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It’s so clear now—as it ought to have been before—that I could never make you happy. Though I wish I had realized this before I caused you distress, it cheers me to know I have spared you, though you may not appreciate that at present. And knowing I’ve done you a favor gives me the courage—or perhaps the better word is audacity—to ask you to do me the very great kindness of giving Ripley and me your blessing. He is your friend, still, and he loves you dearly, I know. Please do not let my poor judgment destroy an old and true friendship.
With best wishes for your happiness,
Believe me yours,
Very sincerely,
Olympia
“Blessing,” he muttered. “Wants my blessing. She’s got bigger bollocks than any of ’em. Dammit, Olympia, I can’t.”
Blackwood stormed into the room. “Have you taken leave of your senses at last? You can’t truly propose to fight Ripley. The lady doesn’t want you. Leave it at that and don’t be a bloody fool.”
“Who let you in?”
“Am I barred? Have you added me to the traitors list, too?”
Ashmont drank. “Leave me alone. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“I’m your friend, you jackass.”
“Not friend enough to second me.”
“Instead you chose that blackguard Morris? I saw him as he left the house, and he told me.”
The Earl of Bartham’s son had jumped at the chance to act as Ashmont’s second, no doubt hoping to replace Ripley in Ashmont’s affections, such as they were.
“He’s done good work,” Ashmont said. “Four letters exchanged and everything settled.” He folded up Olympia’s letter. “Dawn tomorrow. Putney Heath.”
“You hope to make her a widow the day after the wedding? Do you think she’ll fancy you after that? What is wrong with you?”
“They’ll never stop laughing at me if I don’t.” Ashmont refilled his glass. “They’ll be telling the story for years. I won’t be a joke.” He drank.
“Why do you care, suddenly, what anybody thinks or says about you?”
“This is different. Between Ripley and me. I trusted him. Completely. He made a fool of me. Lied to me. ‘Come and get her,’ he wrote. Next thing I know, he’s back in London, planning a wedding. His.”
“You never gave him a chance to explain.”
“Ripley doesn’t explain.”
Blackwood shook his head. “Why did I come? Why did I think I could reason with you?”
“Because you’re afraid of your wife?”
A dangerous silence ensued.
Then Blackwood laughed. “I see. You want to fight me, too. You want to fight everybody. Sorry I can’t oblige. I’ve a wedding to attend. At seven o’clock. St. George’s, Hanover Square. For some reason, Ripley wanted to be married in church.”
He threw a note onto Ashmont’s dressing table. “Your invitation. That’s what I came for, hoping to find you less of an ass. I know it’s little use, but I’ll say it anyway: If you’ve a grain of sense left, you’ll attend. You’ll laugh and treat it like a joke and you’ll wish them well.”
He went out.
Ashmont crumpled the invitation without opening it, and threw it into the empty grate.
The gossip columns of the afternoon papers reported a fight between the Dukes of Ashmont and Ripley in St. James’s Street. None of the witnesses having ventured near enough soon enough, little of the exchange of words could be recounted, though everybody understood the cause to be His Grace of R’s disappearing from Newland House with His Grace of A’s bride on the wedding day.
However, since Their Dis-Graces had been known to resort to fisticuffs before when competing for women, and since the three dukes had left Crockford’s in a friendly mood, most people assumed His Grace of A, being in his cups as usual, had simply taken offense at something His Grace of R had said once they were out of the club. This, at any rate, was what Blackwood had told some of the bystanders.
If any gentlemen suspected that the moment of fisticuffs had not settled matters, they were unlikely to make public statements to that effect.
Duels being illegal, they were kept strictly quiet. Otherwise the police would get wind of them and turn up to spoil everything.
In any case, the world believed even Ashmont wasn’t hotheaded enough to pursue the matter in a fight to the death with his best friend.
Ripley let them believe it. He almost let himself believe it as he went about obtaining a special license and deciding what to wear to his wedding.
It was a quiet affair.
The group attending was a great deal smaller than the one at Lady Olympia’s first wedding attempt. This time the observers comprised mainly the Newlands and Gonerbys, their offspring, and a small assortment of other relatives.
For his own side, Ripley had a very small representation.
On the way to London yesterday, he’d sent a message to Aunt Julia. But that was simply to inform her. He didn’t expect her to race to London for his wedding. He’d written to Alice as well, for the same reason. He knew she couldn’t possibly arrive in time.
Blackwood was here, though. To Ripley’s surprise, he’d offered to stand up with him.
“Imagine what Alice would say if I didn’t,” Blackwood had said.
“Women don’t understand these things,” Ripley had said. “Men and honor.”
“I don’t think Ashmont understands, actually,” Blackwood said. “Think I do, though.”
Ripley made do with that cryptic remark. He hadn’t time or inclination to think too deeply about Blackwood’s ideas of women, marriage, or whatever it was. He was glad to have his friend at his side.
The only possible fly in the ointment was the chance of Lord Frederick Beckingham’s turning up—say, about the time the minister was saying, “If any man can show just cause why they might not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak.” In that case, the odds were good His Lordship would not “hereafter forever hold his peace.”
But the ceremony got under way, and if Uncle Fred had secreted himself somewhere in the church, he did not suddenly appear like an avenging angel. Not that this was his style. His style was indirect and wily, i.e., the opposite of his nephew’s.
And so the minister passed that dangerous area, and went on to the Wilt thou part.
Ripley looked into his bride’s radiant face and said, “I will.”
At that moment, all the troubles of recent days, recent hours, went away, and the world stilled. For the first time since he’d begun his journey with her, he felt at peace. It was as though he’d run a long and desperate race and won.
Everything seemed so clear and inevitable and right as he took her hand and recited his vows. And when she took his hand and recited hers.
And when at last Ripley put the ring on her finger, something shifted in his mind. It shifted the world, as well.
He was a hard, reckless man whom harsh experience had taught to scorn sentiment. All the same, his heart swelled. With feelings. Too many, and too unexpected to name. Whatever they were, they were too strong to withstand. Moisture gathered in his eyes. He met her gaze—so blue now behind her spectacles—and saw tears there as well, quickly blinked away before she smiled up at him and filled the church with sunshine.
He loved her. It was as simple as that. It was as immense as that.
The rest of the ceremony was a haze of bewildering happiness. The others were background. They might have been paintings or trees or clouds. He saw her, and that was all he really saw: the daring girl who’d led him a wild chase . . . the girl he’d raced with in his invalid chair . . . the girl he’d wheeled after through the park of Camberley Place . . . and made love to, madly and stupidly, in his favorite place in the world.
She’d lead him a merry dance, and he’d like it.
Ripley had thought it was Ashmont who’d like it, that she was perfect for Ashmont.
So blind. It was Ripley who liked it, couldn’t resist it, couldn’t resist her, this
spirited, passionate, loving girl who was his now. For always.
For as long as we both shall live.
But he was too happy to dwell on that thought.
He had now, basking in the sunlight of Olympia’s smile.
He had now, enjoying the mixture of joy and confusion in the onlookers’ faces.
All the same, as they were leaving the church, he did glance about him at the small group of attendees. He looked up into the gallery, too.
Ashmont wasn’t here.
Later that night
Ripley House’s library was nothing like the long canyon of books at Camberley Place. It wasn’t like the elaborate, two-story library that Olympia’s father pillaged from time to time.
But it was more beautiful than either, she thought. It told her the man who built it hadn’t done it for show or simply to house his vast collection. A man who truly loved reading had created a temple to literature. It was a haven, too, as a temple ought to be.
More furniture crowded this room than the library at Camberley Place. Comfortable furniture, meant for the sort of person who wanted to be lost in a book for hours on end. And though it wasn’t a hundred feet long, it supplied volumes enough to be lost in for a lifetime. Bookcases covered the walls up to the top of the doors. Above the bookcases ranged stucco-framed portraits of English literature’s greatest men.
