Chapter 23
Elsie sat in a tiny room off the church’s main entrance and stared at her reflection in the same hand-held mirror that her mother had used on her wedding day. No matter how she’d cleaned it, the image had remained foggy.
“You look beautiful,” Diane said from the doorway. Elsie turned and gave her aunt an uncertain smile. Aunt Diane was to be her only attendant. Elsie had thought she would have all the time in the world to select her trousseau and name her attendants. She wasn’t to have been married for months and months, and so was completely unprepared for this wedding. Even her gown, which should have been white, was a reminder of this hasty ceremony.
“It’s happening so quickly,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. Already, she was exhausted and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. She’d gotten little sleep the night before, doubts still nagging at her even though she knew she was a fool. She must be a fool to believe she was somehow betraying Alexander. For if she listened to her heart, she would run from this church, run and run until she found him and begged forgiveness for not believing in him. Alas, she could not listen to her heart anymore, for it was foolish and blind and, dear Lord, held the most treacherously beautiful memories of a love that didn’t even exist. And still... it was so very difficult to ignore that organ, that beat out again and again that Alexander loved her, that he couldn’t have been only using her. She felt torn in two, warring between what her brain told her must be real and what her heart yearned to be real. If only she could talk to him, make him tell her to her face that she meant nothing, that their love meant nothing.
Despite her heartache Elsie was beautiful, pale and delicate as she hadn’t been before her illness. Her hair, still vibrant and lush, made the rest of her seem even more fragile somehow. She wore a dress of the palest pink that frothed with lace and a large bell-shaped skirt supported by hoops and four petticoats beneath. It was to have been the dress she wore for her birthday ball, and other than some minor changes to the neckline, it was virtually the same. She hated it. Hated that it reminded her of Alexander, of the mural, of how happy she had been.
The mural. She’d gone to see it that very morning, ripped the cloth that had covered it from its moorings and had herself a good cry when she’d seen what Alexander had painted. The boys were gone, the rock barren. But sitting on the dock, their feet dangling in the water, were two little girls with matching red-gold hair, one telling a secret into the other’s ear. Christine and herself much as they had looked that day they’d discovered the lake. It was the most stunning painting she’d ever seen, and she would hate it for the rest of her life.
She realized if she’d never planned that blasted birthday ball, she never would have met Alexander and she wouldn’t now want to scream and scream until her voice was too hoarse to say her I do’s.
“My dear, this came for your father today,” Diane said, handing over a thin envelope with the words Cromley & Harte embossed on it.
Elsie felt the blood drain from her face. She felt nauseous and light-headed, for she could read from her aunt’s grim expression what the letter stated. With a shaking hand, she took the letter, holding it a moment as if delaying would change the inevitable. Then, with sharp, quick motions, she withdrew a single sheet of paper from the envelope and opened it.
Dear Right Honorable Lord Huntington:
We regret to inform you that we do not represent Alexander Wilkinson at this firm, nor has he approached this firm regarding representation. We wish you well with your search.
Regards,
Howard Cromley, esq.
“What if it was the wrong firm?” Elsie asked, staring at the damning words.
“Please stop this nonsense,” Aunt Diane said. “His Grace told us this morning that the authorities believe the pretender has fled the country, whoever he is.”
Elsie’s brain seemed to stop. Alexander fled the country? The man she’d loved, who had loved her, who had made love to her, had fled the country to escape her? It didn’t seem real. And yet, here she sat in a church ready to wed another. It had to be real.
“So that is it, then,” she said, feeling the hope she’d held in her heart die, leaving nothing behind but a terrible numbness.
“Of course that is it. My word, Elizabeth.”
Elsie swallowed and nodded, making a dismal attempt at a smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to give up hope. I do that sometimes. I’m perfectly fine,” Elsie lied.
“You are to become a marchioness, joining one of the most prestigious families in the entire kingdom. My goodness, just think how horrid this could have turned out.”
Elsie forced another smile, but couldn’t stop her eyes from filling with tears. “Then why do I still feel as if this is wrong?” she whispered. “In my heart, I know this is wrong but I don’t know what to do.”
Diane pressed her lips together. “You always were a stubborn child.”
“Was I? I don’t remember that particular flaw. But I do remember a childhood living in terror that I might die, a childhood without my mother or my sister. A childhood spent alone. The only time I have been happy in the past ten years is when I was with Alexander.”
Diane went to her and put two gentle hands on her shoulders. “But it was a lie,” she said, not unkindly.
“I know,” Elsie said, feeling on the verge of more tears. “That’s what makes it so horrible. I wish ...” She squeezed her eyes closed.
“I know, darling. I know what you wish.”
“If you had been with him. Heard him.” Elsie shook her head firmly as if it would rid her of her foolishness. “I’m sorry. How ungrateful I must seem to you. I am a very lucky girl about to marry a wonderful man who truly cares for me.”
“Lord Hathwaite adores you.”
“And he’s been so understanding through this all. He hasn’t uttered one disparaging word. He’s a veritable saint,” Elsie said, letting out a watery laugh.
“There you go,” Diane said. “A bride should laugh, not cry on her wedding day.” Elsie embraced her aunt, feeling some of the despair that had been gripping her for days begin to melt away, if only a little bit.
“My two favorite ladies,” her father boomed from the doorway. “Are we about ready? The church is full to the rafters and His Grace keeps pulling out his watch as if he’s got a more important appointment looming.”
“We are ready, Father,” Elsie said, taking a deep, cleansing breath. Everything would be fine. She liked Oscar, even loved him a bit. After all, they’d known each other for years.
The organist began to play Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” and Elsie had to smile. The duke had insisted on the song simply because Queen Victoria’s own daughter had walked down the aisle to it just four years before. Elsie had been slightly surprised when he’d allowed the wedding to be held at the relatively small church in Mansfield. She’d been afraid at first that he would insist the couple be married in London.
Elsie was glad to have her ceremony at home, with familiar faces all around her. Though the wedding had been hastily arranged, there had been little tongue-wagging, as it was common knowledge that Elsie and Lord Hathwaite had been engaged for years despite the recent formal announcement.
She walked down the aisle smiling stiffly at the people she recognized, her stomach full of butterflies, her hands clutching her bouquet as if she were strangling it. She was fine. Absolutely wonderful. Her knees trembled when she stopped at the altar. Reverend Picket gave her a nod, and she felt as if she might faint when her father handed her to her future husband, who looked at her searchingly through the thin veil. But really, she was perfectly composed, as unruffled as her petticoats were ruffled. Elsie had to stop a bit of hysterical laughter at that errant thought. She forged ahead, stepping up and kneeling before the altar, feeling strangely detached from her body.
Reverend Picket hadn’t even opened his mouth to greet the congregation, when the front door of the church slammed open with such force, it sounded like a gunshot. As one, the people in the church gasped and turned to see a madman, dirty and sweaty, heaving as if he’d just run ten miles, hair wild and clothes unkempt, standing with clenched fists in the middle of the aisle.
It seemed Alexander hadn’t fled the country after all.
Elsie stood and took a step forward, her heart slamming almost as loudly as the door against the stone church, but Oscar held her back. She looked at his face and saw only irritation at the interruption and perhaps mild curiosity.
“It’s Alexander,” she breathed, feeling her entire body begin shaking. Oscar’s head whipped around to her, and then back to the man standing in the doorway, his eyes narrowing.
“My God,” Oscar breathed, staring at the man no more than twenty feet away from him. “He looks just like my father.”
With a shaking hand glistening with sweat, Alexander pointed at his father, his burning eyes never straying from the duke. “Why?” he demanded. There was more pain, more emotion in that single word than all the words he’d ever said to Elsie.
“Get that man out of here,” the duke barked, but no one made a move. “Where are the footmen? Footmen!”
Alexander stepped further into the church, his eyes fixed on his father with the intensity of a madman. “Why are you doing this, Father? Why?”
The blood drained from the duke’s face, and next to him, the duchess let out a small sound of despair. Kingston pushed out of his pew and into the aisle, anger in every movement. “Get out of this church. Someone remove this man. He has no place here.”
“I am your son!” Alexander shouted, his voice breaking on the last word. “I am your son,” he said more quietly. “And I want to know why you will not acknowledge me as your heir.”
Kingston’s lips were rimmed with white, so hard was he pressing them together. “
Henry
was my heir,” the duke shouted with such ferocity many in the church gasped.
Oscar stepped forward, in front of Elsie. “Who is this man, Your Grace?” he asked.
Elsie tried to look around his broad shoulders to Alexander, but Reverend Picket laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.
“Stay put, child,” he said softly, and something in his eyes, fear or anger, stayed her.
“I must go to him,” she said, but the priest merely shook his head and tightened his grasp. “You don’t understand. That is Alexander Wilkinson, the duke’s son.”
The old man’s eyes widened but he kept his grip, frustrating Elsie. “This does not concern you,” he said, and Elsie was nearly gripped with hysterical laughter.
Kingston turned to Oscar and sneered. “He is no one. Once he is removed we can proceed.”
Two burly footmen, both wearing the duke’s blue and gold livery, stepped into the church, their eyes on Alexander.
“Remove this man,” Kingston shouted, and glared around the room to see if anyone would dare countermand his orders.
“No,” Alexander shouted as the two men grabbed his arms and forcefully began dragging him from the church. Elsie struggled fruitlessly against the reverend, surprised by the old man’s strength.
Alexander shouted again. “Don’t do this thing. Mother, don’t let him do this thing.” Alexander fought, but he was no match for the two men who were pulling him away. Elsie let out a sound of protest and tried to go to him, but the reverend only tightened his grip.
And then, in a voice filled with despair, Alexander shouted above the fray. “Once upon a time there was a silent boy.” His voice, filled with raw emotion, ripped through the congregation, silencing it.
“Stop.” The Duchess of Kingston, who had come from behind her husband, stood in the middle of the aisle.
“Sit down, you little fool,” His Grace snapped.
But the duchess moved past her husband, her eyes set on Alexander. The people grew almost unnaturally silent, watching as the duchess, her head held regally high, approached the wild-looking young man. Tears mingled with the sweat on his face as she walked toward him.
“What did you say?”
Alexander squeezed his eyes shut and let out a shaking breath. “Once upon a time,” he said in a clear voice, “there was a silent boy.”
The duchess raised one shaking hand to her throat. “And how does this story end?”
“This is nonsense,” the duke spat.
“It was the boy’s job to watch the sheep, for it was the only task he could do. He was to protect them from the wolves, but as there had been no wolves in that area for years, he was never in any danger. But one day, the wolves came and he had to call to the men of the village for help. But, you see, the little boy could not talk when he was very frightened.”
“Did he save the sheep?” the duchess asked, as if this were of utmost importance. The church was completely silent, as if the crowd were waiting with a collectively held breath to hear the end of the story.