the ceremony passed in a blur. She repeated the minister’s words by rote, as though she were a mere witness to the ceremony rather than an actual participant. Then it was over. The minister placed their hands together and declared them man and wife. Morgan signed his name on the register; she did the same.
It was customary for a new bride and groom to be received with cheers, applause, greetings of goodwill, and perhaps even a bawdy joke or two when first presented to a congregation. Julia had attended enough weddings to know that. But as she and Morgan turned and faced their audience, nothing but stony silence greeted them, punctuated occasionally by an indiscreet whisper or the flutter of fan.
It was an uncommonly warm day, and the crush of bodies only intensified the heat within the small church. But Julia found the silence even more oppressive than the temperature. It seemed to carry with it a weight of callous censure and scorn, as though she and Morgan had turned themselves into the sort of pitiful misfits normally found accompanying a traveling carnival.
Her gaze moved to her own family, who were seated in the front pews. Uncle Cyrus, dour and disapproving as ever, was dressed in a grim black suit that looked as though it should be reserved exclusively for funeral rites. Aunt Rosalind, who had made the unfortunate choice of a lavender taffeta gown that wilted in the stifling heat, looked as though she might faint at any moment. Her cousins, Theresa and Marianne, regarded her with expressions of pained endurance, as though the whole affair were nothing but one further embarrassment to be suffered through on her behalf.
With an air of total disregard for their reception, Morgan wordlessly took her arm and ushered her down the main aisle. They exited the church and stepped out into the brilliant July sunshine. His coach and driver were waiting at the bottom of the steps; a second vehicle was parked directly behind it for her family’s use. Morgan handed her into his coach and immediately followed, pulling the door closed behind him.
Shortly thereafter the driver gained his seat and gave the reins a quick snap. As the team of chestnut geldings began to pull into traffic, Julia protested, “Shouldn’t we wait until my aunt and uncle—”
“Your uncle is familiar with the arrangements. He’ll follow us.”
The words were spoken in a clipped, no-nonsense manner that left little room for argument. Julia would have pressed her point nonetheless, had the issue mattered to her. But as their destination was a wedding breakfast with the sole participants being herself, Morgan, and her family — an event she looked upon with dread rather than anticipation — she let it go.
She turned her attention to the happenings outside the coach. They made their way east, skirting the well-heeled patrons and expensive shops and restaurants that lined Regent Street, then continued north through the boisterous, bustling crowds that filled Covent Garden. As they neared Mayfair and Grosvenor Square, a dignified quiet settled over the streets.
With little left for her to see but the strikingly similar facades of the mansions they passed, Julia returned her attention to the other occupant of the coach, Morgan St. James.
Her husband.
Her plan had worked perfectly. She had avoided her uncle’s odious suitors and taken a husband of her own choosing. But somehow that knowledge did little to engender an emotion of celebratory bliss. Instead, the realization that they were truly married caused a tight, fluttering vibration through her belly, filling her with equal measures of dread, disbelief, and nervous wonder.
She cast a discreet glance at the stranger she had married. Morgan was engaged in the same pastime that had previously occupied her: watching the scenery pass as they drove toward his home. Conscious of the silence that resonated between them, she decided to strike up a conversation.
“The ring is beautiful,” she said.
It was customary for a new bride and groom to be received with cheers, applause, greetings of goodwill, and perhaps even a bawdy joke or two when first presented to a congregation. Julia had attended enough weddings to know that. But as she and Morgan turned and faced their audience, nothing but stony silence greeted them, punctuated occasionally by an indiscreet whisper or the flutter of fan.
It was an uncommonly warm day, and the crush of bodies only intensified the heat within the small church. But Julia found the silence even more oppressive than the temperature. It seemed to carry with it a weight of callous censure and scorn, as though she and Morgan had turned themselves into the sort of pitiful misfits normally found accompanying a traveling carnival.
Her gaze moved to her own family, who were seated in the front pews. Uncle Cyrus, dour and disapproving as ever, was dressed in a grim black suit that looked as though it should be reserved exclusively for funeral rites. Aunt Rosalind, who had made the unfortunate choice of a lavender taffeta gown that wilted in the stifling heat, looked as though she might faint at any moment. Her cousins, Theresa and Marianne, regarded her with expressions of pained endurance, as though the whole affair were nothing but one further embarrassment to be suffered through on her behalf.
With an air of total disregard for their reception, Morgan wordlessly took her arm and ushered her down the main aisle. They exited the church and stepped out into the brilliant July sunshine. His coach and driver were waiting at the bottom of the steps; a second vehicle was parked directly behind it for her family’s use. Morgan handed her into his coach and immediately followed, pulling the door closed behind him.
Shortly thereafter the driver gained his seat and gave the reins a quick snap. As the team of chestnut geldings began to pull into traffic, Julia protested, “Shouldn’t we wait until my aunt and uncle—”
“Your uncle is familiar with the arrangements. He’ll follow us.”
The words were spoken in a clipped, no-nonsense manner that left little room for argument. Julia would have pressed her point nonetheless, had the issue mattered to her. But as their destination was a wedding breakfast with the sole participants being herself, Morgan, and her family — an event she looked upon with dread rather than anticipation — she let it go.
She turned her attention to the happenings outside the coach. They made their way east, skirting the well-heeled patrons and expensive shops and restaurants that lined Regent Street, then continued north through the boisterous, bustling crowds that filled Covent Garden. As they neared Mayfair and Grosvenor Square, a dignified quiet settled over the streets.
With little left for her to see but the strikingly similar facades of the mansions they passed, Julia returned her attention to the other occupant of the coach, Morgan St. James.
Her husband.
Her plan had worked perfectly. She had avoided her uncle’s odious suitors and taken a husband of her own choosing. But somehow that knowledge did little to engender an emotion of celebratory bliss. Instead, the realization that they were truly married caused a tight, fluttering vibration through her belly, filling her with equal measures of dread, disbelief, and nervous wonder.
She cast a discreet glance at the stranger she had married. Morgan was engaged in the same pastime that had previously occupied her: watching the scenery pass as they drove toward his home. Conscious of the silence that resonated between them, she decided to strike up a conversation.
“The ring is beautiful,” she said.
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