Worse, he thought, was not difficult to imagine. And yet imagining worse did very little to make the present feel ordinary.
He drew in a slow breath.
Philip leaned slightly toward him and said under his breath. “Well, wherever you thought to be, it is too late now.”
Andrew did not answer. He had no leisure for speech now in any case, for Lord Keswick had begun the walk down the aisle with his daughter upon his arm.
He first saw only the motion of white against the shadowed stone of the little church, then the whole of her came gradually into view, and with it a sensation so abrupt and unreasonable that he disliked himself for feeling it.
Miss Norton—Frances, he corrected inwardly, with a curious resistance—had dressed for the occasion with a simplicity more dangerous than splendor. Her gown was elegant, of soft ivory silk that caught the pale light from the windows and returned it with quiet grace. No ostentation had been attempted, and no triumph was declared. Yet the very restraint of it made her more striking. The veil, light as breath, did not conceal the calm delicacy of her features, nor the fine, serious line of her mouth.
She looked beautiful… and distant.That, more than anything, restored him.
For the space of a heartbeat, he had seen only the woman advancing toward him, all luminous stillness and pale satin. Then, he saw the truth of her expression, and it was enough to steady any wandering thought. There was no tenderness there, no expectation, and no shy hope with which a bride might approach the man she had chosen. All he could see was composure, resolution and a certain proud remoteness worn, perhaps, in place of fear.
It is an arrangement, he reminded himself.Nothing more.
Still, as she drew nearer, the church seemed to contract around the measured sound of their steps. He became absurdly conscious of everything at once: the faint chill lingering in the stone despite the season, the smell of beeswax and old prayer books, the low crackle of a candle near the altar and the far sweetness of lilies somebody had placed with mistaken optimism before the communion rail.
Lord Keswick’s face was set in all the solemn satisfaction of a man who believed a difficulty well solved. Andrew met it with proper gravity and no warmth at all.
“Do take care of my little girl,” Lord Keswick grinned with a warmth he was seemingly trying to convey but didn’t know how.
“Of course,” Andrew nodded.
Then, Keswick placed Frances’ hand in his. Her glove was pale against his own. Her fingers, when they settled upon his arm, were light, yet warm through the kid leather.
That warmth disturbed him more than it ought.
He guided her into place beside him and the words just slipped out.
“You… look lovely,” he whispered, immediately regretting them.
She turned to him, looking startled. She offered a brief, utterly polite smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
It was not the response he expected. Then again, nothing about this was what he, orshefor that matter, expected.
The clergyman began. The familiar words, spoken in that quiet church and in that measured clerical tone, possessed an authority which no private arrangement, however practical, could altogether resist. Andrew had entered the place intending to think of the thing as an obligation only, a contract made necessary by circumstance and undertaken with clear eyes.
Yet the solemnity of the service would not be managed so easily. The vows did not lessen because the sentiments behind them were uncertain. The promises did not grow lighter because they had been made in haste.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony…”
He did not look at her often. Indeed, he thought it wise not to. Once, however, as she spoke her part, his gaze shifted despite himself. Her face remained composed, but her lashes rested lower than usual, as though she would not trust herself to meet his eyes while pronouncing words so irreversible.
There was no tremor in her voice. If she suffered, she hid it better than many a soldier he had known.
Then came the question, which was as ancient as it was unavoidable.
“I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if any of you know any impediment why these two may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, confess it now.”
The silence that followed was brief, proper and complete. It made the service proceed. The ring was placed. The prayers were concluded. The final blessing fell over them with all the inevitability of a door shutting, while the clergyman’s hands rose upward.
“Those whom God had joined together let no man put asunder.”
It was done.
A strange stillness followed, and then, the clergyman, with mild satisfaction, closed the book. “May God bless you both, and may He grant you grace to fulfil faithfully the vows you have made this day.”
