She was not so sure of that herself. The ladies of the congregation looked more like a pack of jackals drooling for her marrow than friends eager to celebrate her good fortune.
The vicar still looked doubtfully at the marred paper. ‘If you are sure that the Archbishop made a mistake...’
As if in afterthought, the duke reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy purse, setting it on the table, then pushed it to the side as though he had already forgotten its presence. ‘I am, Reverend Allcot. I am.’
* * *
As they sat later, snug in the box pew that her family shared, Generva could not imagine a better Christmas gift. Their toes were kept warm by the little stove upon the floor in front of them, but it was the feeling of a man’s hand holding hers that truly warmed her heart.
Although she had dreaded the day for a week, now that it was here, she saw no censure directed towards her daughter. The recently jilted Gwendolyn sat on her other side, completely ignored and dozing through Reverend Allcot’s sermon. Beside her, Ben toyed with a penknife Thomas had given him as a Christmas gift, opening and closing it, staring thoughtfully at the mahogany of the pew.
Thomas followed the boy’s gaze, then reached into his pocket and produced a bar of soap. He handed it over and they all ignored the pile of shavings building up at their feet as Ben began work on an effigy of Boney, the spaniel.
Generva marvelled at his sangfroid. She suspected he was as calm and collected in Parliament as in the parlour, equally untroubled by small boys and large men. His mere presence held the entire congregation in rapt attention. But he paid no attention. He cared for no one but her. And when she looked at him, she felt the same.
At the end of the service, the congregation sat in pious silence to witness the marriage of Mrs Generva Marsh to the Duke of Montford. There was an awkward pause when Mr Allcot asked, ‘Who giveth this woman?’
She was about to answer that it should hardly be necessary to be given away at this stage in her life when her son came bounding up the aisle, complete with penknife. He left a trail of soap shavings behind him like so many rose petals dropped in the aisle. ‘I do.’ He turned and glared back at the congregation. ‘Because I am the man of the house.’
‘For the moment,’ Thomas added quietly. But he smiled as he said it. And when the time came for a ring, he removed an enormous ruby from his own hand and slipped it on to her finger.
When, at last, the vicar pronounced them man and wife, Generva breathed a sigh of relief. There would be no more looking back. Now that she had grown accustomed to the idea, a life with the man beside her was all that she could have wanted.
And they could begin that future whenever Mr Allcot came to the end of the ceremony. She did not remember her last wedding being quite so sombre. That had been a hurried affair, in a chapel by the London docks that many sailors claimed as their home parish.
Perhaps Mr Allcot meant to impress the visiting peer. Or was he attempting to make up for the lack of formal licence with extra prayers? He said not one psalm, but two. He delivered the blessing that they might be ‘fruitful in procreation’ with a look that discouraged any joy in the attempts at breeding.
And then he began to quote, at length, from Saint Paul.
It was not necessary. With three previous marriages between them, she and Thomas were well aware of their duties to each other. They were certainly better schooled than Mr Allcot, who was as yet unmarried. As the ceremony dragged on, she could feel Ben shifting from foot to foot as his patience wore thin. There was no telling what might happen when he could no longer contain himself.
Her son was not the only male bored to mischief by Mr Allcot. Next to her, Thomas still wore a benign smile. But his foot had begun to tap. It did not seem to be a sign of impatience. There was a rhythm to it, as though he kept time to a song.
Oh, dear.
As Mr Allcot exhorted her to obedience and submission for what seemed like the hundredth time, Thomas began to hum.
There were murmurs of disapproval from the congregation, but the vicar pretended not to notice, although it was clear he did. A warning to reverence her husband was delivered in a louder voice and at a faster pace, as though he meant to race the groom to the end of the service.
It was a race he was destined to lose. As he extolled the merits of a meek and quiet spirit over ornaments of gold, Thomas burst into song.
‘In a manger laid, and wrapped I was
So very poor, this was my chance
Between an ox and a silly poor ass
To call my true love to my dance.’
At the mention of the silly ass, Ben burst into laughter and Mr Allcot dropped his prayer book.
And then, to prove that she had been listening to the vicar’s sermon, Generva demonstrated that she was willing to follow her new husband, no matter where he might lead. She joined him on the chorus in perfect harmony.
‘Sing, oh! my love, oh! my love, my love, my love,
This have I done for my true love.’
* * * * *
Linda Skye
LINDA SKYE is a travel addict and a self-proclaimed food critic with an insatiable appetite for the written word. She first developed her love for reading and writing by browsing her grandfather’s dictionaries and etymology books—a habit she has yet to abandon!
Born to Filipino parents in the United States and raised in Canada, Linda is a modern-day nomad, moving across country and ocean with her military husband. She currently lives in the United Kingdom and spends her free time writing, practising digital photography, updating her food blog and dreaming of adventures at home and abroad. She has travelled throughout North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
Linda holds a master’s of education and specialises in teaching languages and literature. She has been teaching English as a Second Language, English literature and literacy courses since 2001. Though she is currently teaching part-time at a local technical college, Linda is a full-time daydreamer with a passion for the strange, mysterious and exotic.
Ekaterina Romanova, the eldest, most beautiful daughter of Baron Dimitri, and the niece of the reigning Empress of Russia, was standing amongst the clucking chickens outside the palace kitchens, dressed in a plain peasant smock and woollen overcoat. Her thick dark curls were unbound and tumbled carelessly down her back. Her smooth complexion was free of fashionable white powder.
If her ageing father could see her in her current unadorned state, as she stood in a place reserved for the common folk, he would probably die of a heart attack. Her mother would swoon. Her younger sisters would tut their disapproval and hide their faces in shame.
But Ekaterina simply could not care less about what they all might think of her.
‘Come, children,’ she called in her sweet, chime-like voice. ‘Come have some bread!’
A flock of hungry children surrounded the young noblewoman, their grubby hands reaching out and their sweet, high voices calling out excitedly. For Ekaterina was passing out large steaming loaves of freshly baked bread for the children to take home to their nearly starving families.