Chapter 32
April 12, 1847, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
The door to Merritt’s bedroom opened as Merritt struggled to put on cuff links by himself. “Heaven help you,” said his friend Fletcher, jogging across the room. “You can’t look good even for your own wedding?” He grabbed Merritt’s stiff shirt collar and straightened it, then tugged on the shoulders of his blue vest.
“What?” Merritt glanced at the small mirror on the wall. “I think I look rather dashing.” In truth, he always thought he looked strange with his hair pulled back, like it somehow made his face bigger, though Beth had combed his waves into a rather nice-looking tail.
Fletcher took the cuff links from him and attached them himself. “Usually it’s the bride who takes too long, not the groom.”
Turning away from the mirror, heart doing a little flip, Merritt murmured, “Fletcher ... are they here? Did they come?”
Fletcher clicked the last cuff link into place and looked up, his face a stoic mask. It lasted for about two seconds before his white-toothed grin broke. “Yes, even your mother.”
Merritt sighed, laughed, and cried all at once. Stood back and wiped his eyes on his knuckles, then thanked his friend when he offered a handkerchief. “Praise the Lord,” he murmured.
“Don’t get distracted.” Fletcher took a step back and looked him over. “You can have the family reunion after your vows.”
“Of course.” He dabbed his eyes again and folded up the handkerchief. “I’m keeping this.”
Fletcher merely shrugged and held out his arm. “Shall I walk you to the altar?”
Merritt shoved the man and escorted himself to the door, unable to quell the smile on his face. He hurried down the hall and the stairs and through the reception hall. Out the door, where he could see the small wedding party seated before a large green arch with white April flowers on it. An outdoor wedding was a little eccentric, but the licensing had all been done through the church, and what was his relationship with Hulda if not a little unconventional?
He saw them almost immediately. His mother, Scarlet, and Beatrice took up the front row of chairs, his mother on the aisle, her body turned as she spoke to Hulda’s mother across the way. Her parents were stern folk who didn’t laugh enough, in Merritt’s opinion, but they were kind and seemed happy about the situation, and that was all Merritt could ask for.
Despite Fletcher’s admonition, Merritt went straight to his mother, who cried out and stood at the sight of him. He embraced her tightly, taking in her familiar smell.
“Oh, my boy,” she said into his hair, “you look so dashing!” She pulled back and dabbed at her eyes with her own handkerchief. “I think you’ve grown again.”
“I believe I will be two inches short of six feet the rest of my life.” His voice croaked, though not from the use of communion. He’d barely used the spell over the last month since returning from England. Few might be aware, but the average shrub and dormouse didn’t make great conversation.
His sisters stood as well; Scarlet leaned over and kissed his cheek. “We have many introductions to make, after,” she said, tilting her head toward the second row, where a man and three boys sat. That would be Merritt’s brother-in-law and his nephews, whom he’d never met. His heart pulsed to bursting, almost like he’d felt when sharing his body with Owein. He nodded to the family. In the row behind them looked to be Beatrice’s brood. Her girls waved at him, making him chuckle. The next row held the Portendorfers.
“She’s coming!” cried out Danielle, Hulda’s younger sister. She, her husband, and her children sat behind Hulda’s mother, and behind them was Beth and, surprisingly, Myra, though the latter wore a short veil on her hat to hide her face. Owein sat beside Beth, his hair neatly combed back. His new jacket fit him well, but Merritt had a feeling it wouldn’t fit him much longer; that boy still had some growing to do. Their eyes met, and Owein smiled. Merritt could almost hear his words inside his head, like he was the dog again, saying something like, Will this take much longer? Or When can we eat? The thought stirred nostalgia, and Merritt found himself pulling out Fletcher’s handkerchief again. Baptiste took up the end of the row, beefy arms folded over his chest, looking very satisfied with himself. If nothing else, the luncheon would be splendid.
Shaking out his nerves, as he really shouldn’t be nervous, having technically already been married for a month, Merritt went over to the very patient pastor. “Thank you,” he said.
The pastor nodded, and the small congregation rose as Hulda and her father stepped off the porch of Whimbrel House.
Heaven help him, she was beautiful. She wore a colbalt dress with lace , far more lace than Merritt had ever thought he’d see on her, though it adorned only her collar and sleeves. The dress had a wider collar than she normally preferred, elongating her neck and presenting that lovely collarbone of hers. Matching lace hung from her veil. Her arm looped with her father’s, and she held a very simple bouquet of white daffodils to match the archway. A light blush crossed her nose as she met his eyes. Merritt grinned, then reached out his hand as she neared.
As Hulda slipped her hand into his, her father said, “Do take care of her.”
“I shall do nothing but,” Merritt replied, and pulled her toward the pastor. He held both her hands in his and smiled; she mirrored it.
The pastor began saying ... something. It sort of went in one ear and out the other. Merritt couldn’t look away from Hulda’s eyes, which glimmered nearly green in the late-morning light. It had rained all last week, and they’d worried they’d have to move the wedding inside, but God had gifted them with sunshine today.
I love you, Hulda mouthed, and Merritt silently repeated it back, squeezing her hands. Her hair, what he could see of it under the veil covering it, was elaborately braided and pinned, and Merritt found himself very eager to ruin it.
Hulda tipped her head to the pastor, signaling that Merritt should probably pay attention now.
“Repeat after me,” he instructed, and Merritt did.
“I, Merritt Fernsby, take you, Hulda Larkin, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy law, and this is my solemn vow.” Then, before the pastor could instruct Hulda to do the same, Merritt added, not really loud enough for the audience to hear, “Hulda, I am a better man because of you. I am a found man. You have changed everything in my life for the better. I honestly don’t know how I lived before you. I want your face to be the first thing I see in the morning, and your voice to be the last I hear at night, forever and always. I will gladly haunt this house with you for eternity.”
Hulda laughed, and tears brimmed on her eyelashes. Merritt broke their handhold long enough to lend her Fletcher’s handkerchief. “I told you I hate crying at weddings,” she said, and a few in the congregation chuckled. When the handkerchief was again stowed away, she repeated after the pastor, “I, Hulda Larkin, take you, Merritt Fernsby, to be my husband.” Her voice choked; she took a moment to swallow. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God’s holy law, and this is my solemn vow.” She glanced to the pastor—she was a rule follower, after all, and when he nodded, she murmured, “I never realized how boring I was before I came here.”
Merritt laughed.
She fought a smile. Lowered her eyes to their hands. “You are a light, Merritt. You are my light. You are everything that is good in this world. So genuine, so chivalrous, so imaginative. I’m so happy I get to partake in that imagination with you. In this life with you.” She blinked a few times, clearing tears. “You have written me a happy ending, and I cannot fathom a better story than ours.”
Warmth wound from his shoulders, down his torso, and into his toes.
The pastor waited a beat, then, over his Bible, said, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may, Mr. Fernsby, kiss your bride.”
Merritt tugged Hulda forward and crushed his lips to hers, grabbing her around the waist and dipping her. Applause rose up from the small crowd, and he was fairly certain that was Beth letting out a loud whoop! in the back.
Righting Hulda, he broke from her, pleased to see the grin on her face. It was really official now, though, in truth, they would always celebrate their anniversary on his birthday. And Merritt really, truly, didn’t mind.
The families mingled as Beth and Baptiste set out the luncheon. Merritt formally met Richard Moore, Scarlet’s husband, and his three nephews, Matthew, Albert, and Andrew. George Blakewell, Beatrice’s husband, clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve heard only good things, my man. I think we ought to smoke cigars sometime.” And his nieces, Bethany and Maggie, seemed charmed by him regardless of what he said, though that might have been the power of his very nice vest. When Merritt introduced Owein as his “nephew,” Scarlet and Beatrice assumed he came from Hulda’s side, while the Larkins presumed he was a Fernsby. Merritt didn’t bother to clarify.
They ate together, they laughed together, they celebrated together. It was probably the best day of Merritt’s life, but he was all about progress and intended to have even better ones to come. It wasn’t until the sun threatened to set and guests began taking to their boats for the journey back that Merritt spied Baptiste putting away dinner and slipped over to speak to him.
“You know,” he said offhandedly, “I think I can handle it.”
Baptiste glanced up. “Handle what?”
“The story. About your previous incarceration.” He shrugged. “Surely we’ve known one another long enough for you to let me in on the secret. I won’t judge you for it.” He was fairly certain Baptiste hadn’t murdered anyone, or they wouldn’t have let him out.
Baptiste continued his cleanup, and for a moment Merritt thought the conversation over before it had begun. But without looking up, Baptiste said, “Cheese.”
“Pardon?”
“Cheese,” he repeated, meaning Merritt had heard him correctly the first time. “I worked with three men to steal wagon full of cheese. Sold it over border, in Belgium.”
Speech fled Merritt for a good few seconds. “You ... You stole cheese ?”
A small smile ticked up the corners of Baptiste’s mouth. “Was very expensive cheese.”
Merritt snorted and clapped the man on the shoulder. “Somehow, I think that makes me like you more.” He checked his pocket watch. “I’m going to see my mother off. Hold down the fort, hm?”
Nodding, Baptiste picked up a stack of dishes from the table, then glanced out a north-facing window. Frowned. “I thought you said the dog died?”
“Hm?” Merritt followed his line of sight. Owein walked the shallow wilds a way out, and sure enough, a dog was trouncing beside him. From this vantage point, it did look remarkably like the brown terrier Owein had spent the last few months in.
“It ... did.” Uncertainty dropped Merritt’s voice. “I’m sure it did. Huh.” He scratched the back of his head, ready for the tie holding his hair back to come out. “I’ll ask about it.” But first he’d tend to his mother. With luck, he’d be seeing her again soon. He already had an invitation to spend the weekend in Concord with Beatrice and her family, and Peter Fernsby certainly wouldn’t prevent Merritt’s mother from visiting her daughters, now would he?
“I’ll help clean up after the guests leave. Thank you, Baptiste.” He clapped his shoulder once more and wound his way into the cool air, where his family, both new and old, awaited him.
It wasn’t hard, really, to adapt to being human again. Owein’s soul remembered it, even if his memory didn’t quite. Memory was finnicky that way; the older it got, the more slippery it became, and there was very little magic—at least, his magic—could do about that. But Owein Mansel had been human again for an entire month, almost to the point where he didn’t think about himself as human , just merely Owein.
The dog had started following him about a quarter hour ago. He’d thought it was a fawn at first. Then he thought it was his dog, the mutt Silas Hogwood had snagged off the streets to stuff him into for easy transport. But the pattern in the fur wasn’t quite right, the ears were too high, and it was missing the white patches. That, and this dog was a girl.
When he stopped, surveying the pinks and violets of a breathtaking spring sunset, the dog caught up to him and licked his hand.
“I know you’re not the same,” he said offhandedly, enjoying the layers of red in the sky. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of seeing the color red. “Are you going to tell me who you are? I have a hunch.”
The dog barked and loped ahead, tail wagging, ready to play. Owein didn’t have communion—Merritt had gotten that somewhere else in the family line. But he’d lived as a dog long enough that canine instincts had embedded themselves in his subconscious. In a strange way, he almost felt the animal’s response.
“When you’re ready, then.” He picked up a stick about the length of his forearm. “I don’t mind if you stay.”
The dog barked an agreement, and when Owein threw the stick, she bolted across the island to chase after it, startling a nesting whimbrel as she went. Owein watched her go, pausing where the stick landed. Instead of bringing it back, however, the dog simply waited there and barked at him again, inviting him to play.
A smile on his lips, Owein ran after her, glancing over his shoulder once to the house that used to be only his and the people tarrying outside it, enjoying the last of the celebrations. He was happy to be there. Happy to see Hulda and Merritt together. He’d known they were meant for each other before anyone else did. Really, this wedding was his doing. For the moment, everything seemed just as it should be.
And yet, something within him, something deeper than his terrier instincts and his magic, whispered that his adventures were only just beginning.