he should be. This was likely the most momentous event to have
swept through his village since 1669, when one of Charles II’s many mistresses
had gotten waylaid by an unprecedented blizzard, causing her and her
considerable entourage of servants to bed down with the locals for three days
and three nights.
Little Biddlington was about as sleepy a
hamlet as could be found, made up of Tudor-style timbered houses with
overhanging upper storeys that lay hidden from the main London road by a
steeply sloping vale and a tangled wall of trees. The Duke of Westover couldn’t
have chosen the location for the wedding of his heir with more care. Its
inconspicuous locale had saved the village nearly two centuries earlier when
invading Roundhead troops had been unable to find the place. A decade later,
even the plague had missed it, though it struck every other village around
them. Thus it would serve as the perfect setting for the wedding nobody knew
was about to take place.
The church itself was quite ancient,
various parts of it dating back to before the Norman conquest. Crosses cut into
the stone doorway of the inner porch were said to have been made by the
crusaders blunting their sword points as a dedication to peace on their return
from the Holy Land. This, and the gravesite of Mary Pottinger, who had died
aged one hundred and seven in 1722, had been pointed out by the vicar, Mr.
Weston, upon their arrival; they were, it would seem, the two most distinctive
features of the village.
Within the space of the next few hours,
though, Little Biddlington’s anonymity would be forgotten and Mr. Weston’s tiny
place in history would be secure. He would no longer fall to obscurity—living,
preaching, and then dying in this hidden place, unknown to the rest of the
world. Instead he would be known to history as the man who had secretly wed the
heir to the wealthiest peer in England. Perhaps they would erect a monument to
record the occasion for posterity’s sake, right next to the headstone of
one-hundred-and-seven-year-old Mary Pottinger. At the very least it would give
Mr. Weston and his flock something to gossip about over tea for years to come.
And so the vicar grinned.
Christian, his grandfather the duke, his
mother, and his sister had left London before dawn, traveling in an unmarked
coach rented just for the occasion. If not for Eleanor’s lively chatter about
the various landmarks they passed, there would not have been a word spoken at
all.
Immediately upon their arrival in the
village, the Westover footman had roused the vicar from sleep, presenting him
the special license granted and signed by the archbishop himself. “It
would be an honor to perform this service, Your Grace,” he proclaimed to
the old duke from beneath his slouching night cap. He then performed his
ablutions and donned his vestments with an alacrity that had surprised them all
and stood now at the chancel, still grinning at his good fortune. The young
lady—Christian’s intended wife—was to arrive with her uncle by a separate
route. She had yet to make an appearance.
Christian stood at the end of the church’s
narrow center aisle, awaiting his bride’s arrival. He glanced at the duke, who
sat alone on the first bench with his hand fisted tightly around the ball of
his cane. How triumphant he must feel, Christian thought, at having lived long
enough to see this day, the day he’d waited so patiently for through most of
Christian’s twenty-nine years. If he had ever wondered before why his
grandfather hadn’t sought to claim his due part of their bargain earlier, it
was patently apparent to him now. He need only look to the emptiness of the seat beside the old duke
and consider the significance of the day. His father had died twenty years
earlier on that same day. Christopher Wycliffe had been twenty-nine. It was
only fitting that at the same age and date the duke had lost his only son, he
should exact his terms of the bargain he’d made with
swept through his village since 1669, when one of Charles II’s many mistresses
had gotten waylaid by an unprecedented blizzard, causing her and her
considerable entourage of servants to bed down with the locals for three days
and three nights.
Little Biddlington was about as sleepy a
hamlet as could be found, made up of Tudor-style timbered houses with
overhanging upper storeys that lay hidden from the main London road by a
steeply sloping vale and a tangled wall of trees. The Duke of Westover couldn’t
have chosen the location for the wedding of his heir with more care. Its
inconspicuous locale had saved the village nearly two centuries earlier when
invading Roundhead troops had been unable to find the place. A decade later,
even the plague had missed it, though it struck every other village around
them. Thus it would serve as the perfect setting for the wedding nobody knew
was about to take place.
The church itself was quite ancient,
various parts of it dating back to before the Norman conquest. Crosses cut into
the stone doorway of the inner porch were said to have been made by the
crusaders blunting their sword points as a dedication to peace on their return
from the Holy Land. This, and the gravesite of Mary Pottinger, who had died
aged one hundred and seven in 1722, had been pointed out by the vicar, Mr.
Weston, upon their arrival; they were, it would seem, the two most distinctive
features of the village.
Within the space of the next few hours,
though, Little Biddlington’s anonymity would be forgotten and Mr. Weston’s tiny
place in history would be secure. He would no longer fall to obscurity—living,
preaching, and then dying in this hidden place, unknown to the rest of the
world. Instead he would be known to history as the man who had secretly wed the
heir to the wealthiest peer in England. Perhaps they would erect a monument to
record the occasion for posterity’s sake, right next to the headstone of
one-hundred-and-seven-year-old Mary Pottinger. At the very least it would give
Mr. Weston and his flock something to gossip about over tea for years to come.
And so the vicar grinned.
Christian, his grandfather the duke, his
mother, and his sister had left London before dawn, traveling in an unmarked
coach rented just for the occasion. If not for Eleanor’s lively chatter about
the various landmarks they passed, there would not have been a word spoken at
all.
Immediately upon their arrival in the
village, the Westover footman had roused the vicar from sleep, presenting him
the special license granted and signed by the archbishop himself. “It
would be an honor to perform this service, Your Grace,” he proclaimed to
the old duke from beneath his slouching night cap. He then performed his
ablutions and donned his vestments with an alacrity that had surprised them all
and stood now at the chancel, still grinning at his good fortune. The young
lady—Christian’s intended wife—was to arrive with her uncle by a separate
route. She had yet to make an appearance.
Christian stood at the end of the church’s
narrow center aisle, awaiting his bride’s arrival. He glanced at the duke, who
sat alone on the first bench with his hand fisted tightly around the ball of
his cane. How triumphant he must feel, Christian thought, at having lived long
enough to see this day, the day he’d waited so patiently for through most of
Christian’s twenty-nine years. If he had ever wondered before why his
grandfather hadn’t sought to claim his due part of their bargain earlier, it
was patently apparent to him now. He need only look to the emptiness of the seat beside the old duke
and consider the significance of the day. His father had died twenty years
earlier on that same day. Christopher Wycliffe had been twenty-nine. It was
only fitting that at the same age and date the duke had lost his only son, he
should exact his terms of the bargain he’d made with
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