Chapter Twelve
Mrs. Shaw helped Sophia into her wedding gown. The dress showed Mrs. Fletcher’s unmistakable artistry—exquisite Brussels lace at the neckline and sleeves, tiny seed pearls embroidered in a trailing pattern down the skirt.
“Almost done, my lady,” Mrs. Shaw murmured, fastening the row of tiny buttons up the back.
Sophia obeyed, watching her reflection transform. In less than an hour, she would be Lady Montrose. Henry’s wife. Amelia’s mother. The thought made her almost dizzy.
“There,” Mrs. Shaw said, stepping back. She was quiet for a moment, then added softly, “Your mother would have loved to see you looking so beautiful on your wedding day.”
“I wish she could have been here,” Sophia said, sounding as wistful as she felt.
“She would be very proud.” Mrs. Shaw smoothed a wayward strand of Sophia’s hair, which she’d dressed earlier in an elegant style with pearl pins woven throughout. “As would your father.”
Before Sophia could respond, a knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Shaw opened it to reveal Rose and Georgiana, both already dressed for the wedding.
“Oh, Sophia,” Rose breathed, her hand flying to her mouth. “You look absolutely beautiful.”
“May we come in?” Georgiana asked. “We wanted to give you something before the ceremony.”
“Of course.” Sophia gestured them inside.
Rose produced a small velvet box. “This is from both of us. A gift to welcome you into our sisterhood.”
Sophia opened the box. Inside lay a delicate bracelet of seed pearls interspersed with tiny sapphires.
“The pearls are for new beginnings,” Rose said. “And the sapphires match your eyes.”
“We wanted you to know,” Georgiana added, her usual composure softening, “that you have sisters now. We are looking forward to making many new memories together.”
Sophia’s vision blurred. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. You’re both so kind.”
“We’re family,” Rose said simply, fastening the bracelet around Sophia’s wrist.
“How are you feeling?” Georgiana asked.
“Nervous. Happy. All of it at once.” Sophia managed a smile.
“That’s exactly how I felt on my wedding day,” Rose said. “It’s perfectly natural.”
“And you look perfect,” Georgiana assured her. “Henry won’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
The door burst open and Amelia flew in, Lucy hurrying behind her.
“Mama!” Amelia stopped short, her eyes going wide. “You look like a princess. Like Cinderella.”
Despite everything, Sophia laughed. She crouched down carefully. “Do I? Do you like my dress?”
“Yes.” Amelia reached out to touch the lace with one careful finger.
Lucy cleared her throat apologetically. “I’m sorry, my lady. She insisted on seeing you before we left for the church.”
“It’s quite all right.” Sophia released Amelia reluctantly. “You look very pretty in your dress, too, my love.”
“I know.” Amelia twirled. “Lucy said I can ride in the carriage with Aunt Rose and Aunt Georgiana.”
“That’s right. You’ll be a very important person at the wedding.”
After Lucy had coaxed Amelia away, promising she’d see Mama at the church, Rose dabbed at her eyes. “That was unbearably sweet. I’m going to cry through the entire ceremony.”
“As will I,” Georgiana said.
Mrs. Shaw stepped forward. “The carriages will be ready shortly, my lady. We should finish.”
Rose and Georgiana took their cue. “We’ll see you at the church,” Rose said, kissing Sophia’s cheek. “You’re going to be a beautiful bride.”
After they left, Mrs. Shaw arranged Sophia’s veil—a delicate length of lace that had belonged to Henry’s aunt. Then she stepped back.
“Perfect. Lady Montrose, you are ready.”
Lady Montrose. Her new name. Her new life.
Sophia touched the pearl and sapphire bracelet at her wrist, then followed Mrs. Shaw downstairs where Sebastian waited to escort her to the church.
To Henry.
*
The village church was small and ancient, its stone walls worn smooth by centuries of weather and prayer. Sophia sat in the carriage with Sebastian, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as they drew closer.
“Are you ready?” Sebastian asked gently.
“I think so.” Her voice came out barely a whisper.
“This is a fine match, Sophia. I wouldn’t have given my blessing otherwise.” Sebastian took her hand. “You’ll be happy. I’m certain of it.”
If only he knew the truth, he might not be so certain. She hated lying to her brothers. She truly did. However, it was necessary they believe everything was as it appeared. In time, perhaps it might be?
The carriage stopped. Sebastian descended first, then helped Sophia down.
The March morning was gray and damp, more typical for Kent than the warmth of yesterday, but at least it wasn’t raining.
A small crowd of villagers had gathered outside the church—tenants, shopkeepers, their families—all eager to catch a glimpse of their lord’s bride.
“God bless you, my lady,” someone called out.
Sophia managed a smile and a wave, though her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest.
Sebastian offered his arm. “Shall we?”
They entered through the church porch. The interior was simple—no flowers, no decorations, just the ancient stone and wood and the soft light filtering through stained glass windows. This was a place of worship, solemn and sacred. As it should be.
The small gathering stood as she entered. Rose and Georgiana in one pew, James beside them holding Amelia’s hand. The large man and the little girl looked so sweet together that Sophia was afraid she would burst into tears right then and there.
Amelia gave her a small wave. Sophia nodded at her, smiling.
Charlotte also smiled from across the aisle, with Thomas beside her. Mrs. Bromley and Grimshaw stood near the back, along with a few other household staff. That was all. A handful of people to witness what would change her entire life.
And at the front, beside the vicar, stood Henry.
He wore dark blue superfine, his cravat pristine white, his dark hair brushed back from his face.
But it was his expression that made Sophia’s steps falter—the way his eyes widened when he saw her, the way his lips parted slightly, the way he looked at her as though she were something precious and unexpected.
As though he loved her.
Please God, let it be so.
Sebastian led her slowly down the short aisle.
Sophia could not break her gaze from Henry.
Everything else was forgotten. It was just Henry and Sophia, lost in each other’s eyes.
When they reached the altar, Sebastian placed her hand in Henry’s, and the warmth of his touch sent a shiver through her.
“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” the vicar intoned.
“I do,” Sebastian said firmly, then stepped back to join Rose.
The vicar opened the Book of Common Prayer, his voice carrying through the quiet church. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…”
Sophia barely heard the words about the purpose of marriage, about its sacred nature, about impediments and just causes. She wanted only to get to the end, where Henry would be forced to kiss her.
The vicar turned to Henry. “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?
Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live? ”
“I will.” Henry’s voice was steady, certain.
Then the vicar turned to Sophia. “Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony?
Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live? ”
Obey. Serve. The words that bound her to him forever.
“I will.” Her voice trembled but didn’t break.
The vicar nodded. “Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?”
Sebastian had already done so, but the ritual required asking again. He stood. “I do.”
Henry took Sophia’s right hand in his. His palm was warm, slightly damp with nerves. He was nervous too. Somehow that made her feel better.
The vicar prompted him, and Henry’s voice rang clear: “I, Henry George Montrose, take thee, Sophia Catherine Ashford, to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth. ”
He meant it. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his hand tightened on hers. He might not love her the way she loved him, but he would honor these vows. He would be faithful, kind, protective.
It would have to be enough.
Then it was her turn. She repeated the words the vicar gave her, her voice gaining strength: “I, Sophia Catherine Ashford, take thee, Henry George Montrose, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth. ”
Henry released her hand only long enough to accept the ring from Thomas, who stepped forward as groomsman. It was a simple gold band, elegant in its plainness.
The vicar blessed it, then nodded to Henry.
Henry took her hand again, sliding the ring onto her finger as he spoke: “With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
With my body I thee worship. The words sent heat through her, made her acutely aware of what came after—the wedding night, the intimacy she both longed for and feared would never happen. Separate bedrooms, he’d said. A marriage in name only.
But the ring on her finger was real.
The vicar continued with prayers, with Scripture readings, with blessings. Sophia heard none of it. She was too aware of Henry beside her, of the way his shoulder almost touched hers, of how his breathing had quickened.
Finally: “Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
They were married. It was done.
“Forasmuch as Henry and Sophia have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth to each other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together, In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Man and wife. Husband and wife. Married.
The vicar closed his book. Now they would sign the register and make it official.
But then James’s voice rang out from the pews: “Oh, for God’s sake, Montrose—kiss her.”
Startled laughter rippled through the small congregation. Georgiana swatted James’s arm, but she was smiling. Even the vicar looked amused.
Henry turned to Sophia, his eyes searching hers. Asking permission.
She nodded, barely breathing.
He took her face gently in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. Then he leaned down and kissed her.
His lips were warm and soft, but then something shifted. His hands tightened slightly against her face, and the kiss deepened, became something more than a polite formality. It was tender and searching and made her legs weaken.
Sophia’s hands came up instinctively to rest against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath her palms. Her first kiss. Their first kiss. And it was nothing like she’d imagined and everything she’d hoped for all at the same time.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and slightly unfocused, and she saw her own wonder reflected there. For a moment they just stared at each other, the rest of the world fading away.
Then Amelia’s excited squeal broke the spell, and they both turned, slightly dazed, to face their small audience.
Around them, the congregation was clapping—even in this solemn space, James’s irreverence had broken the formal atmosphere. Amelia was bouncing in Lucy’s arms. Rose was crying. Charlotte was beaming.
The vicar cleared his throat, smiling. “If you’ll follow me to sign the register?”
They followed him to the vestry in a daze, Charlotte and Thomas coming with them as witnesses. Sophia signed her maiden name for the last time—Sophia Catherine Ashford—in the parish register. Then Henry signed beside her: Henry George Montrose.
“Congratulations, Lord and Lady Montrose,” the vicar said warmly.
Lady Montrose. She was Lady Montrose now.
They walked back through the church together. As husband and wife. The small congregation stood, smiling, as they passed. Amelia broke free from Lucy again and ran to them.
“Mama and Papa.” She jumped up and down. “You married.’
Henry scooped her up with his free arm, settling her on his hip. “Yes, we did. Are you happy?”
“Yes.” Amelia threw her arms around his neck, then reached for Sophia too, trying to hug them both at once. “Family now.”
“Yes, love.” Sophia fought tears. Joyful ones. “We’re a family now.”
They walked out of the church together—Henry, Sophia, and Amelia—into the gray March morning. The villagers erupted in cheers, tossing seeds and rice that fell like blessings on their heads.
Sophia looked up at Henry, at her husband, and found him already looking down at her.
For one perfect moment, standing there with Amelia between them and the villagers cheering and the rice falling like snow, she let herself believe that maybe, someday, this could be real.
That maybe he could love her the way she loved him.
That maybe their fairy tale could have a happy ending after all.