Chapter Nine
The morning of her wedding dawned grey and drizzling, which Ophelia thought was rather appropriate considering the circumstances. Even the weather understood this was not a day for celebration.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling she'd memorized over twenty-three years of sleepless nights, and tried to comprehend that this was the last time she'd wake in this room. The last morning she'd hear Charles and Edward arguing over boots in the corridor, the final dawn as Ophelia Coleridge.
The thought sent her stomach churning with dread.
"Miss?" Mary's voice came with a soft knock. "It's time to begin preparing."
Such a small word for such an enormous thing, but there was no delaying the inevitable.
"Come in."
Mary entered with a breakfast tray, followed by Ophelia's mother, who looked as though she'd slept as poorly as her daughter.
"You need to eat something," Mrs. Coleridge said gently, though her eyes betrayed her own anxiety.
The sight of the toast and tea made Ophelia's stomach revolt. "I can't possibly."
"Just the tea then. You need something to sustain you."
Ophelia managed three sips before setting the cup down with trembling hands. "What time is the ceremony?"
"Eleven o'clock. The dress is pressed and ready."
The dress hung on the wardrobe like a specter—ivory silk with seed pearls, fashionable and elegant and everything a bride could want. Except she wasn't truly a bride but rather a sacrifice dressed in silk.
"Mama," she said suddenly, "was it like this for you on your wedding morning?"
Mrs. Coleridge's face softened. "Oh, my dear, I was nervous, of course, but also eager. Your father and I chose each other."
"What's it like to have that freedom to choose?"
Her mother sat on the bed, pulling Ophelia into her arms as she had when she was small. "It's freedom and terror all at once, knowing you've chosen and hoping you've chosen well."
"And if you can't choose?"
"Then you survive. You find moments of happiness where you can and build a life despite the circumstances."
"Did Aunt Cordelia survive?"
The question hung between them like a ghost.
"No," her mother said finally. "But you're stronger than she was, and the duke, cold as he may be, is not his uncle. He's not cruel."
"How can you know that?"
"Because a cruel man would have humiliated you at the proposal, would have made you beg. He didn't."
No, he'd merely made it clear she was necessary, like taking medicine for an illness.
A commotion in the corridor interrupted them; Robert's voice raised in anger, Henry's dry response, the twins attempting to mediate.
"What now?" Mrs. Coleridge sighed.
The door burst open and Charles stood there, face flushed. "The Duke sent something for Phee."
"Sent what?"
"Flowers. White ones. They're enormous."
She rose, wrapping her shawl around her nightgown, and followed Charles downstairs. In the entrance hall sat an enormous arrangement of white roses, orange blossoms, and unexpectedly, violets tucked among the grander blooms.
There was a card.
With trembling fingers, she opened it. The duke's handwriting was precise and controlled:
For your wedding day. The violets are at your request. The roses are at mine. Perhaps we might find middle ground in between. - A.
A. Not 'Montclaire' or 'Your Duke' but simply A.
"What does it say?" Robert demanded.
She handed him the card wordlessly.
"Middle ground," Henry read, having snatched it from Robert. "How romantic. Every girl dreams of middle ground on her wedding day."
But Ophelia was studying the violets, carefully placed among the grander roses. He'd remembered her mentioning them once, just once, and he'd remembered.
It didn't mean anything substantial, couldn't mean anything, and yet the gesture unsettled her.
"I need to prepare," she said, fleeing back upstairs before anyone could see her confusion.
A French woman, who was supposed to help her with her hair arrangement, arrived precisely at eight and chattered endlessly about the honour of preparing a future duchess.
Ophelia sat silent as her hair was twisted and pinned into something elaborate that bore no resemblance to her usual simple style.
"Magnifique!" the woman declared. "You will enchant His Grace!"
Ophelia caught her mother's eye in the mirror, both knowing enchantment was the last thing on anyone's mind.
Nine o'clock brought the ordeal of the dress.
It took three people to get her into it; the stays laced tight enough to create a fashionable silhouette while making breathing a conscious effort, the petticoats layered just so, the silk dress itself requiring careful arrangement.
"Beautiful," Mary breathed.
Ophelia looked in the mirror and saw a stranger staring back. An elegant, refined stranger who might actually belong in a duke's world, until you looked at her eyes which were brown, ordinary, and terrified.
"The pearls," her mother said, producing a box. "They were your grandmother's."
"Mama, no, they're yours."
"They're yours now. Something old for tradition."
The pearls were warm against her throat, familiar when nothing else was.
Ten o'clock arrived too quickly.
Robert appeared in the doorway. "The carriage is ready."
"Already?"
"We need to arrive early to settle you before the ceremony begins."
"I need a moment alone, please."
They filed out reluctantly. Ophelia stood before her mirror and pressed her hand to her stomach, willing it to settle.
The willing failed spectacularly. She barely made it to the basin before her stomach emptied itself of the little tea she'd managed.
"Ophelia?" Her mother's worried voice came through the door.
"Just nerves!" she called, though she was anything but fine.
She was sick again, and then once more, until there was nothing left and still her body tried to reject this future.
Her mother entered without permission, took one look, and called for Mary. Between them, they cleaned her up, touched up her face, adjusted her dress.
"No one needs to know," her mother said firmly.
"The Duke will take one look at me and know I'm terrified."
"Then he'll know you're human, which isn't a bad thing."
But Ophelia remembered his perfect control, his careful distance. He wouldn't want a human bride with human weaknesses; he'd want someone as controlled as himself.
Half-past ten arrived and they couldn't delay longer.
The carriage ride to St. George's passed in tense silence but for the rain pattering on the roof. Ophelia sat between her parents, her father had finally emerged, looking older than his years while her brothers rode in a second carriage.
The church loomed through the rain, big and imposing. There were already carriages there, far more than expected for what was supposed to be a small ceremony. Everyone wanted to witness the Coleridge-Montclaire alliance, or perhaps disaster or possibly both.
"Ready?" her father asked, speaking for the first time all morning.
"No."
"Good. Only fools are ready for marriage."
Inside, the church was a cave of whispers and flowers and too many faces for what was meant to be private.
Ophelia recognized some distant relatives and society matrons who hadn't been invited but came anyway.
Was that Lady Jersey? Of course it was; the patroness of Almack's wouldn't miss this scandal for the world.
"Breathe," her mother whispered.
But the flowers filled her nostrils with their cloying scent and her empty stomach clenched dangerously.
She was led to a small antechamber to wait. Through the door, she could hear the organ beginning its solemn tune. Her cue would come soon enough.
"I can't do this," she said suddenly.
"Yes, you can," Robert said firmly. "You're a Coleridge, and we don't run."
"We also don't marry Montclaires!"
"Well, we do now."
The organ changed its tune and she realised that it was her time to go.
Her father offered his arm. "Courage, little violet."
The childhood nickname nearly undid her completely.
They emerged into the main church, and every head turned. The whispers rose like a tide:
"So pale!"
"Pretty enough, I suppose."
"The dress must have cost a fortune."
"Trying to buy respectability."
"Did you see the duke's face when he arrived?"
The aisle stretched before her, endless as a lifetime. And there, at the altar, stood Alexander.
He was perfection itself in dark blue coat and cream breeches, his cravat a work of art, his expression unreadable. He watched her approach with those grey eyes that gave away nothing.
Her father placed her hand in Alexander's and she felt his fingers warm and steady where hers were ice.
"Dearly beloved," the vicar began, and Ophelia tried to focus on the words, but the flowers were overwhelming, the church too warm despite the rain, her stays far too tight...
"Marriage is an honourable estate," the vicar droned on, "not to be entered into lightly or wantonly..."
Not lightly, no. There was nothing light about this crushing weight pressing down on her.
"If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together..."
She waited, hoping desperately for an objection… just any objection.
But silence reigned.
"I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed..."
The dreadful day of judgment had already arrived, had it not?
Alexander's profile remained stone, his jaw locked as he stared straight ahead, not looking at her, as if by not seeing her he could pretend this wasn't happening.
"Alexander Edmund Robert Deveraux, Duke of Montclaire, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?
Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live? "
The pause felt eternal.
"I will."
Two words, clipped and precise, dutiful to the last.