by Jane Lark
Behind him, he heard Ellen slide down the opposite window. A harsh cold draft swirled through the carriage penetrating his clothing.
Come on. He leaned out the window and looked back along the track, but no carriage, or horses, pursued them.
“I see something!” Ellen called. “A little forge beside the road.”
He looked ahead and saw nothing on his side. Looking up at the box he yelled, “Driver. We will stop at the forge!”
Slipping back into the carriage he turned to Ellen.
She smiled broadly, her fingers gripping the sill of the open window as the breeze swept a few loose strands of hair off her face. She’d taken her bonnet off. It rested on the carriage seat opposite.
She glanced at him, her pale blue eyes engaging with the last eerie blue light of early evening. She was magnificent; he’d never seen a woman as beautiful as she. Every man in his regiment would envy him, and when he went into battle he would have this beauty to come back to, to refresh his battered soul.
He gripped her hand again as they travelled the last few yards in silence, in the freezing cold carriage.
A few moments only and they would be safe. Married.
The carriage slowed and pulled up, sliding a little, and Paul braced his hand on the side, holding himself steady. It was a squat, whitewashed building, little bigger than a stable, with a thatched roof. “Stay here,” he said as he let go of her hand, and moved to open the door.
He climbed out onto the road but shut the door, leaving Ellen inside until the arrangements were made. As he walked about the carriage, the blacksmith came out, wiping his hands on a rag. His face and hands were dirt stained, dusted with dark smut, and he wore an old leather apron.
“Ye looking to get y’urself hitched?” The question was bluntly put, implying this man had done the deed a thousand times.
“Yes. Will you bear witness?”
“For a price… What will ye give me?”
What Paul offered first the man rejected. Paul’s uniform marked him as an officer, and the man assumed he’d pay more. But unwilling to throw money away Paul haggled until they reached a price he was prepared to agree.
“Bring your woman,” the blacksmith said as they shook hands, “and let’s get it done.”
After handing over the payment, Paul turned to the carriage. His heart jolted and a tight sensation gripped in his chest. She watched from the open window. He smiled. Her smile rose like sunshine in answer, cutting through the dusk. She was not only beautiful on the outside, but on the inside too; life brimmed inside her, like a brook bubbling and spilling over the top of a pool. A refreshing pool he wished to bathe in. It was like slipping away from the army camp on the edge of war to swim naked in a cold river – exhilarating sensations tumbled through him.
The horses stamped at the ground and shook out their manes, rattling their harness and tack, restless from their hard ride. They whinnied into the cold air as Paul moved to help Ellen from the carriage.
The spare rider, already on the ground, had lowered the step, and now he opened the door for her.
“Wait.” Paul stopped the man with a hand on his shoulder to move him aside, then he lifted that hand to Ellen. “Will you marry me?”
Her smile shone in her eyes. If she’d been unsure when they’d left, she was not anymore. “Oh, yes.”
“Come then. Let me make you my wife.”
She laughed, gripping his fingers and then looking down to watch her step.
The snow crunched underfoot as he walked her to the forge, holding her hand as he might to parade about a ballroom. Of course they had never done that; she was not officially out. He’d snatched her from the nest, as it were.
“Stand here,” the blacksmith called from within. The man had not even washed his hands, or his face. He’d become absorbed in the shadows, cast by the orange glow emanating from the fire of the forge. “There.” He directed them to stand before an anvil, on the opposite side to himself.
Paul changed his grip on Ellen’s hand, weaving his fingers between hers, uniting them before the words were even said.
“Have you a ring then?”
Yes, he had; where were his wits? Letting go of her hand, he took off his gloves, as she removed hers. He took the ring out of the inside pocket of his coat. It was a simple band of gold, nothing special.
A plump woman came into the smithy through a door at the back, and as he and Ellen turned, she smiled. “Another couple come to exchange vows then.” Two young children followed her. A girl who was probably eight or nine, and a boy of about five.
“Aye,” the blacksmith answered in a gruff voice. The children hovered near their mother watching as she came closer.
“Margaret can bear ye witness too.” The blacksmith said, calling Paul’s attention back. “Say y’ur piece and I’ll pronounce ye man and wife.” The cold dispassionate words turned Paul’s stomach. He needed this to feel a little more than something rash and hurried. He wished it to be a moment Ellen would look back on with fondness. He wished to make a memory they could treasure their entire lives.
He faced her, searching for the right words. Words that would profess all he felt, but he had never been a poet. “I love you, Ellen.” Her eyes searched his, the pale blue shining even in the low light of the smithy, and her lips pressed together, slightly curved. His chest filled with a warm sensation. “I promise to protect you. I swear I shall cherish you every day of my life. You may trust me, you may rely on me. I am yours. I wish to give myself to you – my life to you. Will you be my wife? Will you marry me?”
Her lips parted in a smile.
A few strands of hair had fallen about her face, the ebony curls cupped her jaw, caressing her neck. She stole his breath away.
“Yes,” she whispered. But she did not hold her fingers out for him to put the ring on. “I love you, Paul. I wish to be your comfort and your sanctuary. I pledge my life to you. I will be your wife. Will you be my husband? Will you marry me?”
A smile touched his lips. “Yes. I will. Give me your hand.”
She lifted her fingers, holding them out straight. He gripped her palm with one hand and slid the ring on her finger with the other. It stuck a little on her knuckle, but then slid over. A pain, like a sharp blade, pierced his heart as her hand dropped.
He had not expected love and marriage to feel like this.
Forgetting the other occupants of the smithy he gripped her shoulders and pressed a hard kiss on her lips. But then a loud ringing clang, a hammer hitting the iron anvil, broke them apart as Ellen jumped.
“I pronounce ye man and wife, forged together now ye are.” They both looked at the blacksmith, and his lips lifted in a smile of acknowledgement. The deed was done. Her father could not prevent it now. They were married.
“Congratulations,” the blacksmith’s wife said.
“Thank you,” Ellen answered, looking at the woman before glancing back at Paul, and giving him a self-conscious smile, her cheeks turning pink. He loved her like this, a bit tousled and unkempt, and looking young and slightly lacking confidence. To see her perfect beauty a little awry made her appear more human, more touchable.
“I shall fetch ye a piece of parchment to show we witnessed y’ur vows,” the woman said, before turning and hurrying back inside the living space of the forge; it must be no more than one or two rooms.
Ellen’s hand gripped Paul’s and he looked down at her. Her eyes said she truly thought he could master the world if he wished, her trust appeared absolute. She was so innocent. He prayed her faith would be honoured. Please, let all be well.
“Here ye are, Donald, here’s the marriage paper. I’ve signed it.”
The blacksmith took the parchment from the woman’s hand, and then held it out to Paul. “Ye sign it first. Then I’ll put me mark.”
The woman had brought a quill and ink as well as the parchment. Paul took the paper and moved to a wooden table then took the quill and ink from the blacksmith’s wife to sign
his name. The woman’s name had been carefully written in a very precise script; it was probably the sum of her education. Paul handed the quill to Ellen who signed it too, then she passed it onto the blacksmith’s smutty hand, it marked the paper as he scrawled a virtually unrecognisable name. But it did not matter; it was evidence enough to prove they were married within English law.
Paul lifted the paper and blew on the ink, as outside they heard horses. He handed the document to Ellen.
The blacksmith looked at him, a dark eyebrow lifting. “An angry Papa? Or another couple come?”
Paul’s heartbeat stilled for a moment, then pounded. Damn. He’d hoped to save Ellen from any scene with her father. He turned and followed the blacksmith outside only a little behind the man. Ellen walked behind them. An unmarked carriage was indeed racing along the road. Not her father. If it had been her father, the Pembroke coat of arms would be emblazoned on the door. Yet it looked like a private vehicle, it glowed with fresh polish, shining in the last rays of light.
It would be dark in moments.
The postilion rider, who sat astride the right-hand lead horse, began pulling on the reins as the carriage drew closer. Paul took a breath and held it, an uncomfortable feeling running up his spine. Ellen gripped his elbow. She’d put her gloves back on.
Silent, Paul watched the carriage slow as it slid on the snow covered ground.
“They are my father’s men.” Ellen’s grip tightened on his arm.
Paul straightened, feeling the lack of his sword and pistol. Both were in the carriage. Not that Pembroke would fight, Paul was married to Ellen and any thought of annulment would be foolish, it could not be undone; she had been on the road alone with him for days. She was ruined regardless.
Whoever was within waited for one of the men to climb down from the box.
Accustomed to charging into battle, Paul’s arm slipped from Ellen’s grip as he walked forward. He reached the carriage at the moment the man opened the door. Another stepped out. Not Ellen’s father. Though this man had blue eyes very like Ellen’s.
“Harding?”
Paul glanced into the carriage and saw no one else within. The Duke had sent someone for her, not come himself.
“Mr Wareham,” Ellen said.
“Lady Eleanor.” The man’s gaze passed across Paul’s shoulder, to Ellen, his expression stiff. “I have come to prevent this nonsense–”
“You’re too late,” Paul answered.
The man glanced at him, then looked at Ellen. “Am I, Lady Eleanor?”
She nodded, holding out the document on which the ink still dried. “The evidence is here.”
“My journey is wasted then.”
Paul did not answer, neither did Ellen, and for a moment the man just stood there looking at them as if he expected something else.
Then he said, “Very well…” and reached into his inside pocket. “I have this for you. I was to give it to you when I found you, if you were already wed.” He held out a folded letter, the red wax seal on the top had been stamped with the Duke of Pembroke’s mark. Ellen took it.
“I will leave you then.”
“Wait,” Ellen said. “Will you take letters for me, Mr Wareham, if I write them quickly?”
The man had already moved away, but he turned back, glaring at her but agreeing with a nod. “If you wish.”
“I will only be a moment.” Ellen looked at the blacksmith. “May I purchase some paper?”
The man nodded, looking at Paul to complete the deal. Wareham turned away again as Paul walked inside with Ellen and the blacksmith.
It did not take her long to write three separate letters and fold them. The first she wrote to her father as Paul watched, asking for his forgiveness. The second she addressed to her mother asking for understanding. The third was to her sister, Penny, expressing regret over leaving her behind.
The weight of her youth and innocence hovered over his own youth and experience. He remembered writing letters home when he’d joined the regiment. They’d been full of light and hope as hers were. He’d given up writing after he’d been posted abroad. Who at home wished to hear of his desperate need to keep his men fed, and alive, and how many men had been killed in battle, or how far they’d marched? Ellen would lose her naivety when she learned his life and the hope would die from her words.
Selfish fool. But he refused to think of consequence or future now. This was their wedding day, their wedding night, and tomorrow was Christmas, the first day of the twelve days of feasting; a time to count blessings.
“Here, Mr Wareham.” Ellen rushed back out into the road, bearing her letters. Paul could see her willing her family to support her marriage as she handed them over, but he’d seen her father’s face when the man had turned his offer down, as though it was piss he’d offered. Her father would never approve.
The Duke’s man took them, neither smiling nor looking at her, only taking the folded pieces of paper before he turned away, saying no more.
Ellen looked at Paul. She bit her lip. He moved forward, leaving the blacksmith behind. It was night now, darkness had fallen, though the white snow reflected the moonlight. It gave the world an eerie blue glow. “Ellen.” He took both her hands. “Do you regret–”
“No.” The denial came immediately, even before he’d finished the question.
He smiled, ignoring the Duke’s carriage pulling away behind her. “Shall we go to Carlisle and find an inn?”
“Yes.”
He turned towards their carriage, still gripping one of her hands. “Who was he?”
“My father’s steward.”
“Do you think he even tried to get here in time to stop you? He did not seem bothered.”
She glanced up. “He is committed to my father. He’s worked for him for several years–”
“Time is not the thing that makes a man loyal; trust and respect make a man loyal.” Officers died in battle constantly and the men had to look to a new commander.
It did not matter. The man was naught to do with Paul, and he had been too late.
Chapter Five
Ellen’s heart pounded. A part of it was heavy with sadness because they’d married without her family there. But it had been beautiful and Paul’s vows had sent joy overflowing in her heart, pushing her guilt and fear aside.
Becoming Paul’s wife outweighed the scales. She loved him. She did not regret it.
Paul had left the carriage curtains open and the lamp unlit again; so she opened her father’s letter and held it to the moonlight which reflected back off the snow, resting her shoulder against the edge of the carriage and holding the paper near the window. There were just two lines of his precise, formal script.
Eleanor
You have made your decision and by doing so, made me look a fool. Do not expect a welcome back. You are no longer permitted here.
The Duke of Pembroke
His words hurt. He had not even signed it your father.
They’d been brought up by her mother to call him Papa; he’d not once used the childish name himself. Father, he would concede, but he never said it with emotion.
“What does it say?”
Ellen looked at Paul. “That he wishes nothing more to do with me. I think it would have been the same even if Mr Wareham had arrived before we wed.”
“Then why send him?”
“Perhaps just to look as though he tried to stop me; for appearance sake…” She shrugged. She’d never understood her father. She’d have to be much wiser to fathom his depths.
Paul smiled. “Put him from your mind. You have no need to worry over him now.”
She was not worrying over him but she was concerned about her sisters and her mother.
Paul gripped her hand and lifted it to his lips. The warmth of his breath seeped through her glove. Then he turned her hand and kissed her wrist above it. Sensation skimmed up her arm. “Do not fret about your sisters either. They have time to mature, and I am certain, your eldest, Penny,
is tough enough to fight her own battles. She did not seem demurring when I met her.”
Ellen smiled, although moisture filled her eyes. Then she laughed, just a sudden sharp sound. “No, she is not demure, she will stand against him if he tries to force her hand, and she will use my disobedience as her example.”
“And the others will learn from her … ”
“Yes.”
Paul had such an aura of confidence; it filled the air around him.
“Very well then. No more sulking.”
Her smile lifted. “No.”
“And no more tears,” he added, wiping one away from the corner of her eye with his thumb.
Her next laugh was a little chocked, and then foolishly she burst into tears. But she was happy too; they were part happy tears. He pulled her close and held her, as the carriage rolled on.
Another hour or more passed before they reached Carlisle and the snowy frost bound mud roads, turned to cobble. The noise about the carriage changed as it rolled through streets, and the strike of the horses hooves, tack and carriage wheels bounced back from brick houses.
When they turned into an inn, Paul pulled away from her and gave her a smile. It burned with compassion. “I know you’ve left a lot behind, Ellen, but now is the time to begin our new life.”
“I know.” She was his wife and she was about to become his wife in full. A pleasant ache gripped low in her stomach. She took a breath and her breasts pressed against her bodice.
The carriage halted and all outside was noise. Within, her nerves rioted in anticipation.
“Come.” He leaned across her to open the carriage door, then climbed out before her and lifted his hand, as he’d done so many times during their journey to the border. She stepped out, her head spinning.
“Do you wish to eat in a parlour or in our room?”
“In our room.”
“Well then we had better claim one.”
“Yes.”
He walked her across the courtyard. It had been cleared of snow. Grooms moved to help free the horses.
Her heart raced. She was not hungry. Her stomach had tied in knots.