Authors: Cynthia Bailey Pratt
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Ferris said. “But this is your wedding.”
“My wedding?”
The coach lurched as it turned left, heading out along the coast road rather than right into town. Rietta fell against the hooded man beside her. She flinched from him when he would have put out a hand to save her.
“Father, have your wits gone begging? What do you mean, my wedding? I’ve no intention of being wed tonight or any other night.”
“I’ve arranged it all,” he said, smiling as though proud of his forethought. “The license is in my pocket, these are to be your witnesses....”
“Their services will not be required.”
She’d been afraid that one of these men would prove to be her bridegroom. If her father was mad enough to plan this wedding, he might be careless of his choice for her.
Rage was running hot in her blood, but behind it a cold thread of fear had begun to claim her. Fear and hopelessness. How could her own father abduct her?
“Take me home, sir.”
“Your bridegroom will take you home tonight, my dear. I’ve thought of everything. Even your clothes are in the valises in the boot.” Mr. Ferris chuckled and Rietta’s heart turned to ice. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this months ago.”
As her anger ebbed, forced out by fear, Rietta looked at the three men in the carriage. The two hooded men had turned their faces away toward the window, attempting to give the illusion that they were not there. She could not expect assistance from them. They must have accepted her father’s invitation knowing full well the bride was not willing.
As for Mr. Ferris, he had brought out a list from his pocket and was ticking off the items with a pencil. He would pause some times to lick the end, leaving black marks on lip and tongue.
“Who is my bridegroom?” Rietta asked, hating that her voice now held much less defiance. She tried to fan her wrath, but it was a dying ember. Sorrow swamped it. Rietta understood that her father did not value her. She was a nuisance, a block to his plans, something to be tossed away on the first reasonable man who offered.
“Where are we going?”
“To a small chapel where your bridegroom awaits.”
“His name?”
He chuckled again teasingly. “I’ll not tell you that! All I will say is, he’s no stranger to you—I’d not do such a wicked thing. I think you’ll be well pleased when you espy your bridegroom.”
Rietta recoiled from the tone of smug satisfaction in her father’s voice. She knew that tone. It was how he sounded when he felt he’d brought off a particularly smart piece of business—something that profited him at another’s expense. She could usually explain to him the true cost; the loss of trust, of goodwill, of his reputation as an honest man; and convince him to make a more equitable arrangement.
But her heart failed her and she could not find the sensible, well-reasoned words that would change his supple mind. In a very soft voice, she said, ‘This is wicked, Father. Please...”
He only patted her hand and said, “We’ll be there ere long.”
She cast another glance at the two silent auditors of this painful scene. There were no sympathetic eyes there, and her pride forbade begging them brokenly for help.
For a mad instant, she weighed the notion of throwing open the door and flinging herself out. But Garrity had whipped up the horses when they’d reached more open country and they were racketing along at a fierce pace. Rietta absolved herself of cowardice. Anyone might be afraid of the broken bones, if nothing worse, that such a theatrical gesture might cause.
Besides, there was no need. No proper minister would perform a marriage when the bride was so patently unwilling. She’d demonstrate her unwillingness loud and long when necessary. Until then, let her father enjoy his moment of triumph.
She refused to think about any future farther away than her impending arrival at the church. She could never go back to living under her father’s roof after he’d demonstrated how little fatherly feeling he had. Where could she go? She had no money by her. Begging a night’s lodging from some peasant family would have to serve this night— or perhaps the minister’s wife would offer her some kind of shelter.
After a long time, the carriage stopped. Mr. Ferris peered out the window, delight crinkling the comers of his eyes. “We’re here,” he said, as merrily as if they’d just arrived at a sunlit picnic spot. “I call that really excellent time. I shall have to see about raising Garrity’s wages. Come, Rietta. Come, gentlemen.”
The cold breeze whispered over the treeless ground. This was no village church where a quick marriage could be performed on the quiet. There was no kindly minister’s wife come to see the bride married at such a strange hour of the night. There was only stone, austere, ancient, half ruined by the slighting touch of time.
Before her, a vast wall made from blocks of gray stone rose to a point at a vastly dizzying height. Only the delicate tracery around the great round window gave away the building’s peaceful purpose. Otherwise, it borrowed the form and substance of a sturdy fortress against invaders. Even the base of the wail was slightly coved. In a castle, that meant the cannonballs of the opposing army would bound back upon them. What purpose could such have at a church?
It looked far more sturdy than it was. Through the window’s tracery, Rietta could see stars shining with diamond-point beauty. Whatever roof this church once possessed had long since vanished into some lordling’s pocket, sold for the value of the lead.
Tucking her arm firmly beneath his own, Mr.
Ferris guided Rietta’s stumbling steps through the graveyard stones that clustered thickly about the ruined church.
“What place is this?” she asked, desperate to delay him.
“An old abbey, destroyed in some battle or other. During Cromwell’s occupation, I daresay. But it’s a church for ail that... still holy ground. This marriage will be legal all right.”
“Not if I do not consent. And I shall not.”
Mr.
Ferris stopped between two crosses of antique design, each elaborately decorated with sinuous visions of life and death, entwined for all eternity.
“Now, listen, my girl. You’ve had it all your own way too long. Why, strike me if you don’t think you run
me.”
“You prefer the management of Mrs. Vernon,” Rietta said bitingly. “Father, she’ll run through your money in a month.”
“What’s that matter? I’m not going to die to oblige her like her last two husbands—not but what they died with smiles on their faces. You’ll have your marriage portion, as will Blanche. What I do with the rest is no concern of yours.”
He started forward again, but Rietta literally dug in her heels, taking a firm grasp on a headstone. The carved image of a grinning skull impressed itself into her palm. “Father ...,” she began, desperate to change his mind.
“Come along, girl.”
“No, I won’t do it. You can’t force me!”
“Damn you, Rietta!” He struck her sharply across the back of her hand, breaking her grip.
Her eyes closed over hot tears. It was not the blow but the curse that had called them there. What did anything matter now? No one loved her; she’d only been fooling herself in thinking that her family did.
Suddenly so weary she could hardly move, Rietta made no further protest. She entered the ruined church, hardly noticing the cold rain that had begun to fall. She could only tell her tears by their heat.
She stood where she was pushed to stand, her shoulders feeling weighed down as if by carrying turf. Dully, she watched her father—could she still call him that?— showing a piece of paper to a man muffled in a monk’s robe, a man so withered with years that he might as well have been a founding member of this ancient abbey. She saw gold pass from Mr. Ferris’s hand to the claw-like and dirty fingers of the old monk. Everything, it seemed, had a price. She wondered vaguely how much a funeral would be.
The two hooded and cloaked witnesses signed the paper. Rietta saw that one bore upon his littlest finger a golden ring she’d seen a hundred times in the drawing room at Prospect Hill. Mr. Greeves, then, was a party to this game. No doubt he now saw his way that much clearer toward Blanche’s hand.
She heard her father demand, “Where’s the happy man?” followed by a request that the second man speak up.
The hooded man tossed back the muffling cloth. David Mochrie said, “He’ll be here. He’s not fool enough to throw away the bargain of a lifetime.”
Rietta turned away from the appraising glint in his eyes when he looked on her. She felt the faintest stirrings of outrage that he should look at her so familiarly, as though she were lightly clad for his pleasure.
A clatter came as a second carriage arrived. Rietta started toward it as if in a dream she’ d once had of running soundlessly and uselessly through an enormous yellow custard. Was it succor? Oh, let it be some kindly old woman on her way home, or a sober matron! She’d settle for an elderly grandparent or a gallant youth—anyone but these loathsomely complacent familiar faces.
A huge figure stepped out from among the shadows. Garrity stopped her with an arm like a tree trunk. “Now, then, it’s all for the best....”
“Garrity, please, take me away from here. I’ve always been your friend.”
“Yes, Miss Ferris, but ‘tis your father what pays my wages.”
“What are you doing there, my man?” demanded a voice that awoke an echo of hope in Rietta’s heart. “Let Miss Ferris go at once.”
“She’ll run if I do,” Garrity said, his ham-like hands holding on to Rietta’s upper arms with both gentleness and might.
“I said, let go.” Nick came up, looking both tall and wide in a greatcoat with many capes at the shoulders. “Don’t make me knock you down, Garrity.”
The big coachman laughed. “I wish I may see it!”
“You wouldn’t see it; it would merely be done, leaving you holding a beefsteak to your jaw. Shall we try it?” Nick said, coming nearer.
Garrity released her so quickly that she all hut fell. Nick was beside her in one stride, it seemed. She clutched his sleeve. “Please, take me away from here. You don’t know what—
“Poor sweet.” A welcome note of compassionate friendliness sounded in his tone. “It will soon be over.”
Rietta cringed away as though from an upraised hand. “Not you. Not you.”
“No one but me, Rietta. I’m sorry it had to be this way.”
He’d brought her flowers, white roses in a silver filigree holder. She held them in nerveless fingers, too worn out with disillusionment even to tremble. It was easier to stare at the roses than to think. A spider’s web glinted among the petals.
The monk or priest had a very few brown and broken teeth, a deaf right ear, an inclination to mumble, and commanded a breathtaking grasp of the native Irish tongue. The entire marriage ceremony was conducted in a language half dead from repression and wholly incomprehensible to the woman most closely concerned. The old man poked Rietta with an impossibly desiccated finger while he said, as though to an idiot child, “Ah do ... Ah do.”
She repeated the agreement as though it were as meaningless as the rest of the ceremony. But then she chanced to look up during Nick’s vows to find his eyes fixed on her with so intent and unvarying a look that she blushed, though she would have sworn a moment sooner that her blood was far too chilled by this strange wedding to summon up more than a slight pulse.
Then the monk looked at Nick.
Nick took a firmer grasp of Rietta’s unresponsive hand. He spoke the vows in Irish, each dancing syllabic a poem in itself. The monk grinned with all his remaining teeth, nodding in approbation as each word came correct. Rietta had said nothing beyond her bare acceptance. Nick wanted her to smile at him as she well knew how.
He wished with all his heart that this ceremony could have been different. He wanted to see Rietta arrayed like a queen in white silk and silver lace. After agreeing, he’d labored to convince Mr. Ferris that putting it off a few weeks could make no material difference to the outcome, but the smaller man wouldn’t hear of it. He kept saying something about “the cup and the lip,” but which part Nick was expected to take wasn’t clear.
So he said his vows as ardently as possible in this cold crypt of ancient belief and tried to catch Rietta’s eye. But she seemed hardly able to keep her eyes open. Had Mr. Ferris made sure of her docility by dosing her with something?
Then it was over, with a placing of a ring on her finger and the hurried mumbling of another interminable prayer. He hadn’t even kissed her. Nick could have sworn he saw the whole ring of heaven go reeling across the sky as time passed before the monk gave his final blessing.
Then, at last, he had his bride tucked into the carriage. He refused to shake anyone’s hand, not even David’s, though he accepted with thanks the old monk’s wedding gift of a bottle of illicit whiskey and his wishes for many children.
Then he swung onto the box and whipped up his horses.
Chapter Twelve
Nick gave a pull to the ribbons and walked his horses onto a half moon of rough-cropped grass. A bench of stone slabs invited wayfarers to stop and admire the willows overhanging the small yet swiftly running stream. Though not seen at its best by night, the sound was soothing to overwrought nerves. The light rain had stopped, and the moon shone its face through a few dramatically piled clouds, golden at their edges.
He tied off the reins and swung down to peek into the carriage window. “Will you come out, Rietta?”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then a stirring of skirts and her face, white as the moon’s, swam toward him from the dim interior. Her eyes looked blind in the moonlight, for it reflected only her tears.
Nick held out his hand and she groped for it. On the turf, she walked away from him, hiding her face while she dug in the reticule that still hung from her arm. Her handkerchief flashed white. When she sniffed, his heart was wrung. “Ah, don’t be crying now, love....”
“I’m not,” she said, blowing her nose like the blast of an elfin trumpet. “It’s silly to cry over what can’t be helped. Utterly silly.”
He reached into the carriage and brought out a basket he’d foreseen might be needed. Taking it to the bench, he invited Rietta to come forward. “Even if you’re not hungry, you’ll take a glass of wine, I hope?”