“Where’d you—oh, never mind.” She grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the horses. “Let’s go find a clock.”
Chapter 26
They ran into trouble ten miles from London. The roads were still sloppy, slick with icy mud, but that apparently hadn’t kept anyone home. Traffic clogged the roads—horses, people on foot, coaches with revelers hanging out the windows. Grand carriages pulled by matched teams, their drivers in glorious livery shouting for space ahead, had no more luck in parting the crowds than the gangs of laughing young men who’d obviously already tipped deeply into their flasks, starting the New Year’s celebration a day early.
Kate and Jim picked their way along the edges of the crowds, swinging wide, until finally forced to a dead stop. Up ahead they could see a large carriage, side-tipped, people swarming around to see what had happened.
They’d been moving too slowly as it was, tense and impatient with every delay but unable to go any faster. It promised only to get worse the nearer they got to London.
“We have to go cross country,” Jim said.
Twin hedgerows marched along the road, so thick nothing wider than a rabbit could push its way through, nearly as high as Kate’s head. She eyed the leggy gelding Jim had managed to procure and his practiced management of it.
“Go ahead,” she said. “We’ll never make it over the first jump.”
“I can’t leave you here alone.”
“Of course you can,” she said, and waved her fist, showing the knuckles that had scraped against Hobson’s face, her badge of victory. “Just let anyone try to accost me. I’m getting rather good at it, don’t you think?”
“The best,” he said, a note in his voice that had her looking at him closely, trying to read the expression in his eyes. He studied the mob in front of them, the limited paths around it. “Come up with me,” he said. “I think the horse can manage.”
“You’ll be faster without me. Safer, too, and you know it.”
She would never forget the way he looked right then. Bareheaded, hair tossed by the breeze, jacket and collar open. Sitting tall and correct on the horse, controlling it skillfully, his strong hands every bit as expert at other things. She had so many memories of him now, ones that made a youthful kiss under the moonlight pale. Stronger ones, real ones. Ones without a gauzy veil of innocence, ones with heat and grit and hurt, ones that lived in your heart and bones instead of your imagination.
“It doesn’t seem right,” he said, “to finish it without you.”
“You’re not finishing without me. You’re winning it, for both of us.”
He nodded, accepting. And leaned down to press his mouth against hers, the horses shifting so that their lips didn’t fit quite right but he just kept kissing her anyway, making it work, hard and long, unbearably sweet. She felt the burn of it—her lips, her eyes, her heart, so that when he finally pulled back she had to bite her lip to keep the tears from gathering.
“Jim, I…”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.” He backed his gelding up a couple of steps and wheeled him around, aiming for a slight gap between the sweets vendor who’d set up at the side of the road and the ostensibly blind beggar who’d plopped down right there, tin cup at his side.
“The Queen’s Arms Hotel, near Regent Street,” he said. He tapped his heels against the horse’s side, they sailed over the hedge, and were gone.
They’d won. Kate had read about it in the newspaper she’d bought from a vendor very early that morning, when she, unable to sleep, had stumbled out of her modest inn looking for tea.
There was no triumph in it and even less surprise. She’d known he would win.
Now, five minutes before midnight, Kate huddled on a narrow bench beside the Thames. Revelers crowded the walkways beside her, shifting crowds of happy people, chattering, laughing. Clusters of boats drifted on the Thames, oarsmen shouting cheerfully at each other as they jostled for a better view. Somewhere an orchestra played, the sound swelling and sliding, underlaid by a sprightly, military rhythm. Across the river someone had fashioned electric lights in the shape of an hourglass. Every few seconds another one blinked off from the upper cluster, lighting up on the bottom a second later. Lights, wavering, indistinct, reflected on the water.
She was cold. Far colder than the weather dictated.
Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow she would get on a ship and go…not home, where was that? But back to America, where she could begin the process of making one.
It had taken every ounce of self-control she could dredge up, and then some, not to sprint to the Queen’s Arms. Once that afternoon, a light drizzle falling, the sky as dark and gray as her mood, she’d faltered, going to stand across from the inn and gaze hungrily at its façade. There, that window, where the light glowed cheerily…was that his room? Perhaps that one, dark, the curtains drawn, where he lay in bed and rested from the race, waiting for her.
It seemed such a small thing. What was one more night? She’d slept with him countless times; what harm could one more do? Except it would not be only one more, for she knew in her bones that she simply could not say good-bye to him again.
She’d no idea how long she’d stood there. It was only when a butcher, sturdy belly wrapped in a dark-stained apron, wandered from his shop to ask if she was all right that she moved on, shaking her head at the absurdity of it. She, Kathryn Bright Goodale, standing love-sick in the street drinking in the sight of where he might, might, be. Was it something that everyone must do at some point in their lives, be stupid in the name of love, and since she’d skipped it in her youth she was visited with it now, twice over? She’d hailed a cab and gone straight to the office to buy her ticket to America.
Across the river a spark shot skyward, whistling as it climbed, fizzling to almost nothing. And then it burst, a cluster of bright blue-green, cascading almost into the river. Proper appreciation from the crowd: oooh, aaah. The imprint of the fireworks remained in her retinas for a moment; she saw them streaking, sparkling, when she blinked.
The crowd fell silent, waiting, but the sky remained dark. Perhaps someone had made a mistake, firing one off prematurely. It was as if the world held its breath, waiting for the new century.
It was terribly unfair, Kate thought, that Fate had asked this of her. For in the same stroke that might have given Jim to her, the inheritance that finally tied him to one place, one home, had stripped him from her at the same time. It had laid out his future and responsibilities in front of him, undeniably clear: a wife who would supply a dowry that could restore the earldom and give him the sons that would carry it on, wisely and responsibly this time. She could do neither.
She closed her eyes. The vestiges of the single explosion still speared across the inside of her lids.
Something dropped into her lap. A package, medium-sized—smaller than a hatbox—but heavier, wrapped in plain paper, wound round and around with twine, tied with at least a dozen clumsy knots.
“You forgot something.”
Don’t look at him, she told herself. If she looked at him, she’d be lost. Lightly, she fingered the string. He’d tied it not long ago, probably struggled with it and swore as he did so. “I didn’t forget. Your tenants, all those repairs…they need the money more than I do. I don’t want it.”
“Try again.”
“I don’t want it much.” One of the knots gave way, unraveling in her fingers. “I knew we’d work it out. That you’d insist on sending me something. But I couldn’t take much. I won’t. Consider it an investment in your business, if you must. You can pay me back.”
“In about fifty or sixty years.”
Oh, go away. Please, don’t make me do this. I can’t. “Then there’ll be plenty of interest, won’t there?”
He sat down beside her. Too close, shoulders brushing, left hip pressed against her right one, so vibrantly aware of the contact she thought it must glow between them, white hot, visible to those who wandered by.
“That wasn’
t what I meant,” he said. “What you forgot.”
A whistle, a crimson spark arcing through the sky. This one was a dud, fizzling out before it bloomed.
“You forgot me.”
Oh, God. “I didn’t forget.” I’ll never forget.
“Kate.” And again, a full minute later, when the crowds murmured restlessly and she hadn’t moved: “Kate.”
He was going to make her. Make her with his patient voice and the warmth of his body next to hers on the cold bench and his unignorable, beloved presence. She turned her head, a slow swivel she couldn’t have halted any more than she could have willed her heart to stop beating.
He wore solid black, severe, ruthless. Bareheaded—one would think a man who’d been to the Arctic would have learned the value of covering his head—hair mussed, as if he hadn’t taken the time to comb it, eyes shadowed, nearly as dark as the sky.
More fireworks must have gone off. She didn’t hear them, only saw the flicker of the lights across his face: red, blue, gold.
“I wasn’t going to ask you,” he said. “Told myself it was for the best. Your best.”
The crowd roared. The sound came to her dimly, as if from very far away. Shut up, she wanted to shout at them. Shut up, because she had to hear, breathe in, every single word he spoke, each whisper, each nuance.
“And then I thought, who am I to decide that for you?” He smiled gently. “You’d break my nose if I presumed to do that.”
A shower of sparks, dazzle-bright, violet as midnight, reflected in his eyes. “And so I’m asking you, Kate, what I should have asked a long time ago. On the boat, in Maine, the minute you walked in my door. I love you, Kate. Marry me.”
“Jim—” Applause erupted, drowned out her answer.
“No, not yet. Don’t answer me yet. You have to understand. The money we won is barely a start. There’s so much to be done and the house has to come last. It has to, they’ve waited so long. It could be years before we even begin on the manor. Hell, it could be never. I’m going to be working, more like a farmer than a lord. You deserve better.”
She almost turned it back on him. Spoke of titles and dowries, duty and babies. But he knew all that, knew it even better than she did. If he could trust her to know her own mind and heart, how could she do less for him?
“Do I?” she murmured. The world erupted in celebration around them, church bells clanging all over London, ringing in the New Year. People cheered, shouted, laughed, kissed. The last electric sand dropped through the lighted hourglass. Fireworks spangled the sky, a dozen explosions at once, two dozen, every color spearing into the next until they blazed and fell together, a million colored stars tumbling to earth. And all that wild celebration, a city, a world of welcome and joy, was nothing compared to the way she’d felt when Jim said “I love you.”
“I want the best,” she said. “I want you.”
Chapter 27
Harrington had a chapel, built even before the current manor house, a small stone structure tucked beneath the boughs of an extraordinary chestnut tree at the far end of what had once been the gardens. It was in no better shape than the rest of the estate, the windows broken out, the pews and altar gone, half the roof slates missing. But there was an undeniable romance to the place, in its perfectly cut beige stones, the soaring roof, the vines that twined over the entrance.
Jim had suggested the village church. It was February, after all, and the chapel would likely be cold. But Kate insisted. If she were to be the new countess of Harrington—oh, how odd that sounded!—she would be married in Harrington’s chapel.
Though it certainly did not seem the wedding of a countess. Her first wedding had been quick and businesslike, in a judge’s chambers, though her dress had been lovely, her jewelry expensive. She’d always assumed if she married again, it would be a grand affair, months in the planning, yards of silk and bouquets that speared toward the roof of a cathedral.
Instead this wedding seemed like it might have belonged to one of the estate’s tenants rather than its lord.
Luckily the day was warm, soft for February, carrying hints of spring on a gentle breeze. So the guests—the tenants, dressed in their best, which no one but they would have known was so—made do with only light outergarments instead of the piles of blankets and coats that Jim had feared. They’d brought their own seats to the empty chapel, benches and chairs dragged from the nearest cottages, for the manor house itself was still barren of any furniture except the good bed its owner had insisted upon.
There were no flowers in the church. No frilly curls of ribbon, no trailing swags of silk, no glittering silver.
But there were candles, dozens of them, lumpy and homemade, some mere stubs, contributed by everyone. On every windowsill, flickering; lining the two stone steps that led up to the nave, a huge cluster of them glowing on the small wooden table that would serve as an altar. Their light filled the little church, a warm glow that turned the buff stone walls to gold.
All those candles gave the women no end of trouble as they tried to keep the children that squirmed and whispered and giggled and crawled all over the place out of the way of the flames, a happy chatter more festive than any organ chords.
There was no new gown for the bride. No jewels, no hair dressed in cascades of curls. Kate had spent nearly two weeks making over her dress—she’d had plenty of time, for Jim, true to his word, had been working so hard that she rarely saw him except late at night when he, bone tired, had tumbled into bed. That was fine with her; she understood the necessity of it, and besides, he always made it up to her when he did come home.
The orchid silk was stripped of lace, cut in perfectly severe, elegant lines. It barely clung to her shoulders, sweeping low over her bosom, adorned with nothing but glowing skin. Long sleeves, cut tight, ending in sharp points at the back of her hands; a bodice that hugged her curves; a luscious swoop of skirt that swept the ground in back. Her one indulgence had been a spool of silver thread and she’d put it to good use, embroidering sweeping swirls, great curving loops that glittered in the candlelight. She’d swept her hair straight back and pinned it in a simple twist that had taken all of three minutes to arrange.
Everyone said they’d never seen a more beautiful bride.
The groom would be wearing black and a sling, support for the shoulder injury he’d sustained two days before by sliding off the slick roof he’d been fixing on one of his tenant’s cottages.
He was also late.
Jane leaned over to Kate, who was standing at the front of the church. “Do you want me to send Will after him?”
“Oh, he’ll be here,” Kate said serenely. He’d be here, and soon, or he’d be dealing with the consequences, something which Kate was sure the man understood.
And then he was there, charging down the makeshift aisle at an indecorous pace, a giant fistful of roses clutched in his good hand.
“Here,” he said, panting, as he reached her, and thrust the bouquet at her. There were at least two dozen, wildly out of season, all colors—peach, pink, red, yellow—that should have clashed but instead looked utterly lovely together, their petals perfect, just opening, clouds of scent rising from them. The stems were uneven, stripped of their thorns, tied loosely—lopsided—together with a thin band of white ribbon.
“You shouldn’t have—” She stopped, buried her nose in them to take in the smell. “Where did you…I know, I know you have your ways.”
“That I do.” And then he bent and kissed her, slow and sweet, as if they were the only two people in the room.
The vicar harrumphed and tapped Jim on the shoulder. “We haven’t reached that part yet.”
They broke apart, but only a bit, smiling into each other’s eyes, the bouquet between them.
“We object!”
An instant later Kate shoved the flowers back at Jim and sprinted down the aisle, the pale purple silk floating behind her.
“We’re not to that part yet, either,” the clergyman said.
/> Kate hurled herself at the two women who’d just entered, squeezing one in each arm, hanging on for dear life. Jim bounded after her.
He would have pegged them as her sisters immediately, Jim decided, even if her reaction hadn’t given it away. The brown-haired one had to be Anthea, a plain slip of a woman frowning at him over Kate’s shoulder.
The other one was taller, slighter, the color of her hair somewhere between the others’, younger and more conventionally pretty, though certainly no competition for Kate. Emily. Still, there was something in the set of their eyes, the curve of their mouths, that marked them as sisters.
The three finally disentangled themselves and faced him, clasping hands. Emily beamed at him, heart as open as her expression, while Anthea, free hand on her hip, regarded him like a schoolteacher might a rambunctious student.
“We object,” she said, “because we refuse to have another Bright wedding without the rest of us there.”
“That’s right,” Emily said. “Couldn’t you have waited until we got here?”
“Ah, well…” Kate grinned at Jim, because she still couldn’t believe it, though she’d been losing her breakfast for three weeks. “No, we really couldn’t wait.”
“Oh!” Emily squealed and launched herself at Jim, so hard he took a step back. He wrapped his arm around her automatically, the flowers drooping at her back, his shoulder pulling painfully. Over the top of her head he caught sight of Anthea, who he fully expected to be scowling at him with sisterly disapproval but who was smiling at him instead, a smile that transformed her face, her slight resemblance to Kate suddenly pronounced.
“We’d best get you married, then, musn’t we?” she said, and herded them all back to the front. And so Kate said her vows with her sisters by her side. Emily sniffled. Anthea deftly rescued the roses when Kate’s hands shook so hard that Jim had to take them in his to still them.
A Wedding Story Page 30