Authors: Danelle Harmon
"You look a sight, Gareth," called Audlett,
smirking.
"A sight, indeed," added a grinning
Chilcot.
Perry, the only one of the lot whose eyes
reflected the misgivings that Juliet herself felt, merely gave a
thin smile and flicked his fingers over Gareth's cravat. "You could
do with a shave," he murmured, dryly.
"No time for that," Paine interrupted,
directing Perry to stand on Gareth's right. "Someone please take
the infant so we can get on with this."
Wordlessly, Juliet turned to Sir Hugh, whose
smiling face went suddenly blank with horror. He froze as the baby
was placed in his arms, not daring to even breathe.
"Right." Paine stood before them. "Are we
ready, then?"
Juliet shrugged out of Gareth's coat and
placed it on the pew behind her. The chill hit her immediately. She
took her place beside her tall and smiling bridegroom. He was
romantic, handsome, splendid, a man that any breathing female would
be happy and proud to take as her husband....
Anyone but me.
Guilt crashed over
her, and tears rose in her eyes.
Paine, the
Book of Common Prayer
in
his hands, adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat. Gareth
was positively glowing with excitement, beaming up at the vicar as
though this was the moment he'd waited for all of his life.
"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; which is
an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's
innocency ... and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor
taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly..."
Unadvisedly... . Lightly.
Juliet
gulped and squeezed her eyes shut as the timeless words washed over
her.
"It was ordained for the procreation of
children ... it was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid
fornication ... it was ordained for the mutual society, help, and
comfort that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity
and adversity.... Therefore if any man can show any just cause why
they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or else
hereafter forever hold his peace."
Nobody moved.
The church rose still and silent all around
them while outside, carriages passed on the cobbled street.
Paine shot a nervous glance once, twice at
the door, as though expecting the Duke of Blackheath to come
storming in to put a stop to the absurdity.
He didn't, of course. And Juliet stood on
feet she could no longer feel, listening to words she could no
longer hear, existing in a body she no longer inhabited. She was
merely an observer watching a terrible drama unfold. She felt no
joy in what she was doing. And — oh God help her — here came the
tears, collecting in the back of her aching throat, in her burning
sinuses and way up in her nose...
"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, humor, 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," the man beside her proclaimed
loudly.
And then the vicar was turning his attention
to
her
, frowning above his spectacles as he saw her face, as
gray as the tombstones in the floor behind her.
"Wilt though have this man to thy wedded
husband.... Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor, and keep
him in sickness and in health ... so long as ye both shall
live?"
She bit her lip to stall the tears, blinked
back the stinging, salty mist, and through it saw that Gareth's
grin had frozen in place, his eyes darkening with sudden alarm as
he stared down at her.
She looked down at her feet. "I will," she
whispered.
She glanced up at him then and saw that she
had wounded him. That he did not understand. His fair de Montforte
brows were drawn tight in confusion as the minister placed his
right hand over hers, the excitement fading from his eyes as he
felt the ice-cold clamminess of her skin and the tremors that shook
her hand.
"Repeat after me," Paine instructed. "I,
Gareth, take thee Juliet 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 do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I
plight thee my troth."
She heard him repeat the words but something
was missing now, and she felt sick with shame as she realized she'd
killed the thing in his heart that had been singing, the music that
had now fallen silent and still. Paine repositioned their hands,
and she dully repeated the words in like manner.
"The ring, please."
She watched as Gareth bent his head and
worked the heavy gold signet from his finger. She already knew what
it would look like, that heavy chunk of gold emblazoned with the de
Montforte arms and engraved with the family motto:
Valour,
Virtue, and Victory
. She knew exactly what it would look like
because she already wore the exact ... same ... ring —
God help her, she'd forgotten to remove
it!
Too late. Gareth took her hand — and went
dead-still as he realized somebody else's ring was already there
where his was supposed to go. Somebody else's that looked exactly
like his, right down to the shape, the motto, the de Montforte
crest that stared back at him with mocking cruelty.
Charles's.
The others saw it too; she heard Perry's
quick inhalation of breath, Chilcot's surprised curse, and the low
murmur that coursed through the rest of the little group. Gareth
looked up, his face stricken, unsure of what to do; but there was
nothing he
could
do that wouldn't embarrass her, and so he
slid his own ring partway down her finger and began to say the
words that would unite them forever:
"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."
A horrible silence hung over everything.
Juliet wanted to die. She suspected her bridegroom wanted to, as
well. Instead, with a little desperate smile, he leaned down and
murmured, "For me to put this in place, you must first take the
other off, my dear."
She blinked back the sudden tears, and with
a jerky nod she offered her hand because she knew she could never
find the heart to take Charles's ring off herself. As Gareth's
fingers closed over hers, she lifted her gaze to look at him —
I'm sorry; so, so sorry
— knowing there were no words that
could ever make up for what she had just done to him. But his eyes
were downcast, his expression strained, and in that moment, Juliet
knew he had finally grasped the truth of the situation.
That she was still in love with Charles.
Wordlessly, he pulled his dead brother's
ring from her finger. His hand tightened around it, and for one
long, awful moment Juliet thought he was going to hurl the thing
across the room to send it
clink, clink, clinking
beyond the
far pews. But no. Instead, he bent his head and in a gesture so
humble, so selflessly noble that it brought a single tear pooling
in her eye, he quietly slid Charles's ring onto her
right
forefinger — and put his own on her left ring finger, where it
belonged.
The tear slid down Juliet's cheek.
Her husband looked at her then, cupped a
hand to her face to shield that single tear from the others, and in
his eyes she read his heart:
I know I'm not Charles, but I'll do
the best I can, Juliet. I promise.
She squeezed his hand in acknowledgement,
totally undone by his intuition, his selflessness, his generosity:
And I, too, will do the best that I can. After all, we're in
this together now.
She barely heard Paine directing them both
to kneel, felt only the strength of her new husband's hand beneath
hers as those final, binding words poured over their bowed
heads.
"Those whom God hath joined together let no
man put asunder ... For as much as Gareth and Juliet have consented
together in holy wedlock ... and have given and pledged their troth
either to other ... 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."
Gareth lowered his head to hers, thumbed
away that single tear, and kissed her gently on the lips.
It was done.
Chapter 14
Chilcot gave a sudden whoop, and everyone
rushed forward to congratulate them, as though overexuberance could
somehow erase the awkwardness and embarrassment of that terrible
moment with the ring. Thank God for Charlotte, who was a
distraction in herself. Still in Hugh's arms, she let out a loud,
piercing wail that shattered the din, screwing up her face and
beating her fists in the air. Hugh paled. He turned desperately to
Juliet, who knuckled the tears from her eyes and hurried forward to
rescue the two of them from each other.
"I don't know much about babies," Hugh
stammered, red-faced, as he gratefully thrust the infant into her
mother's arms. "I hope I didn't upset her..."
"With a face like yours, who could blame
her?" Chilcot called, laughing.
"Aye, talk about making the ladies
weep!"
The Den members guffawed, and poor Hugh
flushed scarlet.
"You did just fine, Sir Hugh," Juliet
murmured, holding the squalling baby against her. "She just needs
changing, that's all."
"Er, yes...." He made a face. "I know."
Everyone laughed. So did Gareth, pumping the
vicar's hand while his friends congratulated him and clapped him
heartily on the back. But his easy manner was nothing but a mask.
Beneath their veil of golden-brown lashes, the eyes with which he
perused his bride were sharp.
No, not his bride.
Charles's
bride.
Pain wrung his heart. So, then, it was to be
the same in death as it had always been in life. He concealed the
bitter ache, pretending to laugh at something Chilcot was going on
about. It was inevitable that during all those years they were
growing up, people had compared him and Charles with each other.
After all, they'd both been so close in age, so similar in looks
and build. But in the eyes of those adults around them — adults who
behaved as though neither child had ears nor feelings — Charles had
been the golden boy — the Beloved One. Gareth's carefree,
devil-may-care nature had never stood a chance against Charles's
serious-minded ambition, his dogged pursuit of perfection at
whatever he did. It was Charles who had the keener wit, the better
brain, the more serious mind. It was Charles who'd make a
magnificent MP or glittering ambassador in some faraway post,
Charles who was a credit to his family, Charles, Charles, Charles —
while he, Gareth ... well, God and the devil only knew what would
become of poor Gareth.
Charles had never been one to gloat or rub
it in. Indeed, he'd resented the inevitable comparisons far more
than Gareth, who laughingly pretended to accept them and then did
his best to live down to what people expected of him. And why not?
He had nothing to prove, no expectations to aspire to. Besides, he
hadn't envied Charles. Not really. While Charles had been groomed
to succeed to the dukedom should Lucien die without issue, he,
Gareth, had been having the time of his life — running wild over
Berkshire, over Eton, and most recently, over Oxford. Never in his
twenty-three years, had he allowed himself to feel any envy or
resentment toward his perfect, incomparable older brother.
Until now — when he found himself wanting
the one thing Charles had owned that he himself did not have: the
love of Juliet Paige.
He looked at her now, standing off by
herself with her head bent over Charlotte as she tried to soothe
her. The child was screaming loudly enough to make the dead throw
off their tombstones and rise up in protest, but her mother
remained calm, holding the little girl against her bosom and
patting her back. Gareth watched them, feeling excluded.
Charles's bride.
Charles's daughter.
God help me.
He knew he was staring at them with the
desperation of one confined to hell and looking wistfully toward
heaven. He thought of his wife's face when he'd taken Charles's
ring off and put it on her other finger, the guilty gratitude in
her eyes at this noble act of generosity that had cost him so
little but had obviously meant so much to her. What could he do to
deserve such a look of unabashed worship again?
Why, she was
looking at me as she must have looked at Charles.
She still loved his brother.
Everyone
had loved his brother. He could only wonder what it might take to
make her love
him
.
But it's not me she wants. It's him.
'Sdeath. I could never compete with Charles when he was alive. How
can I compete with him now?
Lucien's cold judgment of the previous
morning rang in his head:
You are lazy, feckless, dissolute,
useless.
He took a deep breath, and stared up through
the great stained glass windows.
You are an embarrassment to this family —
and especially to me.
He was second-best. Second choice.
Perry was suddenly there, clapping him on
the back and shaking his hand. "Congratulations, old boy!" he said
loudly, before curving his arm around Gareth's shoulders and
drawing him aside. He jerked his head to indicate Juliet, still
standing by herself. "She all right?"
Gareth instantly recovered himself, his
smile too quick, too wide, and far too bright as he tried to
convince Perry that all was as it should be. "Don't be silly, of
course she's all right. Bridal jitters, 'tis all. Nothing to look
so damned worried about. Ours is not the first marriage of
convenience, nor will it be the last. We'll work things out." He
grinned and lightly punched Perry's shoulder. "Hell, maybe I'll
even come to love the girl in time."