Chapter Twenty Four The Ceremony
The family chapel at Hartington Hall was ancient, beautiful and absolutely freezing.
It had stood on this spot since the fourteenth century, rebuilt twice after fires and once after an unfortunate incident involving Cromwell’s soldiers and in all that time no one had thought to install central heating.
The stone walls radiated cold. The stained glass windows, depicting various saints in attitudes of holy suffering, seemed to approve of the discomfort.
This was a place for worship, not warmth.
Outside, snow fell steadily, coating the gravestones and the ancient yew trees in white. Inside, candles flickered in every alcove and on every surface: Elizabeth’s one contribution that had survived James’s rebellion. Say what you would about the woman, she understood atmosphere.
The guests filled the pews in the traditional arrangement: groom’s family on the right, bride’s family on the left.
Except there was no bride’s family: just Viktor, sitting alone in the front pew of the left side, playing the devoted brother with perfect composure.
Behind him, the ushers had quietly shuffled overflow guests to the bride’s side to balance the visual, asking ‘Bride or groom?’ and putting them on the left regardless of the answer.
On the right side, Elizabeth sat rigid in the front pew.
Her face wore the expression of a woman who had been grievously wronged but was determined to maintain appearances.
Gerald sat beside her, uncomfortable in his morning dress but genuinely pleased to be there.
He kept sneaking glances at James and smiling.
Granny occupied the row behind, watching everything with the sharp attention of someone cataloguing details for later analysis. Her eyes moved from Viktor to Anastasia’s empty position to James standing nervously at the altar and her expression gave nothing away.
I stood beside James as best man, trying to look supportive and warm, only one of those was true, but the benefit of men’s formal dress is that it at least comes with many layers.
I felt for the ladies in their beautiful outfits, warmth was often at a loss to beauty.
But the good thing about everyone being squished in came to life as they warmed each other up.
I of course was standing apart, with the cold radiating up through my leather soles.
My feet were already numb and I had mixed opinions on where my shins had got to and none of them were good.
James of course did not feel a thing, he was far too preoccupied and the slight grin on his face radiated warmth.
He looked mildly terrified, but with an underlying feeling of not being able to believe his luck.
Viktor was fifteen feet away, on the opposite side of the aisle.
I could see him without turning my head.
He was calm and collected. A very different man from the carefree companion of the stag do.
His eyes glinted in the cold and there was no warmth there.
I suppose not everyone wants to watch their sister join a new family.
The ushers occupied the front rows behind us: Freddie already dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief and sobbing: ‘I always cry at weddings, it’s a medical condition’, Rupert looking uncomfortable in clothes that required him to sit still, Archie as ever constantly checking his phone until Tariq elbowed him.
‘Put it away. Show some respect.’
James shifted his weight from foot to foot, radiating nervous energy. He kept touching his tie, adjusting his cuffs, running a hand through his hair until I quietly reached over and stopped him.
‘You’re going to look like you’ve been in a wind tunnel. Stop fidgeting.’
‘I can’t help it. What if she doesn’t come? What if she’s changed her mind? What if she’s realised she could do so much better and is currently climbing out a window...’
‘She’s not climbing out a window.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because there’s a fifteen-foot drop on the other side and she’s in a wedding dress.’
‘She could have brought a rope. She’s very resourceful.’
‘James. She loves you. She’s coming. Breathe.’
In the vestry, the Reverend Tobias was enjoying a small port to ward off the cold.
His cigar burned slowly in an ashtray that definitely shouldn’t have been there; the chapel was a listed building and the heritage people would have had fits.
But the Reverend Tobias had been conducting services at Hartington Hall for forty years and had earned certain privileges.
He emerged now, resplendent in his vestments, trailing the faint scent of tobacco and fortified wine. He took his position at the altar and beamed at the congregation with the satisfaction of a man who genuinely enjoyed his work.
‘Lovely day for it,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘Snow always adds a touch of magic, don’t you think? Very romantic. Makes you feel all Christmassy.’
Elizabeth’s expression suggested she had opinions about weather that didn’t follow her schedule and clergy who openly admired it.
And then: the music began.
It wasn’t the traditional wedding march.
Elizabeth had specified Mendelssohn; James had quietly arranged something else.
The piece that played now was something I didn’t recognise, something with strings and piano, melancholy and beautiful, that seemed to speak of journeys and homecomings and things lost and found again.
Later, I would learn it was Ukrainian. A folk song Anastasia had mentioned once, something her grandmother used to sing. James had tracked down an arrangement and hired musicians to learn it in secret.
The doors at the back of the chapel opened.
Anastasia stood in the doorway, framed by falling snow and for a moment the entire chapel seemed to hold its breath.
She wore white: simple, elegant, nothing like the elaborate meringue styled confection Elizabeth had envisioned.
The dress had clean lines and subtle beading that caught the candlelight.
Her dark hair was pulled back, a few strands loose around her face.
Snow dusted her shoulders, her hair, the delicate lace of her veil.
She looked like something from a fairy tale. She looked like she belonged in this ancient chapel with its medieval stones and its flickering candles. She looked like someone who had fought her way through a hundred years of enchanted sleep and emerged into the light.
She walked alone. No father to give her away: there had been some discussion of Gerald offering, or Viktor playing the brotherly role, but Anastasia had quietly refused both. She would give herself, she said. She had made her own way this far.
It made the procession more powerful somehow. This woman, walking alone down the aisle of a chapel full of strangers, toward a man whose family had been in this country for centuries. She owned the moment completely.
I glanced at James. He had stopped breathing.
‘Breathing, James,’ I murmured. ‘Generally considered essential.’
‘She’s...’ He seemed unable to form words. ‘I mean... bloody hell.’
‘Eloquent as always.’
Anastasia reached the altar. Her eyes met James’s and something passed between them: recognition, promise, the private language of two people who had found each other against all odds.
Then her gaze flickered, just briefly, to Viktor and back again
Her expression remained serene, joyful, utterly convincing. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought she didn’t have a care in the world.
???
The Reverend Tobias conducted the service with warmth and occasional inappropriate jokes that made Elizabeth wince and everyone else smile. He had been part of the furniture since James was a little boy and wasn’t above incorporating that knowledge.
‘Dearly beloved,’ he began, ‘we are gathered here today to witness the union of James and Anastasia. I’ve known James since he was knee-high to a grasshopper.
He got his head stuck in the communion rail once and it took three of us and half a pound of butter to get him out.
And I must say, I never expected to see him standing here looking quite so grown-up.
Or quite so nervous. Don’t worry, my boy, the hard part is over.
She turned up. All you have to do now is not faint. ’
A ripple of laughter moved through the congregation. James’s ears turned pink.
The service proceeded through its traditional elements: the declarations of intent, the readings; a passage from Corinthians, delivered by Gerald with surprising feeling; a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, read by Granny in a voice that managed to make love poetry sound like a military briefing and the hymns sung with varying degrees of enthusiasm and accuracy.
And then: the vows.
Traditional Church of England, with personal additions. James went first and I watched him transform from a nervous wreck into something else entirely: a man who knew exactly what he wanted to say.
‘I, James, take you, Anastasia, to be my wife.’ His voice was steady now, all the fidgeting forgotten. ‘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.’
He paused. This was the personal part, the bit he had written himself.
‘When I met you,’ he said, ‘I was standing in a puddle in a wetsuit, ordering a whisky I didn’t actually want to drink. I had no idea who you were or where you came from or what you were doing on that yacht. I just knew that I wanted to find out. I wanted to know everything about you. I still do.’
His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat and continued.
‘You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. You built yourself from nothing. You crossed the world and started again. You laugh at my terrible jokes even when they’re not funny, which is most of the time. You make me want to be better: braver, kinder, more like the person you already think I am.’
He took her hands in his.
‘I promise to love you. I promise to choose you, every day, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. I promise to stand beside you, whatever comes. And I promise...’ His voice cracked again, properly this time. ‘I promise to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.’
In the congregation, Freddie was openly weeping. Even Granny looked slightly less terrifying than usual.
Anastasia’s turn. She spoke the traditional words clearly, her voice controlled, but her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
‘I, Anastasia, take you, James, to be my 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 and to cherish.’
She paused. Her personal addition was shorter, more direct. That was Anastasia: she said what she meant and meant what she said.
‘I didn’t expect you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect any of this. I came here looking for a new start and I found you, completely ridiculous and utterly wonderful. You saw me. Not what I could do for you, not what I represented, just... me. No one had done that in a very long time.’
Her eyes flickered, just for a moment, toward Viktor. When she spoke again, her voice was firm.
‘I promise to love you. I promise to protect you. I promise to build a life with you that’s ours, no one else’s. And I promise that whatever happens, whatever comes, I will always, always choose you.’
The Reverend Tobias produced the rings. James fumbled his slightly, his nerves finally catching up with him and then managed to slide it onto Anastasia’s finger without dropping it.
‘With this ring, I thee wed.’
Anastasia’s hands were steady as she placed the ring on James’s finger.
‘With this ring, I thee wed.’
The Reverend Tobias beamed at them both.
‘By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.’ He paused for effect, enjoying the moment. ‘You may kiss the bride.’
James kissed her. Not a polite peck, not a restrained brush of lips: a proper kiss, the kind that made the older guests smile and the younger ones cheer. Anastasia’s hand came up to touch his face and for a moment they were the only two people in the room.
The congregation applauded. Snow swirled outside the stained glass windows. Candles flickered in the cold air.
They were married.
???
In the front pew on the bride’s side, Viktor checked his watch.
The ceremony was complete. The vows had been exchanged. When James died, Anastasia would inherit everything. When Anastasia died, Viktor would inherit from her.
Simple. Clean. Elegant.
The clock was ticking now. In a few hours, James Ashworth-Pemberton would be dead and Viktor would be one step closer to solving all his problems.
He smiled at the happy couple as they passed his pew, the devoted brother watching his sister’s greatest happiness.
Anastasia’s eyes met his. Just for a moment.
He couldn’t read her expression. He never could, really: that was part of what made her such a good operative. But he didn’t need to read her. He just needed her to play her part for a few more hours.
Then she was past him, walking up the aisle on James’s arm, heading toward the vestry to sign the register.
Viktor settled back in his pew and waited.
The clock was ticking.