Chapter 18
“It is one thing to desire paradise. Quite another to walk through its gates with open eyes.”
Impressions of England by an Unrepentant Foreigner
“What about a special license? How long would it take to procure?”
The baron cocked his head thoughtfully. “Given my rank, I believe we could secure it within a day or two. Simon arranged for Vicar Stone to conduct his ceremony in the garden, so we might call upon him to perform the service. However, it would require that you convert formally to the Church of England.”
“I am already baptized in the church,” Marco replied. “My mother converted before marrying my father during their time in England, and we attended Anglican services in Florence.”
The baron’s brows lifted, clearly pleased by this revelation. “That is excellent.”
“But … I should like Madeline and Simon to attend,” Molly interjected, to Marco’s frustration.
He struggled to banish thoughts of her nearness. He was determined to give her heart’s desire, but sending word for Simon and his bride to return could take up weeks at this time of year.
Molly must have noticed his agitation, her fingers reaching out to touch his. He glanced down to find she had made sure the folds of her skirt disguised the motion.
“I cannot wait that long, mia bella.”
Molly colored, and her lashes dropped to fan her cheeks.
“Oh.” She sounded rather pleased.
“We should send word for them that it is safe to come home, I suppose,” mused John. “It seems the danger has finally passed.”
Marco nodded. “I sent a letter this morning.”
“Then summon our man of business. I shall have him procure the special license. A letter from me should be sufficient to persuade the archbishop. I will explain that it is a matter of urgency to secure your position in England because of my health. We must present a unified family front, and your marriage to an Englishwoman will be advantageous to establishing your place within high society and strengthening your claim to the title.”
Molly leaned forward, her lovely face creased with concern. “I thought your health was improving.”
The baron grinned with a mischievous glint. “I am, but he does not know that, does he?”
Marco rose from his place to ring for a servant, eager to set their plans in motion now that his course was clear.
Molly. My future is Molly.
He pressed a hand briefly to his cheek, faintly embarrassed by how thoroughly she had occupied his thoughts. This wedding could not happen fast enough.
Molly and Miss Dubois were getting along rather better since Marco’s intervention.
The servant’s skills were far more suited to the office of lady’s maid, and she did excellent work in that capacity.
In fact, Molly was on the verge of tears as she examined the gown she had chosen for her wedding vows, which the servant had retrieved from storage and refreshed for the evening’s ceremony.
It was the gown she had purchased with her mother when they had planned to finally bring her out in society, and she had never worn it, because shortly after ordering it, Molly had entered deep mourning for her beloved parent.
Lawks!
She pressed a lacy square to dab at the tears, which no longer threatened but had already escaped her restraint.
How she wished her mother could have lived to see this day.
Then Molly realized that, had her mother not been called to glory, she would not have come to reside in the baron’s household.
And without the macabre events of recent weeks, she would not have met Marco.
Everything that had transpired had led to this moment, where she found herself weeping like a ninny over a pretty garment.
From the ashes of the past, they would fashion something new.
“Ah, you will be beauteeful in zis!” The exuberant declaration from Claudette Dubois was unexpected but appreciated. For once, she agreed with her French poodle, who had become quite tolerable over the past day.
“We shall see.”
Miss Dubois assisted her, buttoning the bodice and tweaking the folds and sleeves, until she bobbed her head to the mirror in satisfaction.
Molly shut her eyes, hoping that the gown would not disappoint now that she was in it, a key component of the final presentation. Turning toward the mirror, she glanced up and gasped with awed delight.
The rich deep shade of amethyst perfectly complemented her warm brown hair and hazel eyes, bringing out the green and golden flecks in her gaze.
The gown was of the finest silk, catching the light with a soft, elegant sheen.
The bodice was delicately gathered to enhance her figure, with a square décolleté edged in intricate lace that drew attention to her collarbone and shoulders.
Subtle puffed sleeves sat just off her shoulders, adorned with tiny seed pearls that lent an air of tailored charm.
The high waistline was cinched with a matching silk sash, accentuating her taller silhouette before flowing into a graceful skirt that flared slightly as it reached the floor, embellished with a hint of pearl beading along the hem, enough to delight the eye without overwhelming the gown’s restraint.
Turning, she viewed the back, where a column of small cloth-covered buttons ran down the bodice, allowing the gown to hug her figure in an elegantly understated way.
Miss Dubois sighed in happiness, stepping back to admire her handiwork.
“Oui, it is très élégant, fit for a future baronezz!”
Molly nodded in agreement, reflecting that the change in her lady’s maid’s behavior was rather remarkable.
She might even relent to addressing her as Claudette, since she was no longer gritting her teeth every moment they spent together, moments that were now far fewer, since Miss Dubois—Claudette—had her old quarters back.
Perhaps she had been just as aggravated by their enforced proximity as Molly had been.
Their disparate temperaments were easier to manage with a little space between them.
Miss Dubois brought out a delicate pearl necklace from Molly’s jewelry box and fastened it about her neck, balancing on her tiptoes to reach.
“Ah, pearls … just right for a bride. Zey show purity … to tell Meester Scott he has found ze one he love, forever.”
Molly smiled in acknowledgment, too overcome to respond.
Claudette was an artiste, having styled Molly’s hair in a soft chignon at the nape of her neck, allowing a few delicate curls to frame her face and highlight her hazel eyes.
This simple yet refined style complemented the squared bodice and intricate lace detailing, while lending an air of quiet dignity befitting a future baroness.
Along with a pair of white gloves and a soft, gossamer shawl of sheer silk, this dinner gown was a wondrous choice for a private and romantic wedding.
Sighing with joy at her reflection in the mirror, Molly prepared to leave. As she reached the door, she turned back.
“Would you like to attend the ceremony … Claudette?”
Claudette’s mouth fell slack, her expression stunned.
“Ah, truly … you mean zat, Mees Molly?”
Molly pursed her lips and considered it.
She was not one to hold a grudge, and given their altered circumstances, it seemed only right.
Considering the other woman’s professional inclinations, attendance at a noble family’s nuptials would doubtless be of interest to someone so fashion-minded, and Molly supposed she did not object if it resulted in animated recounting belowstairs among the servants.
“I do.”
“Zen, oui! I would be honored to bear witness!”
She beckoned for the servant to follow her as she made her way toward the formal drawing room, where she found the baron waiting just beyond the threshold.
Smiling with unrestrained happiness, Molly hurried forward to take the arm he offered her.
John had asked to give her away, which had touched her deeply.
“Molly, you are … utterly ravishing, my dear!”
With a nod to Campbell, the doors to the formal drawing room swung open, revealing tall windows glittering in the candlelight from flickering beeswax tapers set into silver candelabras, the very candelabras Molly recalled seeing stored in the butler’s pantry only days before.
Elegant vases filled with hothouse flowers—soft pink roses, lavender, and white lilies, symbolizing passionate love, loyalty and grace, purity and new beginnings—lent fragrance and warmth to the room’s restrained opulence.
A fire crackled in the grand hearth to fend off the chill, and their guests were seated upon plump armchairs gathered from throughout the house. Molly felt the sting of threatening tears at the sight of so many assembled to mark this occasion, as the company rose in acknowledgment of her entrance.
His Grace and his duchess stood in the front row of the improvised seating, the duke towering over Lord and Lady Saunton.
Molly did not know Her Grace or Lady Saunton well, having met them only once in recent weeks, but she was grateful for their attendance, knowing she and Marco would require allies as they entered British society.
From the next row, Lord Trafford and his wife smiled broadly in greeting despite the proprieties of the moment.
The couple was unconventional and had been instrumental in saving their household only weeks earlier, so Molly returned the warmth with a beaming smile.
Lord Sebastian tugged at his cravat with the faintly nettled air of a man grown unaccustomed to the starched rigidity of English attire, while Mr. di Bianchi leaned against the back of his chair with the languid posture of an artist unimpressed by ceremony.
Nicholas gave a curt bow of his head, his recent ill temper absent as he glanced her up and down before inclining his head in approval.
Yet Molly scarcely noticed them, for her gaze was fixed upon Marco, who regarded her with undisguised admiration as she entered.
He wore black trousers and a matching cutaway coat that revealed crisp white linen and a luxurious silver silk waistcoat, perfectly setting off his olive skin.
His high collar was immaculate, his cravat tied in an intricate style unfamiliar to her, one she presumed to be Florentine.
Silver and black onyx secured its folds, echoing the depth of his soulful eyes, and Molly grew light-headed with wonder.
This man, with his slightly tousled dark waves and refined Latin features, was to be her husband.
She was quite certain she was marrying the handsomest man in England.
John patted her arm and began to escort her up the aisle, giving Molly the chance to note the vicar who had married Simon and Madeline the month before. Clad in simple ecclesiastical robes, he held his Book of Common Prayer and watched her approach with a welcoming smile upon his rounded face.
At last they reached the front, and John placed her hand into Marco’s, whose expression was that of a man entirely content. The vicar cleared his throat and spoke in a voice both gentle and resonant, while Molly struggled to steady the joy that threatened to overflow her composure.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony …”