Chapter Seventeen
Alastair Cole offered his arm to his sister. “It’s time,” he whispered, nudging her gently with his elbow. “I made a promise, and I intend to see it through.”
Olivia took up his arm but held it as one desperate to be pulled from the drink, not into it. “There is something to be said for going back on one’s word. I don’t think I fully appreciated that until now.”
He chuckled softly, adjusted her grip on his arm, and bent his head to her ear. “You are simply making noises, Livvy. Your argument has neither passion nor reason. Chin up. Eyes front. Smile. There you go. You look lovely.” He kissed her cheek. “He’s waiting for you.”
Olivia nodded, swallowed, and made to fall in step beside her brother. There was a moment’s hesitation just as they would have started out. Faltering slightly, she disobeyed Alastair’s eyes-front order and gave him her full attention. “I’m glad you proved to be such a poor shot. Twice.”
He pretended to take umbrage. “I was drunk, remember.” He patted her hand. “But I am glad of it, too. Now, shall we?”
Olivia squeezed his arm slightly, her grasp no longer as fierce as it had been. “Very well.” She took a calming breath, then set her eyes in the direction she meant to go. “This is not so different from the first time.”
Beside her, she sensed Alastair’s confusion, but also his relief that she intended to go forward.
She did not try to explain herself. The memory that came to her was one that she embraced alone, and it remained more dear because of it.
The same emotions surfaced: uncertainty, excitement, wariness.
She’d stood in the entrance hall of Breckenridge’s hell and accepted his challenge, in spite of everything she felt in that moment, to come to him.
No, it was not so very different now.
He was there once again, waiting for her, perhaps only marginally more confident that she would arrive to take her place beside him.
Olivia suspected she was the only one who glimpsed relief in his eyes when she appeared framed in the alcove.
She knew he didn’t doubt she loved him, only that she loved him enough to run the gauntlet that was the center aisle of St. Michael’s church.
It was not the march to the altar that was intimidating.
It was the sea of faces on either side of it that gave her pause, and in this regard her imagination hardly stood up to the reality of the thing.
She was aware of the gazes turned in her direction, of the assessments they made, of the encouragement that so many pairs of eyes offered.
His sisters were there, all three, husbands and children flanking them.
Dr. Pettibone had a seat on the aisle. Lady Rivendale was among the attendees, and she looked on approvingly, supporting the rumor by her condescension that she’d been instrumental in bringing them all to this very place.
Mr. Restell Gardner and his wife had come as well.
They shared their pew with four gentlemen—four strangers who had once come forward to protect her.
Guardian angels, really, whom Olivia would always think of as whiskey, gin, and two pints of ale.
Mr. Gardner had brought them forward, had the story from them, and like everyone else, they were here now to wish her happy.
The faces gradually faded into Olivia’s peripheral vision as Griffin filled the whole of it.
He stood just to the right of the minister, strikingly handsome in his double-breasted black frock coat with the claw-hammer tails.
Mr. Mason had done right by him, turning him out with nary a wrinkle in his trousers and waistcoat and having the good sense to insist on a pristine white neckcloth tied in the intricate Oriental.
His eyes were all for her, and she did not shy away from his glance.
Mrs. McCutcheon and her entourage of seamstresses and dressers had done right by her as well.
Olivia imagined they would be moved to more teary emotion if they were witness to Griffin’s appreciation of their handiwork.
That had been their response when they’d first stepped back to gauge the success of their efforts, and Griffin’s approbation could not help but bring about a similar response.
The gentle, draping folds of her white satin gown brushed together as she walked, then rustled like whispers all around her.
A band of pale pink silk edged the bodice, and wide ribbon bands encrusted with seed pearls bordered the hem and cuffed the short sleeves.
Her hair, her own hair, was arranged off her neck in a knot every bit as intricate as the Oriental with the added touches of seed pearls and delicate white rose buds.
When she first saw her reflection in the cheval glass she’d wondered at the weeping response of Mrs. McCutcheon and her helpers, but now, seeing herself reflected in Griffin’s dark eyes, she knew an urge to indulge in some teary emotion herself.
“Who gives this woman…”
Olivia heard the words, understood their import, and knew a certain peace in her heart that it was Alastair who stood by her.
The irony that he should be the one to give her over to Breckenridge’s care was not lost on any of them, but there was no desperation in the act this time, no avoiding responsibility to have it taken up by another.
Alastair spoke his part with clear deliberation, honoring them all with his words.
“I do.”
Olivia’s hand was placed in the one that Griffin held out to her, and she knew the very rightness of it as Alastair backed away and she came to stand at Griffin’s side. This man, this man who would be her husband, held her hand and all of her heart.
It was well past ten when they were finally alone.
The guests, and almost all of them had accepted invitations to stay at Wright Hall for several days following the wedding, had retired to their respective rooms in the mostly renovated east wing.
Griffin and Olivia had elected to stay in the part of the hall that was still largely a work in progress.
It was no particular sacrifice to take the lesser accommodations. Drafts were of no account on a night neither of them meant to enjoy long out of bed.
“That will be our supper,” Griffin said, responding to the knock at the door.
He stepped back, eyebrow lifted when he saw Nat standing uneasily in the hallway.
“Here’s a fellow I thought was all tucked in.
” He opened the door wider, ushered Nat inside, and gave Olivia a quizzing glance over the child’s head.
Olivia had turned away from the dressing table when Griffin announced their supper had come.
She waved Nat to her side and was as puzzled as Griffin when he fairly dragged his feet in coming to her.
Clearly he had not arrived at their room in search of another bedtime story, a tactic he used from time to time when he wanted reassurance he could not quite articulate.
Olivia had undone her elaborately dressed hair and run her fingers through the waves.
She pulled it to one side and began to plait it, aware that it was something Nat had observed her doing before and found fascinating.
His eyes, though wide and fully alert, did not follow the deft movements of her fingers.
“What is it, Nat? Has there been a dustup in the nursery?” She wondered at the wisdom of putting so many children in a suite, but Griffin’s sisters were certain the nannies were up to the task.
“No, miss. Everyone’s sleeping. I slipped away.” He revealed this last with neither pride nor guilt. It was simply a statement of fact.
“So you did. You have some reason for it, I collect.”
He nodded, said nothing.
Behind him, Griffin did not have to temper his smile while he spoke in grave and important accents. “I think her ladyship is wanting the favor of a reply.”
Olivia noted that Nat gave a little start and his eyes widened a bit more. “He’s teasing us both,” she said. “Me more than you. He knows perfectly well that I am unused to the idea that I am suddenly become ‘her ladyship.’ Now, tell me. What is toward?”
Nat blurted it out. “Thomas says that we’re married.”
Olvia was so taken aback by this intelligence that for a moment she couldn’t think who Thomas was. Griffin had it immediately and told her.
“Juliet’s son. My up-to-every-trick nephew.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “Of course. The one with the cowlick.” She stopped plaiting her hair and took up one of Nat’s small hands.
“It is never wise to place too much confidence in someone with a cowlick. Think of it, Nat—he cannot properly manage the particulars of his own hair.” Griffin snorted, but she ignored him in favor of studying Nat’s sober countenance.
“We are not married, but I cannot tell whether it is a relief or of some concern to you.”
He didn’t respond directly but looked at the ring on her hand, a square-cut emerald in a bed of twenty-one diamonds, the gold band retooled to fit her slender finger. “Thomas says that since I gave over the ring, it means we’re married.”
Griffin approached and put his hand on Nat’s shoulder. “Clearly, Thomas will have to answer for himself, but the facts are these: you held the ring for me and stood at my side. The vows that were exchanged were between Miss Cole and me, and bound us together as husband and wife.”
Nat considered this. A crease appeared between his eyebrows as they knit. He caught his bottom lip, worried it. The trembling only marginally eased and the narrow line of his scar was stretched by the tension in his countenance.
Olivia sensed it first. She had Nat’s hand, Griffin, his shoulder, and the child still had no idea how he was bound to them.
She lifted her eyes to Griffin, saw he’d come to the same understanding.
She nodded faintly, surrending the right to make the statement because it was for a father to say to his son.