He had remembered, she thought. For today, their wedding day.
She took the rose with her, holding it by the long stem, careful not to touch the thorns.
Sixteen
They had chosen a small, insignificant church on a long, quiet London street—the very church, in fact, where Anna and Avery had married eight years ago.
This wedding was better attended than that had been. Indeed, this particular street had perhaps never seen so many grand carriages all at once, not just moving along it but also stopping, one behind another. They waited, all of them, after the passengers had alit, liveried coachmen and footmen polishing off the small stains of travel and tending the horses. Passersby, intent upon their daily business, stopped to gawk and, if they were in pairs or trios, to wonder and speculate. The flower-bedecked carriage that stood directly outside the church was an indisputable clue, however, that a wedding was taking place inside. Several people settled in to wait, any urgency they had felt when they set out on their various errands forgotten. It was not often there was any grand spectacle to behold in this part of London.
All the Westcotts then in town and those with family connections to them were there. So were Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers. And Albert Vickers, their son, of course, was Gabriel’s best man.
The pews, even in so small a church, were not filled, but there was a feeling of warm intimacy, something Gabriel found a bit intimidating as he awaited the arrival of his bride. All the guests must be wondering—except the very few who knew the truth—why Jessica was marrying a mere Mr. Thorne from America, who had been rather vague about the inherited property and fortune that had brought him home to England. Certainly all must wonder why the formidable Duke of Netherby had given his blessing to such a seemingly unequal match. But all had come regardless, to celebrate with one of their own, who was old enough to make her own decisions and had decided to marry him, title or no title, mystery or no mystery.
The Duchess of Netherby with her eldest daughter and the dowager duchess were the last to arrive, a sure sign that Jessica and the duke were not far behind. The two ladies and the child took their places in the front pew, across from Gabriel and Bertie. The duchess smiled, the child looked at him wide eyed, and the dowager nodded graciously. Then the clergyman appeared from the vestry, dressed in simple white vestments, and lit the candles on the altar before turning to look back to the door of the church. There was a rustle of new arrivals and Gabriel got to his feet and turned.
Netherby, like him and unlike anyone else as far as Gabriel could see, was formally clad in knee breeches and evening wear. But Gabriel scarcely noticed him. Jessica was almost simply dressed in contrast with her brother—and him. She was all delicate in white and pink, and the yellow rose he had sent this morning. In the cool semidarkness of the church interior, with its slightly musty old-church smells of stone and prayer books, candle wax and incense, she looked nothing short of gorgeous. Her posture was proudly erect, her chin was raised, and her expression was stern and haughty. She was looking at him seemingly along the length of her nose.
But she was not just the aristocrat he had wanted and chosen almost at first glance. She was also Jessica. It was a reassuring thought. He smiled.
Her chin came down by half an inch, her eyes widened, her lips parted—and she smiled back.
After that he more or less missed his own wedding, Gabriel thought later when he looked back upon it and tried to remember details. It was very brief. There was no music, no ceremony, no full service. Netherby gave him Jessica’s hand and took the yellow rose, and the clergyman addressed everyone gathered there as dearly beloved. Jessica in a clear voice promised to love, honor, and obey him. He promised to love and cherish and keep her for as long as he lived. Bertie almost dropped the ring and muttered something not quite appropriate for the place or occasion as he juggled and caught it and handed it over with a flashing grin. Gabriel slid the ring onto his bride’s finger. The clergyman pronounced them man and wife.
And all the while Gabriel had gazed into her face, wondering if it could possibly be true that he was getting married, that his life was irrevocably changing. And all the while too he had waited for uncertainty, even panic, to grab him by the throat. It did not happen.
He wanted to be married. To her. To Jessica.
And suddenly—but surely she had only just arrived in the church and taken his hand—suddenly he was married.
They were married.
And she was smiling at him a little tremulously. The clergyman was gesturing with one arm toward the vestry, where they would sign the register, and Netherby got to his feet to join them and Bertie there as a witness. The dowager duchess came with Netherby. Then the congregation chuckled as the little girl—Netherby’s daughter—spoke aloud.
“Grandmama,” she said, “Papa forgot to take Aunt Jessica’s rose. You take it. Be careful not to prick your finger.”
And they laughed into each other’s eyes, he and Jessica, and tears brightened hers before she blinked them away and bit her upper lip.
They were married and she seemed happy about it.
He would make this work, Gabriel thought. He would make a success of it. He had done it before, though in an entirely different way and under different circumstances. When he went to America, he had no experience of earning a living and certainly no experience with the sort of labor Cyrus offered him. But he had done it. He had worked hard—mostly hating it at first—and had succeeded. He had kept on striving and had come to love his employment before Cyrus died. He had kept on succeeding afterward, but only because he had never slackened, had never taken his success for granted. He would make his marriage a success in the same way—by working hard on it every day of his life. It was what he had promised a few minutes ago, was it not?
The dowager duchess hugged both her daughter and Gabriel after they had signed the register. Netherby hugged his sister and gave Gabriel a firm handshake. Bertie wrung his hand and bowed to Jessica and called her Mrs. Thorne. And it was time to go back into the church to greet her family and his godparents. There was to be no formal procession out. They had decided that it would be a bit ridiculous. Only smiles and greetings wherever they turned, and endless handshakes and back slappings and a few hugs.
“I thought,” Lady Hodges told him, “that Avery’s wedding here to Anna could not be surpassed in loveliness, Mr. Thorne. And I was quite right. It has not been. But it has been equaled today.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “But I must be Gabriel, please.”
“Elizabeth,” she said, smiling kindly at him. “Welcome to the Westcott family, Gabriel.”
Jessica, he saw, was locked in the arms of a tall, thin young man, who was rocking her on the spot and laughing.
“I came yesterday,” he was saying as Gabriel approached, “because Mama had been pestering me to stop being a hermit for five minutes. I came just for a week, just long enough to be measured for a new coat and boots. And what should I discover when I got here but that you were getting married today, Jess? Abby is not going to be happy to have missed it. Nor is Camille.”
“Oh, but Harry,” she protested, drawing back from him, “Abby did not wait for any of us to attend her wedding. Only you did because you were already there at Hinsford. But how simply wonderful that you are here today of all days. I would have had a tantrum if you had arrived tomorrow. And you are looking well.” For a moment she cupped his face with both hands, having set her rose down on the end of a pew, but then she saw Gabriel standing slightly behind her.
“Gabriel,” she said. “Look who has come. My cousin Harry—Harry Westcott. He never goes anywhere, but I am going to pretend he came especially for my wedding. This is Gabriel, Harry. My . . . husband.”
“Yes, I sort of gathered that, Jess,” he said, and the two men shook hands and took each other’s measure as they did so. This, then, was the cousin who had once, very briefly, been the Earl of Riverdale after his father’s death, only to have both the title and his legitimacy ripped away when it was discovered that his father and mother’s marriage had been bigamous.
How did one recover from such a life-changing catastrophe? Though perhaps he had experienced something not too dissimilar, Gabriel thought.
“It was a fortunate coincidence I came when I did,” Harry said. “I understand you are going to whisk Jessica off up north somewhere tomorrow, Thorne.”
“I believe,” Gabriel said, “our plans must change. We will be staying for a while longer after all.”
Jessica looked at him in surprise, but her grandmother and her great-aunt had come up and she turned to hug them.
Viscount Dirkson had come to shake Gabriel’s hand. The viscountess hugged him and kissed his cheek.
“Weddings are invariably romantic occasions no matter where they take place or what the size of the congregation,” she said, beaming at him. “This one is no exception, Mr. Thorne. No, Gabriel. You are one of the family now. I am Aunt Matilda.”
Her husband grinned at him. “If you should ever call me Uncle Charles,” he said, “I do believe I would have to deck you, Thorne.”
Aunt Matilda was the first to laugh merrily.
They exited the church a few minutes later to bright sunshine instead of the high clouds that had covered the sky when Gabriel arrived. A small crowd of curious pedestrians gathered outside murmured and even applauded and cheered a bit self-consciously when it must have become apparent to them that this was the bride and groom. Jessica smiled brightly at them and waved her free arm, her yellow rose clutched in her hand. Gabriel lifted a hand in acknowledgment. And then they were showered with rose petals, hurled by Lady Estelle and Bertrand Lamarr and by the Wayne brothers—and the little girl, who was giggling helplessly.