This Heart of Mine (34 page)

“Oui, mon père,”
Velvet said quietly, and she allowed him to lead her from her chamber.

The family chapel was a small, square room in the northeast corner of the house. Jean-Paul St. Justine had consecrated it upon his arrival from France. It was a beautiful room with a coffered oak ceiling and a polished oak floor. The small double doors were carved with twin archangels with outspread wings in raised relief, painted and gilded in bright colors and gold leaf. Facing the doors was a creamy marble altar with a lace cloth. Upon the altar sat a beautiful gold crucifix set with precious stones flanked by candlesticks. Above it was a small round window stained in rich shades of red, blue, gold, rose, and green. To the left of the altar were three tall arched windows,
the first of which depicted the temptation of Eve, the second the baptism of Jesus, and the third the Resurrection. Only red, blue, and gold had been used in these windows.

The altar rail was carved round with grape vines, and upon either side of the single altar step were long red velvet cushions. At the back of the chapel, and to the right of the doors, was a small carved oak confessional. To the left of the entrance stood a marble baptismal font with a silver ewer. There were but four carved oak benches with high backs in the chapel, two on the right and two on the left side of the room. The chapel was not really large enough to contain the entire family of Lord and Lady de Marisco, but on the occasions when they all came together, they had somehow managed.

Velvet entered the confessional, and after offering her cousin the traditional salutation she began to speak. Her confession, however, consisted mostly of small wrongs and uncharitable thoughts she had had while she had served the queen at court. Jean-Paul St. Justine was amused when he realized that she felt not one moment of remorse for having tried to hold off Lord Gordon for so long. Her main concern seemed to be for her parents.

He offered her absolution and a mild penance, for her sins were small if, in fact they existed at all. Then he left her to say her prayers before the marriage ceremony and went to his own quarters to change into more splendid and festive priestly garments.

When Father Jean-Paul returned to the chapel a half an hour later, the gold-and-jeweled candlesticks flanking the matching crucifix had fresh beeswax tapers in them and were already alight. The young boy from the nearby village who served as his altar boy was dressed in his red cassock and embroidered white lace surplice.

“The earl says we’re ready to begin, Father,” the boy piped.

“Open the doors then, lad, and let the family come into God’s house,” the priest said quietly.

The altar boy hurried to do the cleric’s bidding and flung open the two doors to admit first Dame Cecily and Aiden St. Michael, and her children who were followed by Lord and Lady Blackthorn, Daisy, Pansy, and Dugald. Next came all the servants belonging to
Queen’s Malvern
, many of whom had been there ever since Skye and Adam de Marisco had first made the house their home. Velvet’s old nurse, Violet, sniffed audibly. They had all seen the young mistress grow from child to woman, and they felt a strong sense of personal attachment
to Velvet, as if she had been one of their own. In fact most of the servants considered that she was. When the four pews were all filled to overflowing with the de Marisco retainers, the Earl of BrocCairn’s clansmen entered the chapel and lined the walls of the small room.

Lord Gordon, with Lord Southwood acting as his groomsman, entered and came forward to stand just below the altar step. Robin was garbed in an elegant velvet suit of sapphire blue; Alex was dressed as he had been in Scotland, in his dark blue, green, and yellow plaid kilt and dark velvet jacket.

Now came the bride, radiant on her uncle’s proud arm. With great dignity Lord Bliss led his niece down the center of the chapel to where the Earl of BrocCairn awaited her. He put her hand into Alex’s, and Father Jean-Paul began to intone the ages-old Latin words of the marriage ceremony. Mentally Velvet sighed with relief. She loved Alex Gordon, of that she had no doubt, but in her heart and her mind she had needed this ancient ceremony in order to feel truly wed. Her only regret, of course, was that Alex had not waited for her parents to return home.

How often had Velvet and her mother spoken of, and planned for, the day when she would marry. Each detail had been gone over and over again, from exactly what she would wear, down to the very wines to be served at the bridal banquet. The wines would come from
Archambault
, her French grandparents’ great chateau and vineyard in the Loire Valley. Grandmère and Grandpère! Here was another regret, for they, too, were absent on this her day of days. They and all the
tantes
and
oncles
, and not to be forgotten, all her wonderfully voluble and fashionable French
cousins
and
cousines
, were woefully absent, except, of course, for Père Jean-Paul. He, she knew, would write to his parents and grandparents in France announcing her marriage. He would leave out no detail, though they would think it a poor affair, she thought, with no bridal cake or guests other than Dame Cecily and the St. Michaels, and only one brother, one sister, and one brother-in-law. There had been neither the time nor the opportunity to invite Alex’s sister and her husband, as well as Velvet’s own far-flung relatives.

She forced her mind back to the ceremony and was surprised to find that Père Jean-Paul was to the point where they would take their vows. Paying closer attention, she played her part, answering in a clear, calm voice. She had waited all her life for this, even if it wasn’t quite right. The vows spoken,
the priest moved on to the mass, and Velvet’s mind wandered once more.

She wondered where her mother and father were at this exact minute. Were they still in India, or had they already embarked upon the long voyage back to England? She wished that there was a way in which she might communicate with them so that even if they couldn’t be here with her at this time, they might at least know she was wed and share in her happiness.
Mama. Papa.
She tried to reach out to them in her mind.
Mama, Papa! I love you both!
She felt Alex tug gently on her hand, and, following his lead, she knelt before Père Jean-Paul to receive the host on her tongue.

In the instant that the consecrated wafer touched her mouth the thought came to her:
I
am no longer a child. I am no longer Adam de Marisco’s daughter. I am Alex Gordon’s wife. No—I am no longer Velvet de Marisco. I am Velvet Gordon. I may love my parents, but I can depend upon them no more for my every need. I must now depend upon myself and upon Alex, and soon we shall have the responsibility of our own children. This is what growing up means.

The enormity of her thoughts stunned her briefly, and for a frightened moment she wanted to flee. Was she really ready for all of this? Was she ready to grow old? Where had her youth gone? Why had she not appreciated her freedom when she had had it?

Then Alex’s arm slipped about her, and she felt his warm breath in her ear as he whispered softly to her, “Dinna fear, lass. Suddenly I’m nae sure I’m ready for all of this myself.”

She cast him a startled look and swallowed back a bubble of laughter in her throat. “ ’Tis what you wanted, my lord,” she whispered back, “and ’tis now too late to back out, for the deed is done!”

He squeezed her hand reassuringly, and Velvet squeezed his back. Life was never going to be easy with this man, her husband, but neither was it going to be dull! Forcing her mind back to the here and now, she tried to follow the service.

In short order Père Jean-Paul had given them his blessing, and with a smile he half-turned the Earl and Countess of BrocCairn about to present them to the congregation of the chapel. With another smile to Alex, he said, “I think you might kiss your wife, my lord.”

Alex gladly complied, sweeping Velvet into a bear hug of an embrace, his mouth molding against hers in a warm kiss that left her weak-kneed, while about them the Gordon clansmen and the de Marisco retainers cheered lustily.

Velvet felt marvelously happy, and then Alex took his mouth from hers and looked down into her face with an equally happy smile. With a burst of joyous laughter, her green eyes sparkling with mischief, she smiled back at him and said,
“Now
, my lord husband, now we are most truly wed!”

“Ye’re sure?” he teased back.

“Very sure!”

“I love ye, Velvet,” he said.

“You’re sure?”

“Aye,” he drawled, “very sure.” Then before the delighted spectators he pulled her back into his arms and kissed her once again, lifting his head but a moment to murmur against her trembling mouth,
“Very, very sure!”

L
ate autumn of 1588 was an incredible social whirl for those who followed the court of Elizabeth Tudor. Capping the season, on November 17, the queen left Somerset House in a state procession for St. Paul’s. The great parade was headed by palace officials, followed by London’s aldermen and judges all done up in their finest clothes. Next came the Lancaster, York, Somerset, and Richmond heralds introducing the dukes, marquesses, earls, and viscounts. It was among these that Lord Southwood and his brother-in-law, the Scots Earl of BrocCairn, mingled.

Then came the lord treasurer of England, William Cecil, Lord Burghley, in his fur-trimmed black velvet gown, his heavy gold chain of office about his neck. With him was the lord chancellor of England, Sir Christopher Hatton, resplendent himself in black velvet with gold lace, his own badge of office shining in the November daylight. These two worthies were followed by the archbishop of Canterbury, John Whitcliff, the archbishop of York, the French ambassador, the lord mayor of London, and the nobleman chosen to carry the Sword of State, who was surrounded by the sergeants-at-arms.

Finally came the queen’s
Gentlemen Pensioners
, and at last Elizabeth Tudor herself, riding in her open chariot with its canopy sporting waving white plumes, and gilded crown resplendent. The queen was magnificent in a cloth-of-silver gown embroidered with tiny diamonds and pearls so that she glittered with the slightest movement in the cold lemon-colored light. The sleeves of the gown as well as the hem and the overskirt were trimmed in purest white ermine. She wore no cloak, but beneath her voluminous skirts her ladies had insisted upon her wearing flannel petticoats and a fur-lined underblouse. Upon her head was a fiery red wig topped by a sparkling diamond, pearl, and sapphire crown. The crowds on Fleet Street and Ludgate Hill went wild with shouting. She was their Bess.

Arriving at the west door of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the queen stepped out of her chariot and entered the great church. Once inside, she knelt in the aisle to pray silently. Then she was led to her place of honor in the choir where the litany was chanted to her. The great Armada victory was graciously attributed to the winds and the tides sent to aid a just English cause by a beneficent God. No mention was made of the valiant English seamen who, though low on rations and ammunition, had by their sheer courage and skill wrought this miracle. Lord Howard, the lord admiral, listening to the pious prelates and their chanting, thought it was ironic that the English survivors of the great victory had been paid their wages by the crown only when he had finally threatened to take the money from his own pocket. As it was, he had had to go among the English coastal villages begging shelter for many of the wounded seamen who otherwise would have been left in the streets, for now that the danger was past, the people were quick to forget.

Crowded into a pew with some dozen people, Velvet and her sister, the Countess of Alcester, and their sister-in-law, the Countess of Lynmouth, shifted uncomfortably and wondered if their gowns would be ruined in the crush. The entire day was to be one great fête. After they left St. Paul’s they would return to Whitehall where there would be jousting in the tiltyard, followed by feasting and dancing. On the morrow Velvet’s officially sanctioned English wedding to Alex was to take place, this ceremony to be performed by the archbishop himself. Velvet smiled to herself as she once again wished her parents here, but this time for a far different reason. How Adam and Skye would laugh, seeing the delicious humor in all these many weddings, Velvet thought.

At last the ceremony of thanksgiving was finished, and the queen left St. Paul’s for her return to Whitehall Palace. The court began to file out behind her in one enormous, if somewhat confused procession, as they made their way down Ludgate Hill. The day that had begun bright and clear was now, as the afternoon wore on, growing gray and cloudy, and there was a sharp wind off the river. It was not cold enough for snow, but rain was a very distinct possibility.

“I hope the rain holds off long enough for the jousting,” said Velvet, for she had never seen this type of entertainment.

“Unless it pours they’ll joust,” remarked Willow.

“In the rain?” Velvet exclaimed.

“The spectator seats in the tiltyard are covered,” said
Angel. “And the queen loves the sport. There was no time for such frivolity this past summer with the Spanish threat.”