Chapter 13
“W e can still run to New York,” Portia’s father said. “Are you absolutely certain about this, my darling?”
Her father’s American accent filled the coach as it rolled down Fleet Street, heading towards St. Paul’s. She was astonished by the crowds of people awaiting her arrival. Hundreds of them lined the road with flags in hand, cheering and throwing flowers into the streets.
The coach was bedecked with silk ribbons and flowers as was expected for a grand bridal affair. She had no idea how Rufus had done it in such a short period of time. But then again, he was the Duke of Ferrars. And dukes’ weddings were usually events for the whole city!
She had assumed when he picked a quick wedding that it would be in her family chapel. After all, many of her aunts and uncles had gotten married in it. But no, he had managed to arrange St. Paul’s Cathedral in but a few days’ time. And not only that, he’d arranged for her to be welcomed by crowds. Perhaps it was because he had put notices in the papers, stating that the Duke of Ferrars had found his bride and that the wedding would take place immediately due to his very good fortune and her superior charms, and all of London should rejoice.
The ton had also all been invited.
Her name was on everyone’s lips and in all the newssheets. And because she was wedding Ferrars, at present, no one dared to say an ill word.
It was going to be the grandest wedding of the Season, even though there wasn’t a great deal of warning. She felt nervous, but she also felt excited. And she loved her father dearly.
She eyed the strong, handsome man who had swept her mother off her feet and taken her away from all of the society of London to a new bold way of existence.
“New York?” her father prompted again kindly. “It’s all happening terribly fast. You’re sure?”
“Papa, I am sure,” she affirmed, fidgeting with the exquisite lace at her bodice.
“Truly,” he returned, cocking his head to the side. “You and I could flee for the coast. A ship will be waiting and your mother will meet us. You know she would. She loves New York City.”
Portia laughed. It was true. Her mother did adore New York. She loved it too, but no matter what her father said, this was where she wanted to be, but she understood his sentiment. “Thank you, Papa. You do like him, don’t you?”
Her father was a printer who’d put his entire life into bringing truths and important facts to people. The one thing he hated more than anything in the world was people being misled through fictions presented as the truth, and he wished for the world to understand that they deserved so much more than they had.
Her father believed that this was no longer the age of kings, but the age of reason, and it was an opportunity for all to know freedom, not just an elite few.
He sighed. “Can I ever truly like an English aristocrat? Aside from our family, of course.”
“Is this hard for you, Papa?” she asked.
He frowned. “In what way?”
“That I’m marrying a duke and not an American.”
He was silent for a long moment. “In many ways, you are actually choosing the sort of man that your mother longed for in her first Season. She was so determined to have a duke that she didn’t even want to consider me. But your family knew that it was love between us. And I don’t actually care if Ferrars is a duke or if he’s a farmer, if he’s an American or if he’s an Englishman. My only fear, Portia,” he began, “is that I do not see that you two have told each other of your love. And I worry that he is cold, and that he will struggle to love you the way you deserve.”
“Oh, Papa,” she rushed, her heart aching at her father’s concern. She reached across the small space of the coach and took his strong hands in hers. Hands that had been so often stained by ink and labored to work his printing press over and over again, bringing knowledge to the world. “You are right. I don’t know if he loves me, but I think that he does. And the truth is, and I cannot believe that I’m about to say it, but I am coming to love him, and I love the sort of life that I will have with him.”
Love. It was true. And it was quite a realization to have on the way to one’s wedding. But there it was.
“Do you really understand the sort of life you will have with him?” he ventured gently.
“Papa, I have grown up for half my life in the ton, surrounded by family, how could I not understand it?”
He paused, gathering his words. “But that’s exactly what I’m concerned about. You have grown up surrounded by Briarwoods. They are not regular members of the ton. I know you know how unusual they are, but I just wish you to be absolutely certain. This is the last moment you can change your mind, you know.”
Though she was touched, she tsked. “Papa, you shouldn’t be doing this in the coach on the way to the church. You should have said this last night.”
He scowled. “Your mother kept me very occupied last night. I think she was afraid I might make this sort of declaration.”
“Well, Mama was right.”
“She usually is,” her father agreed, squeezing her hands. And then he lifted one of his hands to her cheek, cupping it and gazing into her eyes adoringly. “You are my beloved daughter, Portia, and it would break my heart to see you live an unsatisfied life.”
She tilted her cheek into his palm, recalling all those years when she had sat beside him as he’d printed pamphlets, rode his shoulders, and been tossed into the air until she couldn’t breathe for laughing. How she’d been loved!
“No one can do that to me, Papa, except me. You taught me that. And so did Mama. My husband cannot take away who I am.”
Her father nodded. “Good. If you know that, I feel better.”
“But, Papa, I know this is right.”
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
The cacophony of the crowds increased as the coach pulled up before the steps of St. Paul’s.
She looked to the window and gazed out to the massive cathedral that was the heart of the city in so many ways.
The door to the coach opened.
Her father climbed down, then offered his hand up to her. She took it and descended slowly out to the wide sprawling steps. She clasped her bouquet of beautiful flowers in hand.
Nearly shaking with how important this day was, she drew in a bolstering breath, and then they began to climb the steps and head towards the entrance that lead into the nave.
Her family was already inside. The church, no doubt, was full to the brim with people.
And as her father guided her into the beautiful, soaring space, she allowed herself to smile. She did not feel an ounce of fear, no, she felt only anticipation. How thrilling it was going to be, being Rufus’s wife! How she longed to spend her days with him.
Her father began leading her down the aisle. What felt like the entire ton gazed at her, amazed. Their eyes were wide, their jewels flashed, their beautifully coiffured hair shone in the morning light. And their multihued, perfectly tailored clothes were a sea of cheerful colors.
This was a wedding after all.
And they all wanted to see her. The one who had caught the Duke of Ferrars.
She strode down the wide aisle in her own perfect gown—a gown that had been made quickly, but one that fit her to perfection. It was covered in embroidered flowers and seed pearls at the hem and at the throat. It was simple, elegant, and yet she felt bold in it and beautiful.
Down the long nave, she caught sight of her future husband.
The duke stood, imperious.
It did not surprise her. In this environment, of course, he would be distant, a fortress, but all the while hiding his shyness at being forced to be in company.
She hoped one day he would tell her exactly why he was so shy, but that would take time and it would take trust. She just had to be patient, and he would let her in.
As her father brought her before the duke and handed her over, her future husband’s eyes shone with triumph, and he beamed down at her.
“No regrets?” Rufus asked softly.
“I’m marrying you. How could I have regrets?” she teased.
And then he took her to face the archbishop. Of course, Ferrars would have the archbishop!
The ceremony went by in a rush.
The archbishop read from his book, and she and Rufus both said their I dos. And, in the last moment, something crossed his face—a look of relief…as if he had finally accomplished something that he had always needed to do. And, of course, he had. He’d found his duchess. It was a very important thing for a duke to do.
She did not know why, but it gave her a moment’s pause.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then his shoulders went back and down, and it was as if he was stepping into a long-known role.
It reminded her of her Aunt Estella becoming Goneril.
Rufus…was gone. Replaced by the duke .
She tried to catch his eye, but he turned out to the crowd. He took her hand and then, to the cheers of the onlookers, escorted her out to the steps of St. Paul’s, where people cheered anew and threw flowers at them.
She waved back excitedly.
“A little less enthusiasm,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just a little bit less enthusiasm. You wave so beautifully,” he said, “but they will enjoy it even more if you are more reserved.”
“I am not very reserved,” she pointed out, still waving so that her lace shook.
He cleared his throat slightly. “I know, but in this, it would be perfect. You are a duchess now,” he said.
She frowned inwardly for a moment and then waved a little bit more carefully. A little bit less excitedly, perhaps with a little less American flavor.
She looked up at her husband.
He was not waving at all. He stood there simply absorbing the approval and praise of the crowd, hands folded behind his back. He did not need their approval or praise, she realized. He did not need the approval or praise of anyone.
But as she gazed up at him, she wondered if that need had been driven out of him as a child, the need for others to like him.
She swallowed. She was being silly. It was just wedding-day nerves. Her Rufus, the one who had won her heart, was waiting to come back out as soon as they were alone. That was all that mattered.