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was of presenting a reviving supper or a hearty breakfast. As Giles had dismissed the footmen again and they were alone she asked, ‘Should I ask to see Cook and the rest of the staff? I am not quite sure what my position is—this is your father’s house and I would not like to give offence by seeming to assume responsibilities that are not mine.’ Giles’s mother had given birth to a daughter who had died within a few days, Lady Thorncote with her. It had been many years ago, when Giles had been about five, she supposed, and Thorne Hall had its housekeeper, of course, the supremely competent Mrs Finlay. Here things had obviously run very smoothly with the cook and butler in command.
‘I would be glad if you would.’ Giles passed a plate of boiled ham. ‘I certainly do not want to be approving menus and as for the contents of the linen cupboard—I surrender them entirely to your capable hands. Wait until a day or two after the wedding and then talk to Cook and Downing and arrange things between you.’
That all sounded reassuringly unfussy. Everything seemed to be going so smoothly and yet Laurel felt uneasy, on edge. It could be pre-marriage nerves, she supposed. Stepmama had delivered another awkward and confusing little lecture about One’s Marital Duties, which had nearly reduced Laurel to unseemly giggles. If she had been completely innocent she would have been both alarmed and perplexed by the murmured phrases and rather alarming imagery, but as it was she was looking forward to the experience with only a few qualms, so it could not be that affecting her mood.
‘Giles.’ She spoke so abruptly that he put down the forkful of ham that had been halfway to his mouth.
‘Laurel?’
‘You are quite, quite certain that you want to marry me, aren’t you? Because it is not too late to change your mind. No one except Stepmama and your father and the servants know I am here.’
‘Of course I want to marry you. I want nothing more than to marry you.’ He spoke without hesitation. ‘Is something wrong? Are you changing your mind?’
‘No. Not at all. It is simply that I cannot quite understand why you want to marry me.’
Chapter Sixteen
Giles looked at her directly, his eyes very blue, that blazing blue she had learned to associate with extremes of emotion when he was young. ‘Believe me, Laurel, it is the sum total of my ambition to marry you and only you. I will do my utmost to make you a good husband, I swear it.’
It shook her, the intensity of that declaration. There was almost something desperate about it. Was his conscience troubling him because of their long-ago misunderstanding? Was he afraid that she had recoiled from marriage as a result and he was now on a mission to save her from spinsterhood?
‘I believe you,’ Laurel said, as serious as he. ‘I will try to stop fretting—I suppose it is having my life turned so comprehensively upside down that is making me unsettled.’
* * *
After luncheon Giles retired into the study, pleading a mountain of paperwork and correspondence and no secretary to assist him. Laurel set her foot on the bottom step to climb the stairs to her room and see how Binham was getting on with the newly delivered purchases and her outfit for the wedding.
‘My lady?’ Downing appeared from the baize door at the back of the hallway. ‘Peter has returned from our neighbours’ house.’
‘Has he discovered who they are?’
‘A noble Portuguese family apparently. The English maid Peter was talking to was a little confused by their foreignness and certainly has taken against their own servants, which I suppose is inevitable. The head of the household is supporting the Portuguese Minister Plenipotentiary in some matters of trade negotiations, it seems.’
‘The duty on port, I suppose,’ Laurel mused. It was a coincidence that no sooner had Giles returned to London from Portugal than natives of the country had set up home virtually next door, but with the war over at last it must be inevitable that matters of trade would need discussing and Portugal was, she recalled, England’s oldest ally. ‘Thank you, Downing. The young lady must simply be very short-tempered and resented us blocking her path.’
She must remember to tell Giles about this. He might enjoy having someone to reminisce with about life in Lisbon.
* * *
‘The sun is shining. Shall we walk to our wedding?’ Giles, who had breakfasted in his rooms, met Laurel in the hallway at half past nine. ‘It is only a short distance to the church and I must say I would enjoy showing off my lady looking so beautiful. That is a delicious bonnet, but the face beneath it is even more so.’
‘You are a flatterer, sir.’ But she allowed him to kiss her hand and then her cheek. ‘And you are looking very fine yourself.’ Dryden had trimmed Giles’s hair and he was turned out in biscuit-coloured pantaloons, glossy Hessian boots, immaculate white linen, a dark claret waistcoat subtly embroidered with gold and all set off with a swallowtail coat in midnight-blue superfine. His buttonhole sported a rosebud the exact colour of her own gown, doubtless the result of consultations between Binham and Dryden. ‘I would like to walk very much.’
Giles clapped a tall hat on his head, pulled on his gloves and took a leather portfolio from Downing. ‘The licence itself. Shall we go?’
St James’s Square was still quiet as they crossed Charles Street, turned along the northern edge and then turned right up York Street. The church was immediately before them at the top of the short slope, sitting at the junction with Jermyn Street. Beyond its grey stone walls would be the bustle of Piccadilly, but all was tranquil here, except for deliveries and shop staff sweeping front steps.
A flower seller was setting up her stall just before the entrance to the church, a small boy at her side struggling to fit bunches of foliage into buckets of water. ‘I knew I had forgotten something.’ Giles stopped and consulted the woman.
They waited while she made up a neat nosegay of pink roses, ferns and a frothy white flower that was new to Laurel. She tied it with trailing white ribbons, obviously used to making up bouquets for brides, and handed it to Laurel with a beaming smile. ‘Blessings on you, ma’am, and your handsome gentleman!’
Giles paid and Laurel took his arm again as they mounted the few steps into the wide stone corridor that ran along the west end of the church, linking the Jermyn Street and Piccadilly entrances. The cool and quiet of the interior, the familiar church smell of damp and snuffed candles and dust that she had always thought of as the odour of sanctity, transported her from the outside world and into the reality of what she was about to do.
I am marrying Giles. After all these years, after so much pain. I will make this work, we will be happy and he will never regret marrying me, she vowed as Giles pushed open the doors into the nave and they walked side by side down the aisle to the waiting vicar.
The service ran its course, the words so familiar from the many weddings she had attended and her study of her prayer book the night before. Then the vicar asked, ‘Who gives this woman to be married to this man?’
Silence. Neither of them had thought of that, she realised. ‘I do,’ Laurel said. ‘I give myself.’ Beside her she heard Giles expel a long breath—relief, or shock at her presumption? Then she saw he was smiling and that so was the vicar. It was a good omen, she thought fleetingly before her attention was drawn back into the exchange of vows.
