Oscar’s expression, as she approached, did not change. He wore the blue coat, a white cravat, and an air of frozen certainty. His eyes found her, then held, locked, and impossible to shake.
They met in the middle, turned to face the vicar, and the words began.
Nancy’s mind registered only fragments: names, vows, the interminable invocation of honor and duty. She nodded at the right places, repeated the right phrases. It was all so quick and so mechanical, she hardly noticed when her voice finally emerged from the fog.
“I, Nancy Loretta Gallagher, do take thee—” and her voice trembled, the quaver so slight only someone listening for it would notice. She caught herself. Inhaled. Began again.
“I do take thee, Oscar Benjamin Rowson, to be my—” the word stuck for a second “—husband.”
Oscar’s gaze darted to hers. For a split second, she saw something—encouragement? amusement?—and then it was gone, replaced by his usual reserve.
He answered with his own vow, uninflected and steady. Then the register was signed. The vicar pronounced them husband and wife, and it was done. The applause was scattered, but in the front row, Clara clapped loud enough for a crowd.
Oscar leaned in, as if to whisper some perfunctory congratulations, but stopped himself, offering only the faintest smile, which appeared neither charmed nor mocking.
Nancy matched it, thinking: So this is the rest of my life.
The next hour blurred—a parade of well-wishers, friends, relatives, and, at one point, an ancient great-aunt who declaredherself “delighted to finally see a wedding with so little fuss.” Nancy agreed.
At the wedding breakfast, the women’s group descended with full force, dragging Nancy to the table’s head and peppering her with toast after toast.
“To the future!” Hester crowed.
“To the children,” added Fiona, blinking away tears.
“To surviving marriage with all faculties intact,” said Lavinia, raising her glass.
Nancy, who had not touched her own wine, lifted it anyway. “To all of the above.”
Fiona wiped her eyes with a napkin. “Forgive me. I am far too sentimental these days. It’s the baby.”
Nancy stopped, brows lifting. “You’re expecting again?”
Fiona laughed sheepishly. “I swear, it is all Isaac’s fault. If I so much as look at the man, I am with child.”
Hester howled. “You did the very same thing at my wedding, Fiona. Cried through the whole thing, then blamed it on the baby. What will you do when you’re finished with childbearing? Blame the weather?”
Fiona dabbed her eyes. “I will cross that bridge when I come to it.”
Lavinia said, “I am not pregnant, but I seem to be crying anyway. What’s my excuse?”
Hester patted her hand. “You are simply moved by the beauty of the occasion, dear. Or by Nancy’s dress. I would weep for it myself if I did not have a reputation to maintain.”
Nancy smothered a laugh. She looked to the end of the table and saw her parents watching, Moira’s eyes shining, her father’s jaw clenched to suppress an emotion. Nancy gave them a small wave.
Moira rose, crossing the room in swift, determined steps, and caught Nancy in a hug. “If ever you need us, write.”
“I will,” Nancy promised. “But I have a suspicion you’ll visit whether I ask or not.”
Moira grinned, “Count on it.” She kissed Nancy’s cheek and retreated, leaving Nancy with a sense of having passed a final test.
The guests departed in a flurry of handshakes and hats. In the foyer, Clara and Henry appeared once more, Henry clutching the train of Nancy’s dress and Clara beaming up at her with expectant joy.
Oscar materialized beside her. “May I have a word, Duchess?”
Clara, indignant, wedged herself between them. “She is ours now,” she declared. “You can’t take her away.”
Nancy looked at Oscar, daring him to argue with a five-year-old.
