Chapter Six
The morning of the wedding dawned clear and without rain, an unusual occurrence in London at this time of the year.
Georgiana and Havers had chosen between them the pale blue morning dress that had been her papa’s favourite, teamed, as it was chilly still, with a dark blue velvet spencer and a bonnet trimmed with matching ribbons.
On her hands Georgiana wore her best silk gloves, and she carried the reticule Papa had given her for her seventeenth birthday, only days before he died.
Havers had pronounced her pretty as a picture, but Georgiana was not so sure of that.
A glimpse in the mirror, before they left, had shown her a girl who in her own eyes appeared plain and uninteresting.
Nothing like her vivacious friend Fanny. She did not feel vivacious at all.
However, at precisely five minutes to eleven, she stiffened her spine as she gazed up at the imposing brick building that was St James’s church, Piccadilly.
It had been designed, she’d discovered, in an effort to distract herself the night before, by no less a worthy than Sir Christopher Wren in the aftermath of the Great Fire of London.
A formidable history for any church and a daunting prospect for a young lady in her condition.
The uneasy sensation burgeoned that everyone she and Havers had passed on her walk here was well aware of her fall from grace.
However, she was a Frampton and Framptons did not allow themselves to feel dejected about anything.
This was possibly the most important day of her life and would have a lasting effect on not just her own future, but also on the future of her unborn child.
She would meet it as she’d met every event in her life so far.
With stoicism and determination. It didn’t matter than she wasn’t classically beautiful like Fanny, nor that she didn’t have her friend’s ancient pedigree.
The man whom she was to marry would be receiving a fortune far in excess of Fanny’s portion.
He would just have to think himself lucky and make the best of it, as she intended to do.
She slipped her hand into the crook of Havers’ arm, glad of her comforting presence. “Let us go inside, Maggie.”
The interior of the church was splendid.
Just what any young lady would hope for in a marriage location, although she couldn’t help but think that small and insignificant might have better suited this particular young lady.
A high, barrel-vaulted ceiling, supported by Corinthian columns, rose above the nave, and wooden galleries opened up on three sides, supported by square pillars.
Above the altar an intricately carved reredos had to be the work of Grinling Gibbons.
Aunt Patience had made sure Georgiana had an education about things she considered essential for young ladies, such as styles of architecture and decoration, but this was the first time such knowledge had come in handy. And probably the last.
Georgiana, resisting the impulse to inform Havers of this uninteresting titbit of information, could not quite see what difference it made whether one knew something was by a well-known artist or not, as the object didn’t cease to be a thing of beauty just because you were ignorant of its creator’s name.
However, apart from a cursory glance, she was not paying attention to her surroundings, exalted as they might be.
She was looking up the aisle towards the altar where four men and a woman were standing waiting.
Before the altar, gowned in long clerical robes, that must be the Reverend Andrewes, an elderly gentleman in possession of a head of thick white hair in a rather old-fashioned style.
As he turned to look at her, so too did his four companions.
One of them was unmistakably Mrs. Dove-Lyon, a somewhat somber figure dressed all in black again, and with an even heavier veil than before shrouding her whole head.
Beside the gentlemen, she seemed small and somehow less imposing than she had two days since in her own parlor.
Then, she’d reminded Georgiana of a spider at the center of her web, whereas now she was as innocuous as…
as a small black cat. A witch’s cat, perhaps, though…
The men standing by her side matched her well, as they, too, were dressed in somber black, as though they were attending a funeral instead of a marriage ceremony.
Perhaps her intended husband felt that he was.
The possibility that he might not be as willing a participant as she’d imagined arose, to be pushed firmly away.
She would not think about things like that.
Too distressing. As Havers had whispered to her this morning before they set out, any gentleman would be thankful to receive her and her fortune in marriage and would have no grounds for complaint.
Now, which one of them must be her husband to be?
She hadn’t meant to stare, but curiosity got the better of her. The man standing beside Mrs. Dove-Lyon was huge. A bear of a man, with an air of protection about him. He must surely be here only to escort his employer. She dismissed him as not being her betrothed.
Of the remaining two gentlemen, the one on the left was taller, slimmer and younger than his companion.
Even standing still and staring down the aisle towards her, he had about him a masculine and decidedly military air.
Surely this must be the captain? On top of that, he was smartly dressed in a black tailcoat that must surely have come from Weston’s, Papa’s favorite tailor, and his shining top boots had to be from Hoby’s.
He was holding a pair of elegant kid gloves in a casual manner, and although the points of his collar were high, they were not ridiculously so.
At least he was not a dandy or a fop. She could not have abided it if he had been.
And, joy of joy, he was not old, although he couldn’t quite be classed as young, either.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon had not lied on that score.
The second man, to whom she bestowed only the most cursory of glances, was altogether a more rough-cut individual, blue-chinned and with his hair cut so short as to almost appear shaven.
He had to be this man’s servant, as he couldn’t possibly be a friend of his, could he?
The tall gentleman had to be her betrothed.
Didn’t he? For one terrible moment she feared she might be mistaken and this rough individual might be the man she had agreed to marry and her heart did a terrified little skip.
She tightened her hold on Havers’ arm and her maid shot her a worried frown.
“It’s the tall feller,” she whispered to her mistress. Maybe she’d guessed Georgiana’s sudden fear.
Bracing herself, Georgiana began to walk slowly up the aisle, with Havers dropping back to just behind her now.
And as she progressed, she studied the features of her intended (the tall feller) with interest. His dark hair was artistically arranged ‘à la Grecian’, above a pair of darkly brooding eyes and a long aquiline nose.
Beneath the nose his mouth was set in a harsh line that one could almost describe as cruel.
He did not look happy, but she didn’t think the cause of his unhappiness was this wedding.
No. His discontent was deep-seated and of long standing.
She let a little smile of welcome hover on her lips, but he didn’t smile back. Instead, his devilishly dark brows met in a frown, as though he found her lacking. Had he been expecting someone taller, prettier…more like Fanny?
She bristled. How dare he turn his nose up at her.
He might be taking on someone else’s child, but he was also getting one of the largest fortunes in London, no, in England, in return.
As a man venal enough to be lured by her money, he had no leg to stand on.
Drawing herself up taller, which was difficult as she stood only five feet and two inches in her boots, she stuck her chin in the air and assumed her most haughty expression.
If he was going to look down his nose at her, she would return the favor.
A few more steps brought her level with him and she made a point of not dropping her gaze as a more submissive woman might have. She wanted him to know right from the start that the favor he was doing her was only equivalent to the one she was doing him in return. Possibly lesser.
The frown on his face softened, and she saw with a start that he was really most good looking, or might be if he allowed himself to smile, even if it was in a devilish manner.
A rakish manner. Like most young ladies she’d always had a soft spot for a rake, which might have been why she’d succumbed so easily to Alexander.
She had a feeling a smile from the captain would not be a frequent occurrence and straightaway determined that she would wheedle one out of him before too long.
Just so she could see how handsome he really was.
However, deciding politeness should be adhered to from the start, she held out her hand to him. “Good morning, Captain Carlyon.” He was definitely of the military variety and not a sea captain. Good. One naval officer and the vagaries of the sea had been enough for her.
He took her hand in a firm grip and looked her in the eye.
“Captain Fitzwilliam Carlyon at your service, Miss Frampton.” His voice was pleasingly deep and refined, matching his dashing appearance, and his eyes, she noted, were so dark as to be almost black.
Or it could have been the poor light in the church, but she fancied not.
“Thank you,” was all she could think of in reply. The vicar must be thinking this the strangest wedding he’d ever had to officiate. Or perhaps, considering his church’s proximity to the Lyon’s Den, he was used to these hurried ceremonies.