He read it again, this time more slowly. Then he saw it. Or rather, he did not see it.
He shot to his feet. “Dear sweet angels on high. He forgot to writeper procurationem.”
He scanned the text a third time.
There it was:
This serves to record that The Honourable Sebastian George Fane of the Parish of Westwood and Lady Viola Leigh of the Parish of St Cuthbert were joined in Holy Matrimony on this 28th day of November in the Year of Our Lord 1809, at Westwood Hall, in the County of Derbyshire.
By Special License.
Solemnised by: Athanasius C. Whitmore, Archbishop of York
This marriage was solemnised between us: Her signature. His signature.
Scribbled underneath were Rawlinson’s and Hawkins’ signatures.
But there was no mention whatsoever that he had stood in proxy.
“It cannot be legal,” he said, while knowing perfectly well that it was. He rubbed his neck. “Surely Uncle Atti must have said during the ceremony at one point I was standing in proxy for George.” He himself couldn’t recall it. His mind had been entirely elsewhere at that moment.
“Erm. He did not, sir.” Rawlinson swallowed. “I recall distinctly that he read your full legal name, not Mr George Fane’s. I was at a loss whether or not I ought to interrupt. Since none of you reacted, I assumed all was in good order and that His Grace would mention the proxy part at the very end. I signed the document believing that was how it was meant to be and that everything was in proper form. Hawkins says the same.”
Sebastian sank into his chair.
He knew enough law to understand the full implications.
He was truly married.
To her.
Because everything had been so chaotic, with Nana dying at that very moment, Uncle Atti had forgotten to mention that he stood in proxy. And he himself, who really should have known better, had been too distraught and caught up in the moment’s chaos to notice anything amiss.
He left the room and strode, no, ran down the corridor, sliding on the polished wood, nearly falling, regained his balance and then crashed into the library, where she was reclined on the sofa, reading a book. Her legs were drawn up to her chin, andher naked toes peeked out from under the blanket, which was draped over her knees.
She looked up, startled.
“I beg your pardon,” he stammered, pulling both shaking hands through his hair.
A small smile flitted across her face. “It is rare to see you out of countenance. Whatever is the matter?”
“We appear to have a rather grave problem.”
She sat up and tilted her head sideways.
He handed her a copy of the registry.
Her eyes flitted over the paper. “We signed this.”
“Yes.” His voice was hoarse.
She rubbed her nose. “I don’t understand. Uncle Atti was there when we signed it.”
He briefly closed his eyes. “Yes. That appears to be the problem. That everything was conducted in his presence, the Archbishop of York, signed by him and by two other witnesses. It’s incontestable.”
She tilted her head the other way. “So what is the prob—” She drew in a sharp breath as realisation hit.
“The problem,” he said heavily, “is the omission ofper procurationem. George’s name is missing.”
