Something Wonderful
Page 61
What more could any woman possibly hope for than what Tony was offering her? It dawned on Alexandra for the first time that, although she had teased Mary Ellen forever about her romantic notions, she herself had been acting like a romantic schoolgirl. Tony cared for her. And she had it in her power to make him happy. The knowledge warmed her and made her feel good inside, good about herself in a way she hadn't felt in ages. She could devote herself to making him happy, to bearing his children.
Children… The thought of holding her baby in her arms was a powerful motivation to marry this kind, gentle, handsome man. Of all the men she'd met in London, Tony seemed to be the only one who felt as she did about life.
With great effort, Jordan helped his weary friend to stand and pulled his arm over his own shoulders, bracing his weight against his side as he half-carried, half-dragged George Morgan across the shallow creek. Grinning and exhausted, Jordan glanced up, trying to gauge the time by the sun, which was low in the sky, blocked from his view by the hills and trees. He wanted to know the time, it was important to him. Five o'clock in the afternoon, he decided.
At five o'clock in the afternoon, he had first seen the uniformed troops moving stealthily through the trees ahead of him. English troops. Freedom. Home.
With luck, he could be home in three or four weeks.
Chapter Nineteen
Everyone was beaming at her as Alexandra came downstairs in a swirl of heavy ice-blue satin encrusted with a wide border of pearls, diamonds, and blue zircons at the low, square neck and the bottom of the wide sleeves.
Penrose opened the door for her as he had done thousands of times in her life, but today, as she prepared to leave for the huge gothic church where she and Tony were to be married, his kindly old face was wreathed in smiles, and he bowed deeply from the waist.
Filbert's shortsighted eyes swam with tears as Alexandra turned and reached around his neck to give him a hug. "Take care now," he whispered to her, "and mind you don't soil your frock." He had been admonishing her thus forever, and Alexandra felt tears of affection blur her own eyes.
These two old men, and Uncle Monty, were the only family she had in all England. Her mother had sold their home in Morsham and left for a long sojourn in the islands, so she couldn't be here to see Alex marry; Mary Ellen and her husband were expecting their first baby to be born at any hour, so they couldn't come to London either. But at least Uncle Monty was here to give her away. And although Melanie had just discovered she was with child, her pregnancy wasn't yet apparent, so she was able to be Alex's matron of honor.
"Are you ready, my dear?" Uncle Monty beamed, offering her his arm.
"See that you don't step on Alexandra's train," the dowager duchess admonished him sharply, casting a critical eye from the top of his white head to the tips of his highly polished black slippers. For the last three days, she'd been lecturing Sir Montague on his general conduct, his duty at the wedding, and the merits of sobriety so unmercifully that he was now cowed by her. Suddenly her eyes narrowed on the suspicious tint of his round cheeks. "Sir Montague," she demanded with snapping eyes, "have you been at the claret this morning?"
"Certainly not!" Uncle Monty boomed, appalled. "Can't abide claret. No bouquet, no body," he said, puffing up like an offended rooster, even though he'd been liberally imbibing Madeira all morning long.
"Never mind all that," the old duchess interrupted with brusque impatience. "Just remember what I said to do: After you escort Alexandra to the altar, you are to leave her there and return to our pew. You will take your seat there, beside me, and you will not move a muscle until I arise, after the ceremony is concluded. Do you understand? I will signal you when it is time for us to arise and step out into the aisle. Everyone else must remain seated until we do so. Is that clear?"
"I ain't an imbecile, you know, madam. I am a knight of the realm."
"You'll be a dead and dishonored one if you make a single mistake," the worthy lady promised as she pulled on the long silver-grey gloves that Penrose handed her. "I'll not countenance another odious display of irreverence such as the one you gave last Sunday." The diatribe continued all the way into the coach. "I could not believe my ears when you dozed off in the middle of the service and began to snore in that appallingly loud fashion."
Uncle Monty climbed into the coach and cast a long-suffering look at his niece, which clearly said, I don't know how you've managed to reside with this old harpy, my girl.
Alexandra smiled. She knew, and he knew, that the high color at his cheekbones testified to his having consumed the better part of a bottle of Madeira.
Settling back against the luxurious squabs of the crested coach bearing her toward her future husband, she looked out the windows at the sights and sounds of the London streets. Melanie was riding in the coach just ahead of this one, along with Roderick Carstairs, who was acting as Anthony's best man.
Behind and ahead of the two vehicles bearing the bridal party was a veritable sea of elegant equipages—all bound for the same church. They were, Alexandra realized with a wry smile, causing a huge tie-up in traffic several miles long.
How odd, she thought, that she had felt so nervous, so jittery and excited about her wedding to Jordan. Fifteen months ago, when she had walked into that silent drawing room to join her life with Jordan's, her legs had been shaking and her heart nearly bursting with each thunderous beat.
Yet here she was, about to be married to Tony in one hour before three thousand members of the haute ton, and she felt—totally, utterly calm. Serene. Unafraid. Unexcited…
Alexandra hastily cast the disloyal thought aside.
"What's slowing us down?" Jordan demanded of the driver of the carriage that the captain of the Falcon had put at his disposal, which was bearing him with infuriating slowness to his house on Upper Brook Street.
"I don't know, your grace. 'Pears to be somethin' happenin' at that church back there."
Jordan glanced at the sun again, trying to ascertain the time. He had not enjoyed the luxury of a timepiece in over a year, yet he owned at least six solid-gold ones that he had never fully appreciated. He had taken everything he had for granted. After a year and a quarter of deprivation, however, he doubted if he would ever take anything for granted again.
The sights and sounds of London, which had pleased him so much since entering the city an hour ago, began to fade from his consciousness as he considered the shocks he was about to cause to those who loved him.
His grandmother was still alive—that much Jordan had learned from the captain of the Falcon, who said he recalled reading in the Gazette a few months ago that she was planning to reside in London for the Season. With any luck she was staying at her own town house and not at his, Jordan thought, so that he could send word to her first, rather than walk in on her without warning. Tony, if he was in London, would naturally be staying at Jordan's house on Upper Brook Street, believing it to be his own.
Children… The thought of holding her baby in her arms was a powerful motivation to marry this kind, gentle, handsome man. Of all the men she'd met in London, Tony seemed to be the only one who felt as she did about life.
With great effort, Jordan helped his weary friend to stand and pulled his arm over his own shoulders, bracing his weight against his side as he half-carried, half-dragged George Morgan across the shallow creek. Grinning and exhausted, Jordan glanced up, trying to gauge the time by the sun, which was low in the sky, blocked from his view by the hills and trees. He wanted to know the time, it was important to him. Five o'clock in the afternoon, he decided.
At five o'clock in the afternoon, he had first seen the uniformed troops moving stealthily through the trees ahead of him. English troops. Freedom. Home.
With luck, he could be home in three or four weeks.
Chapter Nineteen
Everyone was beaming at her as Alexandra came downstairs in a swirl of heavy ice-blue satin encrusted with a wide border of pearls, diamonds, and blue zircons at the low, square neck and the bottom of the wide sleeves.
Penrose opened the door for her as he had done thousands of times in her life, but today, as she prepared to leave for the huge gothic church where she and Tony were to be married, his kindly old face was wreathed in smiles, and he bowed deeply from the waist.
Filbert's shortsighted eyes swam with tears as Alexandra turned and reached around his neck to give him a hug. "Take care now," he whispered to her, "and mind you don't soil your frock." He had been admonishing her thus forever, and Alexandra felt tears of affection blur her own eyes.
These two old men, and Uncle Monty, were the only family she had in all England. Her mother had sold their home in Morsham and left for a long sojourn in the islands, so she couldn't be here to see Alex marry; Mary Ellen and her husband were expecting their first baby to be born at any hour, so they couldn't come to London either. But at least Uncle Monty was here to give her away. And although Melanie had just discovered she was with child, her pregnancy wasn't yet apparent, so she was able to be Alex's matron of honor.
"Are you ready, my dear?" Uncle Monty beamed, offering her his arm.
"See that you don't step on Alexandra's train," the dowager duchess admonished him sharply, casting a critical eye from the top of his white head to the tips of his highly polished black slippers. For the last three days, she'd been lecturing Sir Montague on his general conduct, his duty at the wedding, and the merits of sobriety so unmercifully that he was now cowed by her. Suddenly her eyes narrowed on the suspicious tint of his round cheeks. "Sir Montague," she demanded with snapping eyes, "have you been at the claret this morning?"
"Certainly not!" Uncle Monty boomed, appalled. "Can't abide claret. No bouquet, no body," he said, puffing up like an offended rooster, even though he'd been liberally imbibing Madeira all morning long.
"Never mind all that," the old duchess interrupted with brusque impatience. "Just remember what I said to do: After you escort Alexandra to the altar, you are to leave her there and return to our pew. You will take your seat there, beside me, and you will not move a muscle until I arise, after the ceremony is concluded. Do you understand? I will signal you when it is time for us to arise and step out into the aisle. Everyone else must remain seated until we do so. Is that clear?"
"I ain't an imbecile, you know, madam. I am a knight of the realm."
"You'll be a dead and dishonored one if you make a single mistake," the worthy lady promised as she pulled on the long silver-grey gloves that Penrose handed her. "I'll not countenance another odious display of irreverence such as the one you gave last Sunday." The diatribe continued all the way into the coach. "I could not believe my ears when you dozed off in the middle of the service and began to snore in that appallingly loud fashion."
Uncle Monty climbed into the coach and cast a long-suffering look at his niece, which clearly said, I don't know how you've managed to reside with this old harpy, my girl.
Alexandra smiled. She knew, and he knew, that the high color at his cheekbones testified to his having consumed the better part of a bottle of Madeira.
Settling back against the luxurious squabs of the crested coach bearing her toward her future husband, she looked out the windows at the sights and sounds of the London streets. Melanie was riding in the coach just ahead of this one, along with Roderick Carstairs, who was acting as Anthony's best man.
Behind and ahead of the two vehicles bearing the bridal party was a veritable sea of elegant equipages—all bound for the same church. They were, Alexandra realized with a wry smile, causing a huge tie-up in traffic several miles long.
How odd, she thought, that she had felt so nervous, so jittery and excited about her wedding to Jordan. Fifteen months ago, when she had walked into that silent drawing room to join her life with Jordan's, her legs had been shaking and her heart nearly bursting with each thunderous beat.
Yet here she was, about to be married to Tony in one hour before three thousand members of the haute ton, and she felt—totally, utterly calm. Serene. Unafraid. Unexcited…
Alexandra hastily cast the disloyal thought aside.
"What's slowing us down?" Jordan demanded of the driver of the carriage that the captain of the Falcon had put at his disposal, which was bearing him with infuriating slowness to his house on Upper Brook Street.
"I don't know, your grace. 'Pears to be somethin' happenin' at that church back there."
Jordan glanced at the sun again, trying to ascertain the time. He had not enjoyed the luxury of a timepiece in over a year, yet he owned at least six solid-gold ones that he had never fully appreciated. He had taken everything he had for granted. After a year and a quarter of deprivation, however, he doubted if he would ever take anything for granted again.
The sights and sounds of London, which had pleased him so much since entering the city an hour ago, began to fade from his consciousness as he considered the shocks he was about to cause to those who loved him.
His grandmother was still alive—that much Jordan had learned from the captain of the Falcon, who said he recalled reading in the Gazette a few months ago that she was planning to reside in London for the Season. With any luck she was staying at her own town house and not at his, Jordan thought, so that he could send word to her first, rather than walk in on her without warning. Tony, if he was in London, would naturally be staying at Jordan's house on Upper Brook Street, believing it to be his own.
