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“Him,” Jacob said. “Why am I sick, why am I ruined, but on account of Master Toby Coppy—and that squeaking sister of his—Betty or Biddy or—”
“Bridget,” Squirrel said.
“Her—prating and squawking, and bringing the quality to stick their noses in. But it’s all down to Raven, isn’t it? And he’s going to have sashes and velvet robes and crowns and such and rub elbows with princes and princesses? Ha!”
Freame smiled now, a smile that made his boys tremble and enemies reach for their weapons or run away.
“Oh, he’ll have a crown all right,” Freame said. “And I’ll crown him myself.”
Squirrel and Husher looked at each other and smiled, too.
Chapter Fourteen
Let it be observed, that those who write in defence of marriage, usually give such sublime and exalted descriptions, as are not realized in one case of a thousand; and therefore cannot be a just motive to a considerate man.
—John Witherspoon, Letters on Marriage, 1834
Ithaca House, Richmond
20 November 1835
Two princesses, two royal dukes and their wives, four members of the ministry and their wives, three slightly French more or less former dressmakers and their spouses: duke, marquess, and earl, in order of precedence. These, Radford’s groomsman Westcott, and what seemed to be thousands of Fairfaxes filled the drawing room of Ithaca House.
While Radford knew each and every name, and could if required have recited them a week or a year hence, at the moment they were no more than a sea of hazy faces amid blobs of color.
He couldn’t blame the fog on the previous night’s extended celebration with the aforesaid duke, marquess, and earl. He’d begun the celebrating already weary, after weeks of working long hours to keep up with his professional responsibilities and Bernard’s stream of pestering letters. Thanks to the duke, marquess, and earl’s notions of a proper bachelor’s party, Radford had enjoyed about two hours’ sleep. He decided that they, like so many others, had been trying to kill him, or at least make sure he didn’t make it to the wedding.
The haze had nothing to do with any of this.
It was what he saw at the entrance to the drawing room.
Clara.
His bride—his bride—on her father’s arm.
A bride so beautiful, Radford’s inner self wept. And maybe a mist managed to escape from that secret inner chamber, to make his vision somewhat watery for a moment. But he blinked, and the mist cleared, and there she was, radiantly beautiful, a sun goddess shedding golden light upon the mundane world beneath.
His mind was falling into the hands of his troublesome self, and descending into poetry, but he couldn’t help it.
In a very short time, she would be his, by law.
His in a deeply personal, intimate sense, too.
He mustn’t think about that. Yet. Wits and sobriety were needed at present.
He made himself regard her bridal attire as though it were legal evidence.
The dressmakers had created a fantastical iced-cake madness of Brussels point lace and silk embroidery dotted with pearls. A bouquet of lace rose from the braided knot atop her head. Strands of pearls wrapped about the knot and draped her forehead. A pair of lace lappets flowed from the crown down to the richly embroidered lace flounce of her skirt. Rosettes dotted the flounce and marked her puffy sleeves’ gathering, above her elbows, where another mile of lace dripped down past the upper edges of her gloves. A lace- and embroidery-adorned sash with long, flowing ends circled her waist. Another rosette rested cunningly between the folds at the neckline of a very snug bodice, drawing the eye to the lace edging, thence to satin skin and the pearl necklace encircling her smooth throat.
He wished he’d had more sleep. He’d need all his ingenuity to get all that—and everything underneath—off her in less than a day.
He wanted to lick every inch of that satiny skin.
But he could not let himself think about that. The wedding night was hours from now—blast these tribal rituals!
He of all men had to get through the rites in a rational manner. All the world would be waiting for him to do something inexcusably obnoxious. Someone was sure to object when the minister offered the opportunity, and Radford would have to defend himself as well as prosecute the objectors swiftly and irrevocably.
It felt like eons, yet only a moment passed before she was standing beside him.
Then his mouth spread into a grin. He couldn’t help it. After all the storms and drama and despair and fear, she was to be his at last.
She shot him a quick glance, and a quick smile, barely enough to offer a glimpse of the chi
pped tooth. But then she seemed to remember where they were and why, because her smile faded and she became solemn.
He became solemn, too, as it struck him, finally, the immensity of what they were about to do. What this remarkable girl was about to do.
Tie her life to his.
Forever.
“Still time to run,” he murmured.
She looked at him then in patent disbelief. “In this dress?”
The minister cleared his throat.
They both turned toward him, Radford with pounding heart.
“Dearly beloved,” the minister began.
That evening
Clara was going to kill the bridegroom.
Admittedly her wedding dress was not the sort of thing one simply threw on and threw off again. Its numerous attachments and fastenings would have sent the bridegroom directly to an insane asylum.
Still, it was a miracle of a wedding dress. Even Sophy’s lavish prose in the Special Bridal Edition of Foxe’s Morning Spectacle couldn’t do it justice.
Radford had looked a little misty-eyed when he first saw Clara in her wedding ensemble.
Or maybe those were tears of laughter.
In any case, it was no small challenge to get out of, and she’d had to retire with Davis into the dressing room.
The process couldn’t have taken an hour, if that, and Clara had spent the time in a tumult of anxiety and anticipation.
Last night, Mama had sharpened Clara’s vague notions of what went on during the wedding night—but not by much, Lady Warford being slightly embarrassed and greatly tearful.
And so, trembling a little, Clara had entered the shadowy, candlelit bedroom.
And found the bridegroom sprawled on the bed, sound asleep, and still wearing most of the clothes he’d worn to his wedding.
Even her brother Harry, who didn’t care much what he looked like, had a valet.
Radford didn’t. Still, men’s clothing wasn’t a fraction as complicated as women’s, though the best coats, tailored to fit like skin, weren’t easy to remove without assistance.
