Chapter 5
Chapter Five
These were difficult and confusing times. The entire household was grieving.
Lady Regina had been beloved not only by her domestics but also by friends and neighbours alike.
After the wake and the funeral, a sombre stillness settled over Westwood Hall, a forlorn sense that a bright and kindred spirit had left forever.
Bastian buried himself in the study, lost in a sudden deluge of administrative and legal matters. Solicitors, lawyers, wills, accounts—the entire business had to be settled.
Uncle Atti had left immediately after the funeral. He embraced Sebastian and patted him on the back. “Everything will be just fine,” he murmured.
Somehow, the words were no comfort at all.
Then there was Viola. A helpless feeling overtook him every time she crossed his mind, and that was more often than not.
The girl crept along the corridors like a ghost, with a pinched face and reddened eyes.
She too had lost someone precious. Nana had been her godmother, friend, and confidante.
Nana had been truly fond of the girl, and Viola seemed to have reciprocated those feelings.
He wished he could find the right words to comfort her, but he also knew that there were moments in life when words were entirely insufficient.
There was a tap on the door, and Rawlinson entered with another pile of documents that required his attention.
“Put them here.” Sebastian indicated the desk and returned to his letter.
When he looked up again, Rawlinson was still there, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. He cleared his throat.
“What is the matter?”
“I believe you had better have a look at this copy from the parish register, sir.”
He frowned. “Why is it here? Should it not be forwarded to my brother?”
Rawlinson cleared his throat once more and made a helpless gesture toward the paper. “Please look at it, sir.”
Sebastian picked up the document and skimmed it. “It appears perfectly correct to me.”
Rawlinson coughed. “Yes. That seems to be the difficulty, sir.”
He read it again, this time more slowly. Then he saw it. Or rather, he did not see it.
He shot to his feet. “Dear sweet angels on high. He forgot to write per procurationem.”
He scanned the text a third time.
There it was:
This serves to record that The Honourable Sebastian George Fane of the Parish of Westwood and Lady Viola Leigh of the Parish of St Cuthbert were joined in Holy Matrimony on this 28th day of November in the Year of Our Lord 1809, at Westwood Hall, in the County of Derbyshire.
By Special License.
Solemnised by: Athanasius C. Whitmore, Archbishop of York
This marriage was solemnised between us: Her signature. His signature.
Scribbled underneath were Rawlinson’s and Hawkins’ signatures.
But there was no mention whatsoever that he had stood in proxy.
“It cannot be legal,” he said, while knowing perfectly well that it was. He rubbed his neck. “Surely Uncle Atti must have said during the ceremony at one point I was standing in proxy for George.” He himself couldn’t recall it. His mind had been entirely elsewhere at that moment.
“Erm. He did not, sir.” Rawlinson swallowed.
“I recall distinctly that he read your full legal name, not Mr George Fane’s.
I was at a loss whether or not I ought to interrupt.
Since none of you reacted, I assumed all was in good order and that His Grace would mention the proxy part at the very end.
I signed the document believing that was how it was meant to be and that everything was in proper form. Hawkins says the same.”
Sebastian sank into his chair.
He knew enough law to understand the full implications.
He was truly married.
To her.
Because everything had been so chaotic, with Nana dying at that very moment, Uncle Atti had forgotten to mention that he stood in proxy. And he himself, who really should have known better, had been too distraught and caught up in the moment’s chaos to notice anything amiss.
He left the room and strode, no, ran down the corridor, sliding on the polished wood, nearly falling, regained his balance and then crashed into the library, where she was reclined on the sofa, reading a book.
Her legs were drawn up to her chin, and her naked toes peeked out from under the blanket, which was draped over her knees.
She looked up, startled.
“I beg your pardon,” he stammered, pulling both shaking hands through his hair.
A small smile flitted across her face. “It is rare to see you out of countenance. Whatever is the matter?”
“We appear to have a rather grave problem.”
She sat up and tilted her head sideways.
He handed her a copy of the registry.
Her eyes flitted over the paper. “We signed this.”
“Yes.” His voice was hoarse.
She rubbed her nose. “I don’t understand. Uncle Atti was there when we signed it.”
He briefly closed his eyes. “Yes. That appears to be the problem. That everything was conducted in his presence, the Archbishop of York, signed by him and by two other witnesses. It’s incontestable.”
She tilted her head the other way. “So what is the prob—” She drew in a sharp breath as realisation hit.
“The problem,” he said heavily, “is the omission of per procurationem. George’s name is missing.”
Her eyes grew into round saucers. Then they flew over the paper once more, frantically. “It can’t be. Surely, Uncle Atti must have added that somewhere.”
“To make matters worse, he also seems to have misspoken during the actual ceremony. He used my legal name. In the chaos of the moment, none of us noticed. The witnesses did not interrupt because they thought everything was in good order.” He swallowed.
“It looks like we’ve been accidentally married. You and I. And it’s legal.”
Viola grew pale. “We’re truly married?”
He dropped on the sofa next to her. “Yes. Heaven help us.”
Viola blinked. Opened her mouth once, twice. Then she did something he’d never expected her to do.
She threw back her head and—laughed.
He stared at her, aghast. “You’re laughing?”
Tears streamed down her face. She held her side. “Uncle Atti made a mistake,” she hiccuped. “And now we’re married. Really. Truly. By accident.” She burst into another bout of laughter.
“I fail to see what is so amusing in this situation,” Sebastian said testily. “I will challenge it. I shall write to Uncle Atti this very hour and insist he exert his influence to obtain an annulment. I am certain it can be done without complication.”
This, of course, was not true. He knew it even as he said it.
He had been a diligent student of Blackstone.
Annulments were granted only on the narrowest grounds: lack of consent, a prior existing marriage, or certain canonical impediments.
And lack of consent, as the ecclesiastical courts used the term, meant coercion or incapacity.
Neither applied here. Both he and Viola had stood for the ceremony with full knowledge of what they were about.
They had both agreed to it, despite the initial reluctance.
“The witnesses claim that both of us consented. Possibly,” he added, though he knew it was a stretch, “we might argue a mistake of identity. But even that is unlikely to succeed, since there was no question who either of us was. That was never in dispute.”
“What do we do now?” Viola’s voice was a whisper.
He drew a steadying breath. “At any rate, I would ask you not to concern yourself needlessly. I shall attend to the matter.” It was sufficient that he carried the burden for both of them.
“Needlessly concern myself.” She met his gaze with unnerving directness. “Naturally, I won’t be needlessly concerned. May I ask you something?”
“Please do.”
“I am certain this is merely a mistake that can be fixed easily. It can’t be legal. Uncle Atti will annul it, as you say. But—” There was a strange expression in her eyes. “Would that be truly so terrible if you were married to me?”
Somehow that question took the wind out of his sails.
“I—I,” he floundered. He was momentarily speechless. He jumped up, tugging at his neckcloth. “Of course it would be terrible.”
A stricken look crossed her face so quickly that he wondered whether he’d imagined it.
He waved a hand. “For you. For George.”
“George,” she whispered. “Of course.”
“You want to be married to George,” he clarified.
She hesitated, then nodded. “Of course I do.” She sounded somewhat forlorn.
“We need not inform George of the matter just yet. By the time he receives the letter, it will have all been resolved and set right. He hasn’t written lately, has he?”
She shook her head.
He took another turn around the room. “He hasn’t responded to my letters either. It is likely he doesn’t even know that Nana has passed.”
She watched him with a guarded face, and he did not know what she was thinking.
“Everything will be all right,” he said with the same false heartiness that Uncle Atti had used.
Everything would be all right.
A fortnight later, Uncle Atti replied.
Sebastian, with a sense of impending doom, knew even before he broke the seal what the letter would say.
Uncle Atti refused to annul the marriage.
The deed was done; it had been done properly, in the presence of family and witnesses, and there was no reason to undo it.
Nana had entrusted him with seeing her goddaughter safely wed, and he had fulfilled that duty, honouring the final wishes of his dying sister.
Since there was no harm in Sebastian being married, he saw no reason why they should not remain wed to each other.
Besides, even if he wanted to, it was impossible to annul the marriage.
As he very well knew, neither the ecclesiastical nor the civil courts would allow it.
And neither would he, as Archbishop of York. In fact, he would vehemently oppose any such move.
Sebastian lowered the paper with a shaking hand.
Never mind that Viola was married to the wrong man.
Never mind that the wrong man was he.
Then, Uncle Atti had written something cryptic. “Chin up, my chap, you will see that in the end it will have been for the best. I know that is what your grandmother would have wanted.”
He stared at the letter for a full hour.
He was married. Legally, irrevocably married.
To her.
A sensation shot through him, a feeling so fierce, so intense, it threw him off guard. By the time he identified it as gladness, he shut it down with horror.
Guilt followed, weighing him down with leaden heaviness.
He rose from the desk, reeling with emotion.
Now he had to tell her.
He heard her weeping at night.
It was like the suppressed weeping of a child, quiet and hopeless.
It tore his heart.
He stood in front of her door, his hand raised to knock.
Of course, she was sad. About Nana, this muddle of a marriage, and, naturally, because of George, whom she must desperately miss.
And then there was only him.
A sense of deep hopelessness washed over him. He dropped his hand again.
He was not George. Why did he think he could comfort her?
What right did he have? What could he offer her at all?
She wanted George. Not him. Him, she detested. She’d made that clear, often enough.
He lifted his hand again, dropped it.
Took several steps back.
Hesitated. Pulled his hand through his hair.
Paused, turned back.
Stood one moment with dropped head.
Then he sighed and turned to go.
At that moment the door tore open, and there she stood.
Her face was streaked with tears, her hair tumbling silken about her shoulders. She was in a plain white nightgown, her bare feet on the floorboards.
His heart clenched. To him, she looked like a goddess. Wild, untamable like the wind, yet exquisitely vulnerable and utterly beautiful.
“I-I just w-wanted...” He cursed himself inwardly for stuttering like a gauche schoolboy. Why was it that all his eloquence went out the window whenever he was in her presence?
He opened and closed his mouth.
“What?” she whispered.
She took a step toward him. Another. This time, he did not step back. This time, he remained rooted to the spot, felt her warmth, and breathed in her scent. Sweet, womanly.
He lifted a finger and wiped away a tear on her cheek.
She turned her face sideways so her lips touched his palm.
He forgot to breathe.
It was as if…as if she craved his touch.
His heart pounded as he cradled her face, and then he lifted his second hand. Her skin was soft, softer than silk. She lifted her face, and he was drowning in those deep, dark, lovely eyes.
There was a question in their depth.
She lifted onto her toes, and her mouth met his.
His hands slid into her hair, and she made a small sound against his mouth that undid him entirely. He pulled her closer, felt her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, felt her tremble against him.
His head swam. She was the sweetest delight, thoroughly intoxicating. She was in his blood, racing hot and pounding through his body.
The kiss must have gone on for an eternity. Or perhaps only a moment. He could not tell. Time had lost all meaning.
When they finally broke apart, her breath came in soft gasps. Her eyes were dark, her lips swollen and flushed.
“Lola,” he whispered.
She took his hand and pulled him into the room.
“Come.”