Chapter 11
“You look like you’re walking to a funeral and not your own wedding,” Moira said, folding her arms and surveying Nancy from the threshold of the bedchamber.
Nancy considered her reflection in the tall glass.
The pale green silk suited her coloring—she’d been told this so often she almost believed it.
She felt nothing for the dress, or for the tiny flower neatly pinned to her hair, or the scattering of pearls at her throat.
She looked, in her estimation, exactly like a woman about to be sacrificed to a cruel deity.
“It is an honest mistake,” she replied. “In certain lights, the two ceremonies are almost indistinguishable.”
Moira pressed her lips together, neither amused nor entirely displeased. “I can always send for the undertaker, if that would make you happier.”
“Not necessary,” Nancy said, tilting her chin to examine the line of her jaw. “I am only wondering if I should have chosen the peach. It is much brighter. No one can weep at a wedding if the bride looks like a slice of fruit.”
Her mother crossed the carpet, trailing the scent of lemon soap and rosewater. “You do not wish to draw attention, I suppose?”
“God, no.” Nancy reached for a stray curl and tucked it behind her ear. “Today is a day for disappearing. The guests should not even notice I am present.”
“You do yourself a disservice,” Moira replied, adjusting the sleeve of Nancy’s dress with the efficiency of a woman who had dressed a dozen cousins and a hundred debutantes. “But you are a Gallagher through and through.”
Nancy stifled a smile. “You say that as if it’s a curse.”
“It is. And a blessing. And a great responsibility.” Moira met her eyes in the glass. “Are you certain you wish to do this?”
Nancy turned from the mirror, smoothing the skirt as she did. “I chose this, Mama.”
Moira set her hands on Nancy’s shoulders and spun her around. The movement was brisk, but her touch lingered. “There is no shame in changing your mind.”
“I am not changing my mind,” Nancy said, quieter now. “I am changing my future. Which is the point.”
Her mother studied her, reading the lines of her face the way some people read tea leaves. “Then why do you look as if you have been condemned?”
Nancy forced a smile that she hoped would convince her mother. Moira shook her head, then pulled Nancy into an abrupt and crushing embrace. “You are too clever for your own good. If you would only trust yourself to be happy—”
“I am happy,” Nancy lied, pulling back with a small, apologetic smile. “I am marrying the Duke of Scarfield. A promotion, in all things.”
Moira’s gaze searched hers. “I wish you would tell me the real reason.”
Nancy held it, refusing to blink. “This is the real reason. I wish to do it.”
For a moment, Moira looked as if she would press, but something softened. “Then I will not press.”
They stood there with their hands twined until Nancy noticed her mother’s eyes were wet. “You are crying,” Nancy said, her throat tightening. “You, who survived two ducal matriarchs and Highland winters.”
Moira wiped at her face with the heel of her hand, then pulled Nancy’s hands between hers. “It is only the weather,” she said. “It is growing far too cold for comfort.”
Nancy smiled, and for a second she felt something like warmth in her chest. “You know I will always write, don’t you?”
Moira sniffed. “Write? You will be a duchess. You must have the ton know and respect your opinion, or at least have them printed in the Times.”
“Noted.” Nancy squeezed her mother’s hands. “I am ready.”
Moira gave her one last look, then led her to the door. Only then did Nancy see her hands trembling in her mother’s. Moira noticed, too. She turned and said, soft but fierce, “Don’t let anyone extinguish your fire, my darling.”
Nancy nodded, and for the first time since the night before, the world felt almost bearable.
A sharp knock sounded. Her father’s voice, precise as a gavel: “We’re ready to depart.”
Moira straightened. “Go, then. Do not dawdle.”
Nancy kissed her mother’s cheek and swept from the room, collecting her calm as she went.
Her father waited at the base of the stairs, immaculate in a dark coat and starched cravat. He offered his arm without a word. Nancy slid her hand into the crook and let him lead her out.
The carriage stood waiting, its horses stamping clouds of breath in the cold. Nancy climbed in, arranged her skirt, and fixed her eyes on the street ahead.
There would be no turning back now.
Scarfield Manor’s entrance looked much the same as it had a week before, and in the front hall, three women waited like an ambush party: Fiona, Hester, and Lavinia, all gathered in a loose clump of silk and smiles.
“My God, she is a vision,” Hester proclaimed, fanning herself with the program before it had even been distributed. “Do you see this, Fiona? That is how a woman wears green.”
Fiona linked arms with Nancy at once. “You look luminous. I’m not sure if it’s the color or the proximity to madness, but it suits you.”
Nancy allowed herself to be tugged into the huddle. “I was aiming for somber, but I suppose I’ll accept ‘luminous’ in a pinch.”
Lavinia offered a bashful smile and a tiny bouquet. “It’s only violets. The garden here is a disaster.”
“They are perfect,” Nancy said, and meant it. She let herself be enveloped by the trio, bracing for whatever final counsel they meant to offer.
But Hester only adjusted Nancy’s hair, declared, “Flawless,” and swept her hand down the train. “If Scarfield is not immediately struck dead with awe, I shall petition the Archbishop for an annulment on grounds of artistic blindness.”
Nancy grinned, nerves briefly forgotten.
Fiona said, “Are you ready?”
“No,” Nancy replied. “But I am here, so let’s pretend.”
They preceded her into the drawing room, and Nancy turned to her father, who had a question in his eyes. Nodding, she reassured him. “I am truly ready, Papa.”
The large drawing room held the wedding party, comprising the Duke, two other gentlemen, the vicar, and Nancy’s friends and family. Nancy stopped when she saw Clara and Henry holding baskets of petals and grinning.
The twins had been dressed as a miniature lord and lady. Clara, regal in a blue frock, scattered handfuls of rose petals with all the dignity of a monarch overseeing a battlefield. Henry shuffled behind with what looked like terror and awe in equal measure.
Clara saw Nancy, froze, then bared her teeth in a wild grin and dumped her entire basket of petals at once.
“Nancy!” she shrieked, bolting down the aisle to tackle Nancy’s knees.
Henry followed, less swiftly, but attached himself to her skirts like a burr.
Fiona clucked her tongue. “So much for ceremony.”
Nancy, ignoring the shocked vicar and the horrified housekeeper, crouched to gather the children in. “You are both entirely perfect,” she whispered, smoothing Clara’s hair and gently pinching Henry’s nose.
“Are you marrying the Duke?” Clara asked, wrinkling her nose.
“I am,” Nancy murmured.
Henry whispered, “Will you live here now?”
Nancy smiled at him. “That depends. Are you planning any further insurrections?”
He considered. “Only on Thursdays.”
Nancy rose and nudged them back toward the housekeeper, who looked as if she’d been asked to swallow a hedgehog.
Her father’s eyes were wide when she turned to him. “I see you are familiar with the children,” he remarked.
“Only in the broadest possible sense,” Nancy replied, arranging her skirts and resuming composure. “I believe they are to be the highlight of the event.”
He leaned in, low enough that only she could hear. “Is this what you truly want?”
Nancy stared ahead, at the vicar, then at Oscar, who stood with all the animation of a statue, and finally at the two children who now sat in the front row, swinging their feet in tandem.
She squared her shoulders. “Never more certain in my life.”
Her father’s mouth twitched. “That is saying something.”
They took their places. The music began, and Nancy felt herself moving forward—floaty, untethered, as if her body were an elaborate puppet.
Oscar’s expression, as she approached, did not change. He wore the blue coat, a white cravat, and an air of frozen certainty. His eyes found her, then held, locked, and impossible to shake.
They met in the middle, turned to face the vicar, and the words began.
Nancy’s mind registered only fragments: names, vows, the interminable invocation of honor and duty. She nodded at the right places, repeated the right phrases. It was all so quick and so mechanical, she hardly noticed when her voice finally emerged from the fog.
“I, Nancy Loretta Gallagher, do take thee—” and her voice trembled, the quaver so slight only someone listening for it would notice. She caught herself. Inhaled. Began again.
“I do take thee, Oscar Benjamin Rowson, to be my—” the word stuck for a second “—husband.”
Oscar’s gaze darted to hers. For a split second, she saw something—encouragement? amusement?—and then it was gone, replaced by his usual reserve.
He answered with his own vow, uninflected and steady. Then the register was signed. The vicar pronounced them husband and wife, and it was done. The applause was scattered, but in the front row, Clara clapped loud enough for a crowd.
Oscar leaned in, as if to whisper some perfunctory congratulations, but stopped himself, offering only the faintest smile, which appeared neither charmed nor mocking.
Nancy matched it, thinking: So this is the rest of my life.
The next hour blurred—a parade of well-wishers, friends, relatives, and, at one point, an ancient great-aunt who declared herself “delighted to finally see a wedding with so little fuss.” Nancy agreed.
At the wedding breakfast, the women’s group descended with full force, dragging Nancy to the table’s head and peppering her with toast after toast.
“To the future!” Hester crowed.
“To the children,” added Fiona, blinking away tears.
“To surviving marriage with all faculties intact,” said Lavinia, raising her glass.
Nancy, who had not touched her own wine, lifted it anyway. “To all of the above.”
Fiona wiped her eyes with a napkin. “Forgive me. I am far too sentimental these days. It’s the baby.”
Nancy stopped, brows lifting. “You’re expecting again?”
Fiona laughed sheepishly. “I swear, it is all Isaac’s fault. If I so much as look at the man, I am with child.”
Hester howled. “You did the very same thing at my wedding, Fiona. Cried through the whole thing, then blamed it on the baby. What will you do when you’re finished with childbearing? Blame the weather?”
Fiona dabbed her eyes. “I will cross that bridge when I come to it.”
Lavinia said, “I am not pregnant, but I seem to be crying anyway. What’s my excuse?”
Hester patted her hand. “You are simply moved by the beauty of the occasion, dear. Or by Nancy’s dress. I would weep for it myself if I did not have a reputation to maintain.”
Nancy smothered a laugh. She looked to the end of the table and saw her parents watching, Moira’s eyes shining, her father’s jaw clenched to suppress an emotion. Nancy gave them a small wave.
Moira rose, crossing the room in swift, determined steps, and caught Nancy in a hug. “If ever you need us, write.”
“I will,” Nancy promised. “But I have a suspicion you’ll visit whether I ask or not.”
Moira grinned, “Count on it.” She kissed Nancy’s cheek and retreated, leaving Nancy with a sense of having passed a final test.
The guests departed in a flurry of handshakes and hats. In the foyer, Clara and Henry appeared once more, Henry clutching the train of Nancy’s dress and Clara beaming up at her with expectant joy.
Oscar materialized beside her. “May I have a word, Duchess?”
Clara, indignant, wedged herself between them. “She is ours now,” she declared. “You can’t take her away.”
Nancy looked at Oscar, daring him to argue with a five-year-old.