Chapter Forty-Seven
So it was that Andrew Fielding, the Earl of Doncaster, and Cynthia Rowley, spinster, were married without ceremony on the day before Christmas Eve.
He was in mud-splattered riding attire, and she was in her workaday dress, covered with a darned cloak, though she had put on her best bonnet.
Ruby and Will were their witnesses, along with Teacup, who wove herself between the couple’s legs as they said their vows.
When the moment came for the ring to be placed on the bride’s finger, Cynthia said, “Oh dear, we don’t have a ring!”
The groom raised his eyebrows and said, “Oh thou of little faith!” He produced a small, velvet box from an inside pocket “I bought it in London before leaving,” he said. “I hope it fits. I made the purchase in somewhat of a rush.”
But the gold band, chased with intertwined ivy leaves, fit Cynthia perfectly.
The ring meant she really was married! Cynthia couldn’t stop the tears coming to her eyes. “But how did you know it was my size?” she said, in wonder.
“I’m a portrait artist. I can judge these things. But don’t cry, my love, if you don’t like it, I’ll buy you another as soon as I earn some money. At the moment, I’m sorry to say, my pockets are to let.”
“I don’t want another one,” she said, blinking away her tears. “I shall never take this one off. Never.”
The newlyweds walked home together in the frosty evening air, oblivious to the cold and the curious looks of the occasional passers-by. Teacup was nestled inside Andrew’s coat, under his cloak, and gave a protesting mew every time they stopped to kiss and squashed her between them, which was often.
When they arrived, it was to find Ruby distraught about the supper. “All I’ve got is the soup I made earlier,” she wailed. “How was I to know it would be your wedding feast?”
“I can’t think of anything better,” said Andrew. “I’ve been dreaming of your soup these past weeks.”
And indeed, how could anything have been better? They ate their soup in loving togetherness, while Andrew told her all about his brother, his estates, and the arrangements he had made.
“You won’t find life any easier as a Countess than as Mrs. Fielding,” he said. “We have so many debts. And I’m afraid I shall have to work over the winter, in spite of what I said. We need the money.”
“If you must, you must,” she said. “In fact, you have received any number of letters that I’m sure represent commissions.
If you respond to them all as Andrew Fielding, Earl of Doncaster, they will be so pleased to have a member of the aristocracy paint their portraits, that they will not only pay any price, but give you the best bedroom to sleep in. ”
“I had no idea you were such an astute businesswoman,” laughed Andrew. “And what will you gain, do you think, by being the Countess?”
“Disbelief, I imagine,” Cynthia replied. “They have known me too long as a poor old spinster. But Harriet’s nose will be out of joint. I don’t have the courage to tell her.” They laughed.
After supper, they sat by the fire, Cynthia in her chair, Andrew on the floor, with his head against her knees, and Teacup purring in his lap.
Will and Ruby discreetly disappeared. Then when the fire burned low, they went upstairs together.
Teacup, scratching at the bedroom door, was intensely annoyed at not being allowed in.