margaret’s gaze wandered to the daguerreotype of Christal, and she threatened to cry again. “What a shame the poor lass died so young.”
“I wish she could be here,” Alana whispered, tears filling her eyes too. She looked at Christal’s picture, and a devastating regret tightened in her chest.
Margaret wiped her eyes for the last time. “Here, look what I’ve done now. I’ve made you glum. And this is such a wonderful day! Oh, miss, I wish you every joy! How I’d love to see you say the vows.”
“You must be there, Margaret.” Alana went to her desk, and from a tiny silver Le Roux box she took out enough coins for a hackney coach. “Go on. Put on your finery and take this. You’ll be there before I am.”
Margaret suddenly turned shy. “I couldn’t, miss. How could I pay you back?”
Alana almost laughed. With as much dignity as she could summon, she said, “Marrying the man that I am this morn, I don’t think we have to worry about these few coins. In the future I suspect there’ll be more of these than I’ll ever know what to do with.”
“May the Holy Mother Mary bless you, miss. For all that you’ve done for us.” Embarrassed, Margaret scooped up the coins and curtsied. She was gone before Alana could say another word.
Despondent once more, Alana looked at the picture of Christal, and her heart broke again. She gathered her voluminous satin skirts, walked up to the velvet-framed daguerreotype, and touched the glass that had just been replaced. She kissed her sister on the cheek. “Someday, Christal,” she whispered. “Someday I’ll find the way to exonerate you, and then I’ll dance at your wedding.”
Reverently, she placed the daguerreotype in the stack of boxes by her door that were to go to the Sheridan mansion. She took an encouraging breath and walked out of the room.
Her uncle met her in the foyer, and her eyes told him exactly what kind of cur she thought him. She frostily accepted his hand as he helped her to the carriage, thinking how different the situation was from the last time he’d put her into a carriage. Yet how alike it was. Again he was taking her to Sheridan. Again she didn’t want to go.
In oppressive silence they rode up Fifth Avenue. The crowds grew thick as they passed the Sheridan mansion and thicker still as they approached the church. The Four Hundred were as close to royalty as New York had; there were almost a thousand people outside the church watching the display. The crush of carriages was phenomenal, and they lined up along Fifth Avenue like shiny black top hats all the way to Fifty-fourth Street. There were so many of them, the bridal carriage had to wait for almost half an hour for all the guests to pull up and disembark.
At last, it was time.
William Backhouse Astor, Jr., descended the marble steps of the medieval-style church and assisted her from the vehicle. Although most believed him not to be the illustrious figure his father had been, Alana still thought he was dashing. He wore morning gray, his tall stature complemented by the swallow-tailed coat and top hat. His enormous black mustache was fashionably curled like the horns of a water buffalo until it grew into his substantial sideburns. Though she could tell he was disturbed by the publicity of this wedding, he offered his arm with staunch politeness. His face was drawn as if he didn’t particularly relish the task before him, and Alana would always wonder if this was because of the row caused by her notorious husband or his notorious wife.
In the vestibule two tiny pages dressed in black-velvet Gainsborough suits lifted her train. The organ began Handel’s Water Music, and suddenly she found herself walking down the aisle, her hand lightly resting on William Astor’s arm as she headed for that dark, forbidding man who stood bleakly before the altar with the bishop.
With every step she wanted to run in the other direction. Their marriage at Delmonico’s had been short, and she’d been so numbed by the whole ordeal she could hardly remember it. Now, however, everything struck her with cutting clarity: the shocked crowd, most of them Protestant members of Grace Church, the metropolis’s most exclusive court of heaven, scandalized to be sitting in what they believed to be a pagan place of worship, silent as she and her escort passed row after row of pews; the frigid stature of Mrs. Astor who refused to turn and look at her; the rakish young man, a younger copy of Sheridan, who nonchalantly eyed her with approval as he stood next to his brother; and Mara, Sheridan’s choice for maid of honor, who walked just ahead of her down the aisle, heart-wrenchingly lovely in a pink satin gown inappropriately innocent and short for her womanly sixteen years.
But if there were only two things she would remember of this day in the years to come, it would be the overpowering sweet citrus scent of orange blossoms and the look on Sheridan’s handsome face when their eyes at last met. She would never forget that look.
Her bridegroom’s eyes glittered with conflict. He was triumphant. The gleam in the gilded depths of those hazel eyes told her so. Yet there was something else there, something she couldn’t quite name that ate at his glory and took one cutting edge off the sword of his victory. Perhaps it was a tiny glimmer of guilt for what he had done to her, perhaps it was only a sudden jab of doubt that maybe this marriage was not destined to be the simple bargain he’d planned. She didn’t know. She only knew he’d seen to it that their marriage was even now rock-solid in the eyes of his church and the law. There was absolutely no turning back.
William Astor left her at Sheridan’s side and returned to the pew where his wife stood. Alana finally noticed that Sheridan wore morning gray also. He had on a dove-colored frock coat and dark-gray striped trousers. His cravat was pearl, his shirt blinding white, a startling contrast to the black hair that had been slicked back with Macassar oil. This had the stunning effect of making his shoulders look even broader, the lines of his face more austere, his eyes arresting, his gaze inescapable.
She somehow had the power to tear her gaze away when the bishop made his exhortation. Finished, the bishop then turned to her bridegroom and boomed out his words as if he wanted to make sure there could be no one in the church questioning this lawful union about to take place.
“Trevor Byrne Sheridan,” said the bishop, his face grave and deadly serious, “wilt thou take Alice Diana Van Alen, here present, for thy lawful wife, according to the rite of our holy Mother, the Church?”
His chin lifting in defiance, Sheridan said in a deep, confident voice, “I will.”
The bishop nodded resignedly and turned to her. “Alice Diana Van Alen, wilt thou take Trevor Byrne Sheridan, here pre
sent, for thy lawful husband, according to the rite of our holy Mother, the Church?”
Alana’s heart seemed to stop in her chest. The entire church seemed to still and lean forward to listen. The words were so simple, and though she knew they wouldn’t change a thing, whether she uttered them or not, in this huge Gothic church with the presence of both God and man casting judgment upon her, it seemed blasphemous to speak anything but the truth. She glanced at Sheridan, and he was as still as a statue. His gaze burned into her as if daring her to defy him. “I will,” she whispered, dooming herself into making those words the truth.
The bishop took her trembling hand and placed it in the bridegroom’s. Sheridan’s was warm and strong, and its strength seemed to seep into her and keep her standing.
Sheridan made his pledge in his usual assured, stiff manner. When it was her turn, her voice quavered and fell, the emotion she felt coloring every word until she ended with the hushed phrase “until death do us part.”
They knelt, and Alana trembled a smile at Mara while the girl valiantly tried to assist her with her enormous train.
“I join you together in marriage, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” The bishop sprinkled them with holy water, then began the Blessing of the Ring. When he was through, he sprinkled the ring with holy water in the form of a cross and handed it to Sheridan, who took it and turned to her.
Like thunder and lightning, their gazes met. She stared hard at him, and even through the mist of her veil, her eyes were reprimanding and beseeching. His held only defiance and an iron-hard determination that said, “I will do this.”
She looked down to remove the diamond from her finger so he could place his wedding ring there, but before she could do it, his hand stopped her. He took the ring the bishop had blessed, a perfect circle of sapphires, and placed it on the finger with the diamond, saying, “With this ring I thee wed, and plight unto thee my troth.”
She glanced down at her hand laden with both his costly rings. “Now you’re married to me twice,” they said to her, making the panic inside her begin to swell. She looked at him and saw him take off a heavy gold Claddagh ring, in the shape of two hands holding a heart with a small crown over the heart. As if performing an old Gaelic tradition, he turned the ring so that the heart no longer faced outward, as if to symbolize the intimacy and fidelity of marriage.
The bishop began his nuptial blessing, and his every word drove another knife of guilt into her heart. “… to be so inseperately bound to him, that Thou didst give to her body its beginning from his body—thus teaching us, that it should never be lawful to sever that which it had pleased Thee to form out of one substance.…”
She couldn’t even look at Sheridan. The betrayal of those words made her want to cry out and run down the aisle, fall to her knees, and beg forgiveness. How could he stand so quietly and listen when he knew they were making a mockery of them?
She muffled a sob. The bishop continued his blessing, placing his hand upon her crown. “… do Thou graciously look down upon this handmaiden.… May she please her husband, as did Rachel; be prudent, as was Rebecca; long-lived and faithful like Sara.… May she be fruitful in offspring: be approved and innocent.…”
A tear slipped down her cheek. She cared not a whit if Sheridan saw it. He was a cad to have done the things he’d done to her, and worse for bringing her to this church to make a pledge that held no more weight than dust.
“You may kiss your bride, Trevor Sheridan. You’ve now earned the right.”
Before she could take a breath, Sheridan lifted her veil and placed his finger beneath her chin. He bent to kiss her, but her instincts overtook her and she unconsciously pulled back.
It was the wrong thing to do. She doubted anyone in the pews could see what had happened, but Sheridan had. To him, her rejection had been loud and clear, and those dark hazel eyes nearly spewed fire. His arm went around her. She couldn’t utter a moan. His mouth slammed into hers, and she felt the searing scorch of his tongue as it forced its way between her teeth. His arm grasped her waist and lifted her clear off the floor to the gasps of shock and amazement of the guests in the pews.
Next to her, Mara released a giggle. But Alana hardly heard it. Her face flushed with anger, and her ears rang with fury. She wanted to beat him from her, but she couldn’t in front of this crowd. His tongue burned against her, a delicious combination of velvet and steel, and the unwanted desire for him that rose in the pit of her belly made her even more furious.
Finally the scandalized bishop bade Sheridan stop. Trevor reluctantly released her, but before they turned to face their guests, the bishop whispered to him, “I caution you to control those passions, my good man, or you’ll one day find yourself in the fires of hell because of them.”
Sheridan, with his usual irreverence, said, “To hell or to Connacht, Father?”
He took her hand and placed it on his arm. The color was still high on her face when they turned and faced the congregation. She wanted to rub her lips, to wipe the kiss from them, but that wouldn’t wipe it from her mind. His behavior was calculated to shock everyone, including her. She had expected her anger. What she hadn’t expected was the desire that had rushed through her veins. It unsettled her so much that when Mara stepped forward to take her bouquet—for only a bride could wear orange blossoms, and now she was a married woman—Alana gave her a blank look. When she finally understood what the girl wanted, she gave her the bouquet and immediately felt Sheridan’s hand tighten upon her arm. He escorted her down the aisle to the music of “Lullay My Liking.”
It was not until he had deposited her and her train into the carriage and climbed in beside her, his walking stick resting on his lap, that she dared confront him. “Nothing like this was to go on. You promised me,” she snapped.
“And what has you so upset?” he asked as the carriage started up amid the cheers of hundreds. “I thought everything went as planned. Even that old witch Caroline Astor was there, albeit scowling.” This last comment made him chuckle.
She found no humor in it. “She had a right to scowl about this unholy union. That your priest could marry us, knowing these lies!”
“The bishop knows naught of our ‘arrangement.’ Although I suspect he wonders how I was able to persuade you to the Catholic altar.”
“With blackmail and bribery! What a wonderful start to a marriage.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.
“Ours is no marriage,” he corrected, his words like icicles in her romantic heart. “It’s an arrangement with specific duties which you are to perform. For both our sakes, I suggest you do them expediently.”
“Your sister’s entrée into society is my only duty. Remember that the next time you think to do what you did in church. I promise you you’ll get no further. You’ll not get the chance to consummate this marriage.” Angrily, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.
A shadow of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Mrs. Sheridan, my kiss in church was no attempt at a consummation. That won’t give you children. That’s something else entirely.”
Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. There was no civil answer to what he had just said, so she fixed her attention on the passing crowds on Fifth Avenue. Until they reached the Sheridan mansion, she didn’t look at him again, which was fortunate, for if she had, she would have found him staring at her, his gaze unwavering and inexplicably hungry.
12
The reception was held in the Sheridan ballroom, where Mara was to have had her debut. The people who had been invited then were for the most part the ones who attended now. They ate upon the gold Limoges porcelain and drank from the cobalt Stiegel goblets, were duly impressed by the fourteen-carat-gold chargers, and in general gazed in awe at the Sheridan wealth until their eyes fairly popped from their heads.
Alana could hardly endure the three-hour wedding breakfast, beginning with Mr. Napoleon Sarony making a daguerreotype of the wedding coup
le. Her nerves were frayed to virtual ruin during the fifteen minutes they stood for the picture. In it she demurely looked down at the clasped hands of her and her husband. She felt anything but demure with Trevor beside her. Though she couldn’t move, she couldn’t even dare look at him, still she knew with every sense he was there. She felt him like a pulsating force, a force at once great and terrible. There was no escaping him, especially when his hand had a steely velvet grip on her own, when his breath tickled hotly upon her ear, when his scent, a seductive blend of bay rum and adult male, grew to such an obsession that she could taste it on her palate.
After that torture she sat next to her husband, eating nothing and drinking every time her champagne glass was filled. The morning had shaken the very foundations of her beliefs. The bishop’s words still haunted her, her vows still rung hollow in her ears. She had promised to be this man’s wife, promised him all her wifely duties until death took her away. And it was all a lie. Her marriage was nothing more than a farce, a one-act play.
She peeked at Sheridan covertly as he laughed at something his brother had said. Sitting at the bridal table overlooking his guests, he appeared like a king viewing his kingdom. His satisfaction was almost palpable, and she despised him for it. Yet for all that he had done to ruin her, she despised him more for that kiss in the church than all the rest combined. That kiss had stepped over the line from the impersonal to the intensely personal. For one brief second he had clasped an emotion she hadn’t wanted to give him. If he ever did that again, she was afraid he’d hurt her so badly, he’d make what he’d already done look like child’s play.
He turned to her and caught her staring. Their eyes met, and a current passed between them. She wanted to be hostile, but it was impossible when his gaze probed so deeply, she felt as if he had passed through her soul. She sat, motionless and silent, helplessly trapped in the web of his stare, but too quickly the magic wore off. An arrogant smile graced his lips, and she ached to slap it off.
Lions and Lace Page 14