Chapter Seven
The following morning had them carefully crossing what remained of the footbridge.
It hadn’t all been swept away, merely the railing, leaving the platform soggy and mud caked but passable.
And so they headed for town. The sun was shining through a sky that was perfectly blue and punctuated by clouds so picturesque they might have been painted by a Renaissance master.
As they passed the inn, there was a great deal of commotion in the inn yard, and when Cecily glanced in that direction, she let out a gasp of alarm.
Fear clawed at her. Fear that once again, fate was showing how capricious it could truly be.
“That’s Bartwell’s family crest. He and Mother have found me. ”
“Then we shall make haste to the church,” he told her. “If there is one thing that is not in question, Bartwell has no authority in this region. I am known here. My title is known here. And the vicar will be on our side.”
Hurrying across the street to the church, they found the vicar walking the worn path between the vicarage and the church.
“Your Grace!”
“We need to be married. Quickly. As quickly as you have ever performed such a service in all your days,” Malcolm said.
“Do you have a special license?”
“No. We will do a common license and I shall reward the church handsomely.”
The vicar nodded, his eyes aglow with ecclesiastical greed. “Very well, Your Grace. Repeat after me. I, Malcolm Alexander Winthrop, do swear that I intend to proceed to the marriage of myself and—pardon me, dear lady, but what is your name?”
“Cecily Ann Upshaw,” she replied.
“And you are twenty-one years of age, obviously,” the vicar mused.
“Obviously?” she parroted, insulted by the insinuation that she looked haggard in some way.
“I only mean to say that you would not be here otherwise,” the vicar assured her.
“Oh, yes. Five and twenty… well, I shall be in four days.”
“That will do,” the vicar replied, quite pleased. “Now, Your Grace… swear… proceed… marriage… ah, yes, here we are. Miss Cecily Ann Upshaw, that I know of no lawful impediment of kinship, or any other cause, that would hinder said marriage.”
Malcolm repeated the whole thing, not missing a single word even if the vicar had glossed over a few of them.
“Good, good!” the vicar said, much like a schoolmaster praising a student. “And you have lived within the parish of Melverly, for longer than four weeks?”
“I have lived within the parish of Melverly for longer than four weeks,” Malcolm repeated, though he was clearly losing patience.
“And you are above the age of one and twenty as is Miss Upshaw?”
“I am well above the age of one and twenty as is Miss Upshaw,” he ground out. “Can we not hurry this along?”
“Quite right… do come inside the church and we shall perform the ceremony.”
They all shuffled into the wattle-and-daub church that had already stood for centuries.
Mud spattered, waterlogged, certainly worse for wear, and both of them as unrepentant sinners given their previous congress, they repeated their vows and signed the register.
The ink was not yet dry when the door to the church burst open and the ugly reality of the fate she’d narrowly avoided walked in.
“What is the meaning of this? I shall sue you for alienation of affections!” Lord Bartwell shouted.
“There was no affection to alienate!” Cecily snapped. “I never agreed to marry you, nor would I have ever consented to do so!”
“Do you have documentation of an arrangement?” the vicar asked.
Bartwell stepped forward, flourishing a document.
The vicar had to practically snatch it out of the air to review it.
When he did so, he frowned. “Miss Upshaw—forgive me, Her Grace—does not appear to have signed this document. It is but a letter of consent from her mother. And given her age, such consent would not be required… nor would it be binding.”
“You do not know that!” Bartwell shouted. “You are a simple country vicar!”
“I assure you I am anything but simple,” the vicar said with a smile.
“I am a man of God, ordained by him, entrusted by the Archbishop himself to act as surrogate in the matter of license issuance. Whatever you wish to do in the House of Lords is at your discretion, sir, but according to the laws of the church—and therefore the laws of England—the young lady was free to marry as she chose.”
“Cecily,” her mother said, “You can’t possibly want to be married to this… this… betrayer!”
“On the contrary. I can, I want to have, I have done so, and am content to remain so,” Cecily corrected her.
“Do not act concerned for me when you all but sold me off to Lord Bartwell to cover your own gambling debts! You need not bother to darken the door at Sedgewick Hall for you will not be permitted entrance.”
“Vicar,” Malcolm said, dropping a handful of coins into the vicar’s outstretched hand. “A hefty donation to the church will be coming your way. And we do thank you for your service.”
“The lord rewards generosity, Your Grace,” the vicar intoned without missing a beat. “If these two attempt to depart before a suitable amount of time has passed, I shall summon the magistrate to deal with them. I wish the utmost felicitations to you and your bride. Godspeed to you both.”
Exiting the church, they made for the livery where Malcolm promptly hired horses to convey them to Sedgewick Hall. They left behind all the schemes and lies to embark upon the future that should have been theirs six years earlier.