Elisabeth Fairchild (18 page)

Sight of Alexander and Oscar in the pews ahead of hers lifted her spirits momentarily, but here was sadness and a coming parting of the ways, too. They would be gone with the end of the festivities.

She took no comfort as the ceremony began, in thinking her life might be like Lady Anne’s--that she might not come into her best, and most productive years until she was sixty. She could not bear the thought of it. And so, she set her chin most firmly and resolved to enjoy herself, even if joy was only to be found in staring at the back of Cupid’s head.

A wave of whispering behind her turned Alexander’s head. He looked right at her, eyes widening with pleasure, smile dawning, the expression fleeting as he looked past. A frown took its place.

She must turn to see what clouded his brow.

Val had arrived.  An untidy Val, chin half-shaven, neck cloth sagging. His hair looked as it had not seen a proper combing in days. He was dressed for a wedding, well enough, but his once proud military bearing was gone, his handsome face transformed: cheeks hollow, eyes bloodshot, the skin beneath them like blue parchment. Only wen he smiled was there some semblance of the old Val to be seen. He walked unevenly down the aisle to the family pew, his progress stopping even the vicar, mid word, so that the groom turned, and finally, her eyes very round, the bride.

Val waved a nonchalant hand, his words faintly slurred. “I do beg your pardon. Had every intention of arriving promptly. Overslept, you see. Do go on.”

The vicar did just that, but the congregation took some time in settling. More than one whispered hiss marred the reading of the vows. Penny’s own thoughts were distracted by the litany of doubt that ran over and over in her mind. It was to this man Felicity looked for guardianship. It was on him her future depended.

As if he read her thoughts, Alexander turned head briefly to look her way, concern marking his features, concern in his dark green eyes. She had to admit to herself in that moment that she found comfort in his gaze, that she had from the moment they had first met, on the road into Appleby.

She looked drawn,  he thought, tired and worried--stark contrast to the merry faces gathered to witness this wedding--not quite so changed as Val, by heavens, but their time apart had weighed a heavy hand upon the light in her eyes. He would change that if it were within his power.

He thought of his Valentine promise to her as the vows were read,  imagining how he might open the world’s eyes to view her as he saw her, this Penny of unknown value, this gallant young woman, unlike any he had ever met. Who among those gathered here knew, as he did, that she took comfort, had found strength, and mothering, in a painted history of a woman long dead? Who among them realized she had thrown away her own good name that a child might not be despised as the daughter of the local whore? Had she revealed to no one else the dark secret of her mother’s end? The gypsy lie that cast shadows upon her future? Did anyone but he know how much she sacrificed of self, for her father, for her mother, and for Felicity?

How much of oneself could a person give away, he wondered, before there was nothing left?

He imagined himself standing, declaring these truths before the entire congregation. He imagined leading her to the front of the church, that all might see her with fresh eyes. Would the truth be believed? In looking about, at the faces of those gathered, he doubted it.

And if truth could not change the world’s view of her in this place of saints and angels, what might? How did one go about opening eyes to truths people did not want to see?

In the couple before him, stood the answer. Marriage. Did not marriage above all else, make a real difference in the way a woman was regarded? He almost laughed out loud. Of course! He must marry her.

A frightening thought, and yet it was at the same time exhilarating. Why had he not realized as much before? Of course! He must marry her.

Would she have him? Did she sense the truth of his feelings for her? His growing respect and affection? Indeed, his love for her? Would she have him, if he asked? He had so little to offer. No prospect of wealth, no fixed career. He had, in fact, little idea what he should do with his future other than to stop killing people.

The wedding band was placed upon the beaming bride’s plump finger. Fiona Gilpin, now Fiona Greenlow, looked beautiful in her happiness. Transformed. Alexander smiled. He vowed in that moment to bring just such a sparkle to a pair of amethyst eyes one day.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a shout went up and a half dozen young men bolted from their pews and raced for the doors. Laughing, the congregation stood and followed them a litt more circumspectly, the newlyweds among them.

Alexander made a point of falling in beside Miss Foster, leaving Oscar to his own devices. When she turned her head to look up at him, he smiled at her, and asked,  “Why the big hurry?”

“Brandy.” She smiled back at him, mischief in her eyes. When he met her answer with confusion, she explained,  “A foot race to the bride’s house. Winner to return here with two bottles of brandy,  meant to toast the newlyweds. I believe a new pair of shoes was named as prize. There are several races scheduled to be run, on foot and on horseback. Wrestling, as well. Care to compete?”

Was there a hint of a challenge in her question?

Val answered for him. He leaned heavily over their shoulders, smelling of spirits. “Oh, but Penny, my pet, it is the shooting competition Alexander must apply himself to,  if only to show Cumberland why he is called Cupid.”

Alexander met him with a smile, but shook his head. “I shall leave the honors to you and Oscar, old friend.”

“What?” Val barked in disbelief.

Alexander shrugged. “I’ve no desire to pick up firearms of any kind,  ever again.”

“Gone soft, have you?”

“If it is soft to be quit of killing things, then yes.”

Val laughed too loud. “Even to the killing of paper targets?”

Alexander held his peace, his eyes on Miss Foster, and hers on him--and in the jewel of her gaze he thought he saw hint of admiration--even understanding.

No such emotion touched Val’s puzzled look. “As you will.” He stepped past them, saying wryly, “I shall doubtless carry away the prize,  if you would leave it to me. Oscar has not so sharp an eye for targets.”

His hand is steadier, Alexander could not help  thinking as Val walked away.  He turned to find Penny looking at him quizzically.

“Why are you called Cupid?”

When he did not immediately respond, she said, “I assumed it had something to do with your being a friend of Val’s and equally talented in charming the ladies, but I am mistaken, am I not?”

“You do not find me charming?”

“Such a simple question and yet you avoid answering. The name, Cupid, has something to do with your shooting, hasn’t it?”

He said nothing.

 She cocked her head with a quiet little smile, and looked as if she saw right through him. Not even the runners who came charging back into the churchyard at that point, bearing bottles of brandy, to the tune of much shouting and loud cheers, could divert her focus.

Glasses were handed round, courtesy of the local pub from whence the brandy had been purchased, and rousing toasts made, the entire party invited at that point to accompany the bride and groom to their new home, where the festivities were to continue.

“May I offer you . . .” Alexander turned, arm out, only to find Penny had stepped back inside the cool, dark of the church. He could see the pale flash of her skirt. Following, he found her standing before one of the tombs, hand outstretched.

“Penny?”

She raised her head, stepping back, hand falling.

He need not ask whose resting place this was. The name had been cast in stone--Lady Anne Clifford, born: Jan 30 1590--Died: March 26, 1676 and beside her, Margaret Russell Clifford, her effigy in alabaster.

“Lady Anne and her mother,” Penny said softly, as iraid to disturb the dead. “They were as close in life as they are in death.”

The tombs were hip to hip.

Her eyes gleamed in regarding the headstones. The set of her jaw went soft. “On the road to Penrith there stands a pillar emblazoned with Lady Anne’s coat of arms. It marks the spot where these two last bade one another farewell.”

“Sweet testament,” he said.

She nodded. “At a dole stone nearby Lady Anne annually distributed alms to the poor, in memory of her mother.”

He began to think her unwholesomely obsessed with the Lady Anne.

She looked up at him, pale and perfect in the darkness, mouth enticing. “Are you close to your mother?” The question echoed wistfully, quenching all lustful thoughts.

“Yes.” He indicated the tombs. “Not this close, but I think you would like her. She is as fond of dogs as you are.”
His words stilled her. A trace of pleased surprise touched her features. “Is she?”

“Yes. I hope to introduce you, some day.”

“I would like that.”

How serious she looked. He held out his arm.

She took it. He drew her close. “I am called Cupid because I always shot for the heart,” he admitted. “My battalion found it odd.”
She did not pull away, as he had anticipated. To the contrary, she leaned closer, her eyes liquid with concern. A long moment of silence ensued, there in the gloomy quiet as her gaze searched his, asking without ever voicing the question,  Why?

“I would not have them suffer,” he said, with every hope she would not despise him for what he had done.

“Of course,” she said, her hand giving his arm a squeeze. “Of course.”

That the Foster’s took up both Mr. Shelbourne and his friend Oscar, while Val rattled along in an otherwise empty carriage was noted and remarked upon by the citizens of Appleby, as was the fact that Val and his friend Cupid seemed to have grown distant. That Val had arrived late, unkempt and quite likely drunk, could not avoid mention either. Many assumed these three things, connected. Speculation ran rampant as the wedding party set off across the Eden by way of the ancient bridge that led into the Sands on foot, horseback, and by carriage, beribboned Morris dancers leading, a tin pipe making the way merry, laughter ringing on a balmy breeze.

Past Shire Hall and the bowling green they proceeded, to the newlywed’s cottage. The carriage was full with Oscar and Cupid on one side, facing Penny and her father on the other, knees bumping, eyes meeting with warmth--with understanding. His eyes held a growing affection--undeniable affection. He cared for her. The real question was, how much?

Fiona’s new husband had housed himself for several years in the small stone cottage before which everyone gathered. A grove of budding apple trees stretched to the rear of the house,  a vegetable garden to one side,  stables on the other. All were dwarfed in this instant by the crowds of people, carriages and horses that engulfed the spot.

Fiona’s pink-cheeked husband carried a blushing Fiona across the threshold as they arrived, and no sooner had the majority of the witnesses shouted their approval, than they came out again, followed by four lads, who bore the bride’s cake from the cottage on a raised platform, ribbons whipping in the wind.

The cake was raised above Fiona’s garlanded head, and amid much laughter, and inevitable blushes, it was broken above her, the first piece tasted by bride and groom, who declared it the best bride’s cake ever.

The bride’s blush deepened as a garter was removed from one plump, white stockinged leg, and wildly flung among the local bachelors, who jumped high in a struggle over the catching of it.

As the troupe of fiddlers started up music for dancing, and bottles of sack, claret, and wine were liberally poured, Penny and Alexander took their cake and libation between two rows of the apple trees. Finding a stump to sit upon, they sat to enjoy the buttery, almond flavored confection.

Above them the tree branches made music in the wind. Before them, the bride’s father led his daughter in the first dance on the greening sward of winter dried grasses already much trampled by the guest’s carriages. A pretty sight,  to see the old man so gallant. It garnered cheers. The two were soon joined by a host of lively dancers.

Penny watched them, cake forgotten.

“Do you dream of such a wedding?” Alexander asked.

She could not go on thinking of him as Cupid now that she knew the truth.

Penny picked at the cake, licking crumbs from her fingertips. “Small chance of that.”

He tapped at the corner of his mouth. She licked her lower lip, sure he pointed out crumbs.

“Why so?” He still stared at her mouth.

 She dabbed at the corner with her napkin. “There are men hereabouts who would have me,” she said “but not to wife.”

He leaned forward, eyes fixed on her lips, and brushed the ball of his thumb against the corner of her mouth. She flinched away from so forward a touch, cheeks flushing to think he might believe her ruined, as everyone else did.

Ducking her head, she said softly, “I am not, you know.”

He begged no explanation, simply raised her chin with the crook of his finger, his gaze very warm. The look in his eyes brought tears to hers.

“Do you remember what you asked of me on Valentine’s Day?”

He leaned closer, his eyes never leaving hers. He meant to kiss her. She could see it was so. And she meant to let him.

“I remember,” she whispered, and closed her eyes as he neared.

His breath seared her lips, the caress of his mouth, damply quenching the fire.

“What have we here?”

Penny jumped up, the plate in her lap falling, shattering on a tree root. Her father stood scowling, arms akimbo, between the apple trees.

“I thought I could trust you,” he said flatly, the remark directed at Alexander Shelbourne.

Penny took it to heart. He meant her as well.

“You can,” she said.

Her father ignored her. “My Penny is not to be trifled with, you know,” he said belligerently. “I thought you understood.”

“Such was never my intention, sir.”

Her father did not want to listen. “Come, my dear.” He held out his hand.