Chapter 24
After a short and bewildering consultation in the graveyard, Willa returned inside, her heart pounding in her breast. The church’s interior was, as so many village churches are, ancient and minuscule.
Willa counted only a handful of wooden pews on each side of the aisle that ran up the center of the nave.
These were entirely empty, as the wedding party had gathered nearer the altar, which was situated behind an elaborate chancel arch.
Willa’s eyes lifted to take in the faded frescoes that had been painted there centuries ago: angels and saints, books and keys, a sallow-eyed Christ looking slightly annoyed by the whole affair.
She picked her way along the edge of the nave, past the narrow lancet windows that allowed only slivers of watery light into the church.
Her footsteps might have echoed terribly, but the murmurs of the assembled group at the front offered blessed cover.
The arch was supported by thick, elaborately carved columns, and Willa found she fit neatly behind one, where she could listen to and watch the proceedings.
“And where is our bride and groom?” said a voice at her elbow.
“Oh!” Willa nearly leapt a foot into the air, twisting to find a hunched woman dressed in ragged skirts with a tattered headscarf tied over her gray hair. In her hands she clutched a broomstick. “Oh, I am sorry. I did not see you there.”
“That’s quite all right. Most people do not see old women.” Her country accent was thick as treacle. “Especially a charwoman going about her duties.” Her eyes twinkled in a way that Willa found most familiar.
She bent her knees so that she might look directly into the woman’s face. As adept with cosmetics as she was, Willa immediately noted the traces of pearl powder and India ink. She looked more closely, then stifled her gasp behind a palm.
“Come now,” Lord Byron whispered in his own voice. “You would not deny a sweet granny a peek at the nuptials, would you?” He swept his broom along the church floor in a cursory manner, gaze darting around the arch to the altar.
Willa dropped her hand. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded, keeping her voice low for fear of the echo.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve decided to do as my most infamous hero did and attend under a feminine guise.” Byron gave a shrug, once more adopting a hunched posture. “After whisking you away from London in my own coach—”
“Lady Croydon’s coach,” Willa corrected.
“Six of one, half dozen of the other,” he said. “Anyway, after going through all that trouble, you cannot possibly think I would miss my chance to watch you steal that French tailor away from Miss Montrose. It’s not every day one sees true love triumph.”
“I am not stealing—” Willa stopped and sighed through her nose, reminding herself of the part she had yet to play. “Fine. Stay for the wedding. But for god’s sake, do not let anyone know who you are.”
Byron gave her a rakish look, shaking his broom heartily. “In this flawless disguise? Impossible.” He continued sweeping the floor, or at least miming so as he crossed the aisle.
Willa watched him go and prayed he would not disrupt her plans.
She peered around the chancel arch once more to spy on the wedding party.
Mrs. Montrose seemed the most agitated of the group, glaring at everything within seething distance: the altar candles, the silent vicar, his record book, the other members of the party.
Even Christ on the cross was not immune.
“Where is she?” she hissed into her husband’s ear.
Her words carried well in the empty church.
Mr. Montrose fished a watch from his fob pocket and consulted it, shaking his head.
“It is nearly noon by now, surely,” said the eldest Charbonneau.
“The bride and groom have no reason to drag this out so long,” muttered the next brother.
“Weddings should take no more than half an hour—any longer and it may as well be a coronation,” said Mr. Montrose.
Willa looked back toward the vestibule, where her compatriots were hopefully positioning themselves. In short order, she saw étienne pop his dark head into the nave and give her a questioning look. Willa beckoned him onward. He nodded and disappeared once more.
A glance at Byron showed he was wholly preoccupied watching the scene at the altar, which was lucky. Willa clutched at the marble arch and held her breath.
The overlapping voices of étienne and Verbena began softly, barely audible over the remarks from the wedding party, but in time they rose to a level that could not be ignored.
Mrs. Montrose was the first to hear, her head whipping around to stare down the center aisle.
Soon, the rest of them, including the vicar, were craning their necks as the argument swelled.
Willa plastered her back to the chancel arch to keep herself from view. Sweat beaded beneath her clothes.
“You cannot do this to me!” Verbena shouted. “You are a rake! The lowest rake!”
“If I am a rake,” étienne roared, just as loudly, “then at least I am an honest one! You, dear Verbena, are nothing but a liar!”
“A liar?” The screech made Willa want to laugh so badly, she was forced to cover her grinning mouth with her palm, lest she give away her position. “If that’s the way you feel—!”
“Feeling has little to do with it! Not where you are concerned!”
“What on earth…?” Mrs. Montrose bustled forward, no doubt intending to investigate the awful row, but before she could cross into the nave, étienne burst from the vestibule.
His hair was a wild riot of curls, and his eyes bulged with emotion. He sported a flush of determination on his cheeks as he strode forward to meet the party.
étienne paused at the threshold of the chancel arch and addressed everyone: “It brings me great pleasure to announce the wedding is off.”
Gasps and protests erupted. étienne ignored them.
“I cannot marry Miss Montrose,” he continued, his voice echoing in the chamber, “not when my heart belongs to another.”
“Who?” his brother demanded.
“Yes, who!” Mrs. Montrose cried.
That was Willa’s cue. She stepped smoothly from behind the pillar to stand at étienne’s side. His sweaty hand clasped hers as he gifted her with a mischievous smirk. Then it was right back into his role. He faced the wedding party again.
“Miss Flora Witcombe,” he declared. “I love her, and she loves me. I intend to elope with her immediately.”
“Hurrah,” said Willa. She was not much of an actress, but it did not seem to matter. Their audience was already frothing at the mouth in the face of this performance.
“What!”
“Sacre bleu…”
“Now see here—”
French and English voices fought for dominance, and in the confusion, the door to the vestibule clanged open. Verbena marched in, resplendent in her wedding clothes.
The hubbub died down as she pointed an accusing finger in étienne’s direction.
“I am not being left at the altar by an unrepentant worm like you,” Verbena said. She was an excellent actress, of course, full of verve and emotion. Willa had to remind herself not to grin as she watched the masterful strutting. “I am leaving you! So that I may be with my true love.”
Miles poked his head out of the vestibule and gave everyone a weak wave in greeting. “Erm, good morning.”
Verbena motioned him forward with rapid movements of her hand until he was at last standing by her side. They, too, joined hands, with Verbena beaming sunnily at her supposed beau. For less than half a moment, her gaze fell on Willa, and they shared a truly happy look.
“I have been in love with Mr. McDonald this entire time,” Verbena announced. “I cannot keep my heart from its match any longer. We are also eloping.”
The ensuing uproar shook the stained glass in the church’s window frames.
Mr. Montrose said something quite insulting about both the French and the Scots, which set off étienne’s brothers in a shouting match that deafened every ear.
The vicar seemed overcome with embarrassment and launched into a prayer.
Mrs. Montrose remained frozen with the sourest look etched on her face.
In the confusion, Willa felt Verbena tug on her sleeve. “Come,” she whispered. “Quick as you can.”
Willa picked up her skirts, ready to run.
“Hold on, you!” cried Mrs. Montrose, rousing from her stupor. She barreled toward Willa, her arms outstretched.
Willa froze in fright, as still as a doe in the center of the aisle. Verbena had her by the arm, but even her insistent pulling could not make Willa move. Not in the face of such a frenzied attack by an enraged mother.
A broomstick appeared under Mrs. Montrose’s charging feet. She tripped and fell quite spectacularly on the polished floor.
Willa looked up wildly to meet Lord Byron’s smirk. Even dressed as a crone, his mirth was unmistakable.
Go, he mouthed, then launched into his false accent, piling apologies onto Verbena’s mother. Of course, his fumbling attempts at helping her to her feet only served to keep her prone on the floor longer.
With one final nod of gratitude to His Lordship, Willa made for the churchyard.
She did not spare a single look back at the wedding party, who may or may not have descended into blows by that point.
She was flanked by étienne and Verbena, with Miles right behind them.
Together, all four tumbled out into the sunlight.
étienne’s coach awaited them as planned, the driver giving them a worried look.
“What’s going on in there?” he asked. “Sounds like fisticuffs.”
“Never mind that,” said étienne. He wrenched open the carriage door and began assisting Willa inside. “Drive, man! Drive as if the devil himself is on our heels!”
“Close enough, seeing as it’s my parents,” Verbena muttered as she joined Willa in the carriage.
Willa clasped her in her arms, holding her trembling body in a tight embrace. “Oh, you were wonderful!”
“Do you think they believed it?” Verbena asked into the fall of her hair.
“Of course they did. It could not have been done more neatly.”
Miles hoisted himself onto the seat across from them, tugging étienne in by the hand. “Drive!” he shouted.
“To the coast as planned, sir?” asked the bewildered driver.
“Non! North! To Scotland!” cried étienne.
The driver whipped the horses into a frenzy before the door was even shut.