Chapter 5 #2
The clergyman smiled and accepted it, laying it atop the black book. Then he instructed Stephen to place it on her finger and repeat after him.
“With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow . . . .”
How unsettling and embarrassing to hear this man she barely knew pledge to her in his low voice, “ . . . with my Body I thee worship . . .”
Sophie’s face heated anew. And he, in his turn, seemed to avoid her gaze.
At the parson’s signal, they both knelt as he prayed over them. Then he joined their hands together again, and said, “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Finally, the man of God pronounced them man and wife, “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
There. They were married. Legally, and before God.
The parson blessed them, read from the Psalms, and closed with an additional blessing for procreation. But with her ears already burning and ringing, Sophie barely heard the words.
After the ceremony, Mr. Partridge led them to a table at the rear where they signed the register, and he and the witnesses added their signatures.
All smiles, he asked, “Would you like a copy of the license for a small added fee? Makes a nice keepsake.”
“Yes,” Captain Overtree handed over the coin, and when the license was delivered, he folded it and carefully, ceremoniously, handed it to her for safekeeping. For proof.
The clergyman’s wife closed the register and said, “Now. How about a nice room for the night, and a good dinner, hmm? We have a charming little inn up the lane. Much nicer than the crowded, dirty establishments here along the harbor.”
Captain Overtree returned his leather purse into his pocket. “Thank you, but no. We shall leave directly.”
“But the next ship for the mainland doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning,” Mr. Partridge said.
“We find most couples are, em, eager to consummate their nuptials, straightaway, you see. Eloping as so many are without a father’s blessing.
” He leaned nearer the captain and suggested knowingly, “Best to do a thorough job of things, you see. Dissuades an offended father from contesting the match. All done, all in. Too late to make a fuss.”
His wife added, “So why not share your first night in one of my clean and tidy rooms? Bed ropes recently tightened. Plump new ticking. My maid washed the bedclothes herself. And a good roast dinner with my famous fish stew for starters. Hmm? What do you say?”
Helplessly, Sophie looked at Captain Overtree. He returned her gaze with a bemused expression. “My wife does not care for fish stew, I’m afraid, Mrs. Partridge. But I am amenable to the other arrangements, if . . . the missus agrees . . . ?”
Four pair of eyes looked at her expectantly.
She swallowed. “I . . . well. If we cannot sail ’til morning, we shall have to sleep somewhere, shan’t we?”
“Very true, madam,” Mr. Partridge said. “We all must sleep, wedding night or no.”
But Sophie was almost certain she saw him wink at the captain.
An hour later, Sophie and Captain Overtree sat in the inn’s parlour. The captain sawed at his roast with relish while Sophie picked at a potato.
He paused and surveyed her full plate. “Is the food not to your liking?”
“Hmm? Oh no, it’s good. I am just not very hungry.”
He set down his fork and knife with a clank. “See here. There is no need to be terrified. I have no intention of . . .” He lowered his voice. “I will not press you or expect anything from you. You needn’t sit there trembling like a cornered mouse.”
He wiped his mouth and tossed down his table napkin. “I realize your affections lie elsewhere . . . on a ship bound for Italy. I am not a brute. No matter what you think me after that incident yesterday.”
“Th-thank you,” she managed.
“Yes, I thought you’d like that. Now eat something, so we can go to bed.”
Her gaze flew up to his.
“To sleep,” he clarified, eyes hard.
Sophie ate a few more bites before surrendering to her nervous stomach.
“Look,” he said. “Go up alone and I’ll ask them to send up a maid to help you undress or . . . whatever it is ladies do before bed. I’ll stay down here for a while. Give you some privacy.”
For how long, Sophie wondered. All night? She dared not count on it. And why should he spend his wedding night alone? They were married, she reminded herself. Like it or not. For better or worse.
Sophie went upstairs into the room they’d been given, which was as clean and tidy as Mrs. Partridge had promised. In a few minutes, someone scratched on the door and opened it. A young maid of eighteen or nineteen entered, all coy smiles.
“Your husband sent me to help get you ready for your wedding night.”
Sophie’s heart pounded. What happened to “I will not press you, or expect anything from you . . . ”? Did he intend to consummate the marriage tonight after all?
Her stomach knotted at the thought.
“Joe’s bringing up the slipper bath so you can have a nice soak. Then I’ll help you into your night things.”
“Oh. Um, thank you.” Perhaps it didn’t mean what it seemed, she told herself. Perhaps he was only being thoughtful—realizing she’d had to basically live and sleep in the same clothes for two days of traveling and would like a bath before she changed for bed. Yes, that was probably all it meant.
Sophie bathed and then the maid helped her into a nightdress.
The cheeky girl winked, then left her waiting nervously.
Sophie wrung her hands, listening to the woman’s retreating footfalls and expecting them to be replaced by a heavy tread climbing the stairs in reply to whatever saucy announcement of her readiness the maid had delivered.
But the stairs remained quiet.
Was he finishing his drink? No, Wesley had distinctly told her his puritanical brother did not drink—another weakness he disapproved of in others, according to Wesley.
A quarter of an hour passed. Then half an hour.
Then an hour. She was growing both exhausted and irritable at once.
She was tempted to climb into bed and feign sleep, hoping it would dissuade him from touching her.
But how could she sleep when her nerves were wound tight, waiting every second for him to barge through the door and demand his conjugal rights?
Another hour passed. The rumble of voices in the taproom below diminished.
Still he didn’t come. Had he paid for a second room without telling her?
Found some more willing female with whom to spend the night?
She grew more vexed the longer she allowed her imagination to play havoc with her peace of mind.
Finally, she gave up wondering. She tied a dressing gown over her nightdress and tiptoed down the stairs.
As she neared the archway to the taproom, she heard the crackle of a large fire and the low rise and fall of a pair of voices in quiet conversation—his voice not among them.
She peeked around the threshold. The room was empty except for three men.
At one end of the counter, young Mr. Partridge sat on a stool talking companionably with the barman, as the older man dried glasses.
And there, slumped in an inglenook, was Captain Overtree, the dregs of a pint in one hand, peering at a small oval he held in the other.
She crossed the few yards that separated them, trying to ignore the raised-brow look the barman gave her.
Nearing his elbow, she hissed, “Captain, what are you doing?”
He tucked the oval frame into his pocket before she could gather more than the faint impression of a face, then glanced up at her from beneath a fall of black hair. “Staying away from you. Trying to, at any rate.”
“What were you looking at?”
“Nothing.” He finished his pint.
“I was told you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t—usually. But there’s nothing usual about tonight. It’s my wedding night.” He chuckled bitterly. “Some comfort was required.”
“Come upstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because you are embarrassing yourself. And me.”
“Because our young Mr. Pheasant, or whatever his name was, and Mr. Thompkins there might wonder why I prefer to spend the evening here than in my . . . your bedchamber?”
“Yes.” Was he trying to hurt her feelings? Already regretting their marriage? She thought of the portrait he’d tucked away. Was he mourning the loss of the woman he would have preferred to marry—a woman he loved?
“Come, Captain.” She took his elbow and tried to pull him to his feet. He did not budge. She turned to the barman. “Mr. Thompkins, would you please help me get my . . . husband to bed?”
“Ma’am, if I had a wife as young and pretty as you, I wouldn’t need anyone to drag me to her.”
“Thank you. Now, please just help me . . .” She picked up the captain’s discarded coat from a chair nearby.
The man slung one of the captain’s arms around his shoulder and helped him off the bench and up the stairs. In their nuptial chamber, they half-dropped him, half-rolled him into bed.
Mr. Thompkins asked, “You can undress him yourself, I take it?”
“I . . . am sure I can manage. Thank you.”
The man left, closing the door behind himself.
Sophie regarded her bridegroom—eyes closed, dark hair unruly, legs askew. With a sigh, she wrestled off the captain’s boots, glad he had removed his own coat downstairs. She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his waistcoat buttons, then stopped.
Since he was sound asleep, she studied him closely by candlelight. His face was so much softer and gentler in repose. The scar he tried to hide, more vulnerable. He smelled of ale and smoke, and she wrinkled her nose.
“You don’t deserve it,” she whispered, “but . . .” She kissed her finger and pressed it lightly to his temple. “Everyone should be kissed on their wedding night.”
Exhausted, she lay beside him—her in her dressing gown and him in his clothes—and soon fell asleep.
Sometime during the night, the captain moaned and turned over. He threw an arm around her, and murmured a sorrowful “Jenny . . .”
Who was “Jenny”? It wasn’t a name she recognized. Sophie gingerly removed his heavy arm, wondering what in the world she had gotten herself into, and already beginning to regret it.