of weathered native limestone was softened and given dignity by the magnificent twin willow trees that grew on either side of the entrance. As Ginevra’s father handed her down from the carriage, she surveyed the mossy facade with affection. Although in recent years she had had little time to attend services, she loved the old church. Her mother was buried in the churchyard alongside the almost forgotten baby brother who had lived just long enough to be christened, and Ginevra knew that she would miss the comforting presence of those graves when she worshiped in London. She supposed that she and Lord Chadwick would occasionally go to church in Town, probably some grand cathedral like St. Paul’s. He did say that religion was currently fashionable among the aristocracy.
Ginevra was touched to note that the yard was full of people of all ages, decked out in varying degrees of “Sunday best,” and most of them sported white flowers in their buttonholes, bridal favors in her honor. They were the villagers, many of them her father’s tenants, and she had been their mistress since she was twelve years old. She had played with their children when she was little, and later while still only a child she had taken over her ailing mother’s duties of nurturing and caring for them in time of sickness or want. At least one of the toddlers skipping among the-gravestones was a baby Ginevra had helped deliver when the midwife was ill. Now they had come to pay tribute to their Miss Ginevra as she made a great marriage to a rich and powerful lord, and they shook their heads in wonder to think that the little girl with yellow pigtails who had once had the run of their cottages was now about to become a marchioness, next best thing to a duchess.
When Ginevra and her father reached the door of the church, the congregation was already assembled. The sexton gave a signal, and the vicar’s wife began pumping out the processional hymn on the wheezy reed organ whose dissonance had been the bane of the parish for decades. As Ginevra lingered in the vestibule, anticipating the moment when she and her father would start down the aisle, she wondered suddenly what Lord Chadwick’s first wedding had been like. She knew so little about him, about his life before he disrupted her own. Probably then a great choir had sung anthems by Bach or Handel, and his lady had come to him preceded by a dozen bridesmaids. Ginevra had no attendants. Her closest friend was Emma, but she was sensible that the older woman would have been mortified by any suggestion that she be maid of honor. So Emma stood at the back of the church with the other servants, smiling tenderly, while Ginevra clung to her father’s arm and slowly made her way to the altar and the stranger who waited there for her.
White patterns of lace floated before her eyes, shimmering as she walked, blurring her vision and imparting a fantastic aura to the scene. Two men loomed before her: the vicar in his snowy surplice, and Lord Chadwick, dark and impeccable in a grey tailcoat, a single perfect ruby ornamenting his intricately tied cravat. Ginevra thought dazedly: This isn’t happening, it’s a dream, a chimera. Soon Emma will waken me, and I’ll be in my own room again, all these apparitions will vanish ...
But the familiar voice of the vicar cut through the comforting mist, and Ginevra’s father mumbled something and slipped away from her, patting her arm awkwardly as he retreated. Lean, strong fingers grasped her hand and guided her forward to kneel at the altar. She would not look up at him. As they settled onto the worn cushions that had served generations of parish couples, she kept her eyes trained on his hands, the long and powerful digits that curled firmly around her small ones, directing her movements as easily as he would control those of a skittish filly. Somewhere over her head she heard his deep voice respond clearly to the vicar’s exhortations. In turn she murmured her own
Ginevra was touched to note that the yard was full of people of all ages, decked out in varying degrees of “Sunday best,” and most of them sported white flowers in their buttonholes, bridal favors in her honor. They were the villagers, many of them her father’s tenants, and she had been their mistress since she was twelve years old. She had played with their children when she was little, and later while still only a child she had taken over her ailing mother’s duties of nurturing and caring for them in time of sickness or want. At least one of the toddlers skipping among the-gravestones was a baby Ginevra had helped deliver when the midwife was ill. Now they had come to pay tribute to their Miss Ginevra as she made a great marriage to a rich and powerful lord, and they shook their heads in wonder to think that the little girl with yellow pigtails who had once had the run of their cottages was now about to become a marchioness, next best thing to a duchess.
When Ginevra and her father reached the door of the church, the congregation was already assembled. The sexton gave a signal, and the vicar’s wife began pumping out the processional hymn on the wheezy reed organ whose dissonance had been the bane of the parish for decades. As Ginevra lingered in the vestibule, anticipating the moment when she and her father would start down the aisle, she wondered suddenly what Lord Chadwick’s first wedding had been like. She knew so little about him, about his life before he disrupted her own. Probably then a great choir had sung anthems by Bach or Handel, and his lady had come to him preceded by a dozen bridesmaids. Ginevra had no attendants. Her closest friend was Emma, but she was sensible that the older woman would have been mortified by any suggestion that she be maid of honor. So Emma stood at the back of the church with the other servants, smiling tenderly, while Ginevra clung to her father’s arm and slowly made her way to the altar and the stranger who waited there for her.
White patterns of lace floated before her eyes, shimmering as she walked, blurring her vision and imparting a fantastic aura to the scene. Two men loomed before her: the vicar in his snowy surplice, and Lord Chadwick, dark and impeccable in a grey tailcoat, a single perfect ruby ornamenting his intricately tied cravat. Ginevra thought dazedly: This isn’t happening, it’s a dream, a chimera. Soon Emma will waken me, and I’ll be in my own room again, all these apparitions will vanish ...
But the familiar voice of the vicar cut through the comforting mist, and Ginevra’s father mumbled something and slipped away from her, patting her arm awkwardly as he retreated. Lean, strong fingers grasped her hand and guided her forward to kneel at the altar. She would not look up at him. As they settled onto the worn cushions that had served generations of parish couples, she kept her eyes trained on his hands, the long and powerful digits that curled firmly around her small ones, directing her movements as easily as he would control those of a skittish filly. Somewhere over her head she heard his deep voice respond clearly to the vicar’s exhortations. In turn she murmured her own
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