“You are certain?” he asked.
She smiled up at her brother, unsurprised that he should still be fretting, even after their earlier talk at the house that now belonged to him and his wife alone.
“I am,” she said, giving his arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. There was no tremor in her voice. That, in itself, astonished her—and judging by the look in Thomas’s eyes, it astonished him as well.
They moved forward together, step by step.
Behind them, a small collection of household figures followed at a respectful distance. Catherine had requested the presence of several senior servants. As a formerly untitled lady and the future lady of their household, she felt that their attendance mattered. A household did not serve only a title; it gave its loyalty to people. If she were to claim her place here, they must see her not as a temporary fixture, but as their mistress in earnest.
The chapel stood beyond the west lawn, its stone façade half-hidden by a stand of lindens. Weather had softened its edges, and ivy grew thick across the roofline, but the bones of the building remained strong. The Penwood line had maintained the structure for generations, each earl preserving the small sanctuary that held the family’s most intimate ceremonies.
As Catherine approached, she caught sight of Marcus through the open doorway. He stood near the altar, straight-backed and motionless. His dark coat fit him with military precision, and a white rose fastened at his lapel drew the eye. If she did not know better, she would think him a veteran of the war instead of an accomplished—albeit distracted—scholar. Beside him stood Alexander Sinclair, relaxed yet dignified, his posture that of a man who took his responsibilities seriously.
At the first step into the chapel proper, Thomas paused. Catherine adjusted her hold upon his arm as they proceeded inside. The space was smaller than she had imagined—more intimate than imposing. Carved pews of dark wood lined the narrow aisle; sunlight filtered through the arched windows to fall gently across the pale stone floor; candles glimmered uponthe altar, their flames unwavering in the still air. Along the walls, marble memorials bore the names of Penwood ancestors, their dates stretching back through the centuries—a quiet lineage inscribed in stone.
Mrs Thornberry sat in the front pew, her spine stiff with propriety but her eyes kind. Behind her were footmen, housekeepers, and an older man who appeared to be the steward. All wore expressions of quiet pride. Their presence was not ceremonial. It was personal. Catherine understood the weight of that approval.
Her gaze returned to Marcus.
He met her eyes, and something within his countenance altered. His shoulders eased; the furrow between his brows smoothed away. His gaze remained steady, yet no longer with the air of a man steeling himself to duty. Instead, he regarded her as though he perceived more than he had anticipated.
Not merely the arrangement. Not solely the practicality. He looked at her as though he truly saw her—and as though he approved.
A warmth rose to her cheeks. She had dressed with care, knowing this day would be remembered long after its modest ceremony had passed. Yet she had not expected admiration. And admiration was precisely what she discovered in Marcus’s eyes.
He is looking at me as if I am beautiful, not merely an obligation,she thought as she raised her chin.
A moment later, she and her brother reached the altar. With the faintest pressure, Thomas released her hand and stepped aside. Catherine turned forward. Marcus extended his arm; she set her hand lightly upon his sleeve, and for an instant they stood motionless, suspended in silence. Then the clergyman cleared his throat and turned the worn pages of his book, and the ceremony began.
The vicar—a stooped figure with silver hair and a face lined by years—stepped to the altar. His clerical gown lent him the dignity of long custom, and when he spoke, his voice carried a quiet authority that filled the small chapel.
“Dearly beloved,” he said with a voice larger than his frame suggested. “We are gathered here to witness the joining of this man and this woman in holy matrimony—an estate long honoured, to be entered into with reverence, discretion, and resolve.”
His eyes passed from Marcus to Catherine, leaving an instant of silence before he continued.
“It is a union not to be undertaken lightly, but soberly and with due consideration. Into this estate these two persons now come to be joined. If any present can show just cause why they may not lawfully be united, let them speak, or else hereafter forever hold their peace.”
Silence followed. Not a whisper stirred the air. Catherine pondered then the vows she and Marcus were about to make—not born of love, yet still binding. With the ancient stone surrounding them and the vicar’s voice rising toward the rafters, the moment bore a weight she had not fully prepared herself to meet.
The vicar looked to Marcus.
“Marcus William Pemberton,” he said. “Will you have this woman to be your wedded wife, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, so long as you both shall live?”
Marcus looked at Catherine with an intensity that surprised her.
“I will,” he said. His voice was firm, though she noted the faint tremor in his hands. The declaration did not sound like duty alone. When he turned fully toward her, his eyes held steady.
The vicar then turned to her.
“Catherine Margaret Beaumont,” he said. “Will you have this man to be your wedded husband, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony? Will you care for him, respect him, love and keep him, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, so long as you both shall live?”
She nodded firmly, though her hands trembled as his had.
“I will,” she said. Her words sounded smaller than intended, but her voice did not waver. She drew in a breath and lifted her chin. This choice had been hers. No one had forced her to accept Marcus’s proposal. She had seen the offer as a chance at independence, respect, and usefulness.
“Repeat after me,” the vicar said. “I, Marcus, take thee, Catherine, to be my wedded wife. To have and to hold fromthis day forward—for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health—to love and to cherish, for as long as we both shall live. And to this I give you my troth.”
Marcus repeated the vow word for word, his voice clearer now, steadier. Each phrase left his lips with care, as though he meant every one.
