Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Benedict had imagined his wedding only in the abstract.
There would be a church, a bride selected after suitable consideration and a breakfast at which elderly relations drank too much champagne.
He had never pictured himself standing before the altar of the Alderley parish church on a wet Thursday morning while Harriet argued with the vicar in the vestry.
“Mrs. Mercer has not disturbed the altar, Mr. Collins,” Harriet insisted.
“She moved one arrangement from the register table because my father cannot sign his name without sweeping it to the floor with his sleeve.
As none of us wishes the first act of this marriage to be the destruction of Lady Denham's hothouse roses, I cannot think why you object.”
The vicar glanced helplessly at Benedict.
Mr. Collins had baptized them both, watched them quarrel through half a dozen parish fêtes and once been required to retrieve Harriet from the church tower after she climbed it on a dare.
He ought to have known better than to seek aid from Benedict now.
“The difficulty is not Mrs. Mercer's presence, Miss Aldridge It is her conviction that the vestry may be rearranged whenever its contents fail to suit her.”
Benedict examined the table. The heavy china bowl stood near enough to the edge that Lord Alderley's sleeve would almost certainly catch it. “Mrs. Mercer may move the flowers. If my mother complains, you may say the groom authorized their rescue.”
Mr. Collins released the sigh of a man who saw the authority of the Church defeated by domestic practicality. Harriet, meanwhile, gave Benedict a look of guarded approval before turning away to adjust one of her gloves.
It was not how Benedict had imagined his wedding, but as Harriet had already informed him, very little in his life would occur precisely as he imagined it after that day.
She wore a gown of deep blue wool with a narrow band of lace at the throat and a small gold brooch that had belonged to her mother.
There had been no time for anything new, and Harriet had refused her father's suggestion that they delay long enough to have a proper wedding dress made.
Benedict had thought her beautiful at the betrothal dinner.
Today, with her dark hair arranged simply and anxiety carefully concealed beneath determination, she made it difficult for him to remember why he had once considered peace a desirable quality in a wife.
It ought to have troubled him how easily he’d accepted what should have been a dreaded fate. But the notion of being married to Harriet, prickles and all, was surprisingly appealing. Though he’d never dare to admit such a thing to his mother. She’d be insufferable.
“Are you ready?” Benedict asked when Mr. Collins and Mrs. Mercer had gone into the church.
Harriet looked toward the open door. Their families waited beyond it along with a handful of tenants who had learned of the ceremony and appeared without invitation.
Her hand tightened upon the edge of her cloak.
“Not really,” she admitted. “Though I imagine that is an inconvenient admission with the vicar, both our families and a significant portion of the parish assembled to watch the spectacle of our marriage.”
Bemused, his lips quirked upward. It was the first entirely honest answer anyone had given that morning. Benedict held out his hand. “I am no more prepared than you are. I had been led to believe a man was given considerably longer than three days to reconcile himself to matrimony.”
Her gaze came back to him, clearly nonplussed. “That is not particularly reassuring.”
“It was not intended to be. You asked me for honesty, and honesty compels me to admit that I have no notion what our marriage will become. I do not think it will benefit either of us to pretend that we do not have warranted trepidation.”
For a moment she merely looked at his hand. Then she placed hers in it. Her fingers were cold despite her gloves. Benedict closed his hand around them, careful not to hold too tightly.
“There is still time to refuse,” he said. “The settlements have not been executed, and no vow has been spoken. If you cannot do this, I will find another means of satisfying Selby's claim.”
“With what? Your own inheritance? A loan against Denham that would leave both estates vulnerable?” Harriet turned fully toward him.
Fear remained in her face, but indignation had already begun to master it.
“Do not offer me an escape which merely transfers the cost to you and call it freedom. I gave you my answer, Benedict. I do not withdraw it simply because I am frightened by the speed with which everything has changed.”
“I know you do not. But I will not have you believe the choice vanished because our fathers reached an agreement.”
Her expression softened, though her voice remained firm. “Then believe that I have made it. And stop placing the door before me each time I take a step forward. I may begin to suspect that you are the one who wishes to flee.”
That possibility was more absurd than she knew. Benedict lifted her hand and placed it upon his arm. “Very well. I shall offer you marriage instead and trust that you will inform me with your customary delicacy if you regret accepting it.”
Her grip tightened. Together, they entered the church.
The ceremony was brief. Benedict heard every word and retained almost none of them.
He was too conscious of Harriet beside him, of the quiet certainty with which she spoke her vows and the slight tremor of her hand when he placed the ring upon it.
The ring had belonged to his grandmother.
His mother had produced it the previous evening with an expression of such satisfaction that he had declined to ask how long she had kept it ready.
When the vicar pronounced them husband and wife, Harriet looked at Benedict as if expecting some visible transformation.
He felt altered, though nothing outward had changed.
She was still Harriet. He was still himself.
And yet her future had been placed in his hands while his had become bound to hers.
It was an impulse, one that he’d never felt before and would certainly never have given into.
But he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss upon it.
Then Benedict turned before he forgot they were standing before both families, half the parish and a vicar who had already been forced to surrender on the matter of flowers.
The wedding breakfast was held at Alderley because Harriet had insisted the tenants who came to the church should be fed.
Tables were crowded into the dining room and morning room, while additional food was carried to the servants' hall. It was not grand. There were no musicians, no fashionable guests and no speeches of consequence. And yet it was not lacking. Everyone who mattered in both their respective lives, the people they’d both known since the cradle, were present.
Harriet moved among the tenants with ease, accepting their good wishes and answering questions about repairs to the south meadow. They looked to her rather than to Lord Alderley. Benedict wondered how long that had been true and how little attention any of them had paid to it.
He found Mrs. Mercer supervising the packing of Harriet's trunks in the upper passage. She was a spare woman of nearly sixty, with iron-gray hair and an expression that suggested she had been disappointed by men as a class for many years.
“My lord,” she said. “Her ladyship's belongings will be ready within the hour.”
Her ladyship. Benedict had not yet grown accustomed to hearing Harriet called that. “Your belongings should be sent with the last of the luggage, unless you prefer to have them collected tomorrow.”
Mrs. Mercer ceased folding a shawl. “My belongings, my lord?”
“Rooms have been prepared for you at Denham. Harriet has endured enough sudden alteration this week. She should not be required to lose the person who has attended her since childhood merely we have wed.”
The older woman's suspicion did not disappear, but it shifted. “No one informed me that I was to accompany her.”
“That is because I made the arrangement this morning. If you do not wish to come, I will not compel you, but I hope you will. She will need someone in the house whom she trusts and who will always have her best interests at heart. It will ease her way, I think. Don’t you?
” He glanced at the open trunk nearest the wall.
A small wooden box rested inside, its lid raised to reveal several pieces of modest jewelry.
A garnet cross, a strand of pearls and a pair of gold bracelets had been set apart from the rest. “Those belonged to her mother?”
“Yes. Lord Alderley suggested they might be sold with the other unentailed pieces.” Mrs. Mercer's mouth tightened. “Her ladyship refused.”
“Nothing in that box will be sold.” Benedict closed the lid carefully. “Nor will anything else that belongs to Harriet be disposed of without her consent. If Lord Alderley raises the subject again, you may refer him to me.”
Mrs. Mercer studied him for a moment. Some portion of her suspicion eased. “I will see that she knows it.”
“There is no need. I did not make the decision in order to be thanked for it.”
“There may not be a need, my lord, but I expect there is a reason.”
He left before she could say more.
By the time the carriage was brought around, the rain had stopped. Harriet stood on the front steps with her father and sister, attempting not to cry. Benedict remained near the carriage to afford them what privacy could be had before a house full of watching servants and tenants.