Hell In A Handbasket

by Anders, Annabelle

  At his words, she chuckled.

  “Are you mocking my attempt at poetry, Sophia?” A few wisps of her hair tickled him when he bent down to speak near her ear.

  She glanced at him out of the side of her eyes. “I’m mocking myself…” She spoke so softly that he almost missed her words. But she had smiled. “…for doubting something more real than anything I’ve ever known.”

  He twirled her again, pleased that she’d smiled for him. A real smile, too, not that halfhearted one with the distant look in her eyes.

  He pulled her close, perhaps closer than he ought. “Ah, Sophia,” he whispered. “Trust me?”

  * * *

  She should tell him. No matter they were on a crowded dance floor.

  It was not that she did not trust him, but she knew.

  His plan was doomed to fail.

  How would he feel about her then? Knowing she was tarnished? He’d said his feelings for her kept him up at night. But how much of that was based on the image he’d created in his mind? For she was not so innocent as everyone thought. And when he discovered…

  “‘Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived by those we love, than in being undeceived by them,’ my captain.”

  It was his turn to laugh. “Are you quoting Lord Byron to me?” But his eyes creased as he smiled. This was how she would remember him. Long after he’d left her life in search of something attainable. “And very cryptically. I’m not sure I delight in your answer.”

  “I trust you.” She held his gaze unwavering. “And I adore your poetry.” This drew his laughter again. She would lock this moment away, in the safest part of her heart. She would pull it out and cherish it as she grew into an old, forgotten woman.

  For that was how she was beginning to picture herself as Lord Harold’s bride.

  Chapter 10

  In the early hours of the morning, just as Sophia climbed into bed, she was startled by a light tapping at the door. “It’s Mama, Sophia. Let me in, dear.”

  After hopping up, she unlatched the lock and opened the door wide for her mother to enter. Apparently, her mama intended to discuss the marriage bed with her after all.

  Except that there would be no marriage bed for this bride. Sophia was quite certain of that. Thank heavens, the days were gone when the lady’s maid presented a stained sheet to the family, or God forbid, when the family looked on while it was performed.

  She was merely obliged to undergo this short, informal discussion that her mama wished to have with her tonight. “It’s late, Mama. Is this really necessary?”

  Her mother had donned her dressing gown and slippers and wore a mop cap over her silvery blond curls. “Oh, dear me, yes, darling. Good, the hearth is still warm. Let’s sit over here and chat.” Her mama led her closer to the dying embers and curled up on the small settee there. Sophia joined her, their toes touching. She would humor her mama in this.

  “Your husband, your future husband,” Mama clarified, “Lord Harold.”

  “Yes,” Sophia said.

  “Tomorrow evening, he is going to come to you.”

  Sophia nodded. Yes, she understood this.

  “You will have the services of your new maid, Penny. You must allow her to assist you in bathing, braiding your hair, and dabbing perfume in a few delicate places. Such as behind your ears and on your wrists. You will want to be an oasis to your husband, darling. A fragrant, soft oasis.”

  Well, perhaps, it seemed, she might learn something from her mama after all.

  “Instruct Penny to braid your hair loosely, only after brushing it one hundred times. Tell her to tie the end with a loose bow. We do not want for your husband to struggle with it, when the time comes. We want him to feel manly and powerful. He will pull the bow off easily, and your hair will flow freely in his hands.”

  Her mama smiled conspiratorially and added, “Men love hair, darling, especially long, flowing, shiny hair such as yours.”

  Sophia raised her brows. Her mother had thought this through quite thoroughly.

  “Relieve yourself before he arrives.”

  “Relieve my— Oh! Yes, well, yes, of course.” Sophia was slightly shocked. How much detail was her mother going to go into? This might come to be more embarrassing than she’d originally presumed.

  “And well, the perfume. Always remember the perfume.” Waving her hand through the air, her mother then dismissed this aspect of the conversation. “You might wish to climb into the bed before he arrives. It saves for some embarrassment on your part. Anyhow, your role is to simply lie back and look beautiful. Smile as though you have a mysterious secret. Close your eyes, as though his touch gives you ecstasy. And contrary to what many women say, I believe you ought to move with him. Do not lie still like a plank of wood. Do not keep your eyes pressed firmly shut as though you are tasting something bitter… even if it is bitter, for darling, it will be, most likely, quite painful in the beginning. Although I cannot imagine Lord Harold to be so large as to— No matter. You are a maiden, and your body is not used to such… well, such a visitor as it shall welcome tomorrow evening.”

  Oh, this was mortifying, hearing her mother speak of such things! Perhaps, more existed to her mother than she’d imagined. And as for Mr. Scofield… At which thought, Sophia brought her musings to a screeching halt.

  She would not allow herself to speculate on such things! Good heavens!

  “Move with him, Mother?” Sophia had not thought of any of this. When she’d been near Captain Brookes, she’d had inclinations. She’d felt an overwhelming impulse to open herself to him in a most indefinable way, but she’d not considered actually doing so. She’d rather denied such things existed ever since… well, ever since.

  Her mother nodded sagely. “Yes, yes, rather like rowing a boat, dear. There is a rhythm to it all. You will know. Your body will know.”

  Sophia sat up straight. “What if I get it wrong?”

  Her mama laughed. Patting her hand, she smiled at her daughter warmly. “That, my dear, is the beauty of marriage. You shall have years and years to practice. And unlike the pianoforte or learning a new dance, it is an assignment you both shall enjoy.”

  Sophia looked at her mother again and felt she’d learned more about her in the past ten minutes than she’d known these past twenty years.

  Her mama kissed her cheek and then rose to her feet. “Now, off to bed with you, my darling. You’ve a big day ahead of you!”

  * * *

  If Sophia had been a real bride…

  If Lord Harold had been a real groom…

  If they had been in love with each other, rather than other people…

  If, if, if… So many ifs. Doubts and thoughts flew about her mind in a frantic but taunting manner.

  For if all of the above were true, or even slightly true, her wedding would have been a dream.

  The sky was a beautiful blue, and the sun provided the perfect amount of warmth. Birds sang as she climbed out of the barouche upon reaching the church. Her mama glowed, Mr. Scofield smiled at her proudly, and Dudley— Well, dearest Dudley was nowhere to be seen!

  Sophia’s dress could not have been one iota more fashionable, nor even the tiniest bit more suited to her figure and coloring. Periwinkle blues trimmed with yellow and gold emphasized all of her best attributes. The flowers everywhere were newly in blossom. How had the Prescotts arranged for such an occurrence as that? They were powerful indeed.

  When Sophia entered the church, the scent of candles and beeswax brought decades of childhood memories to mind.

  The air was magical. Something divine was to occur in this grand, impressive, revered building today. Two people were to become one.

  Even Rhoda, who was to stand up beside her, glowed. She hugged Sophia, and both of them looked at each other with a strange sort of shock on their faces. How could anyone not have hope on such a beautiful day?

  “Sophia…” Rhoda shook her head, obviously puzzled. “…you are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen
in my entire life.”

  Sophia’s mother stood behind her, fussing at Sophia’s gown but answering in agreement. “Just what I have been thinking all morning, Miss Mossant — Rhoda, my dear.” Even Rhoda would bask in her mother’s happiness today, it would seem.

  Before any more words could be spoken, the organ struck a loud, majestic note, and a hush fell over the building. Penny had arrived earlier, as had Mrs. Crump. They handed bouquets to both her and Rhoda. Dudley, ah, there he was, stepped out from behind a column, and Mrs. Crump sent both him and her mother down the aisle to the pew at the front of the church. Fully in command of the spectacle, she then pulled Rhoda to stand at the end of the center aisle. Gripping Rhoda’s arm for a moment or two, Mrs. Crump seemed to be counting inside of her head, and then gently shoved her into the sanctuary.

  Sophia and Mr. Scofield were next.

  She’d not looked forward to walking with her stepfather. She’d felt betrayed. She’d felt as though she’d trusted him to be a father to her and that he’d instead used her for profit.

  Except, for almost the entirety of her life, he had been something of a father to her. He also, apparently, cared deeply for her mother. How could one feel animosity knowing both of these things to be true? She tucked one of her hands through his arm and clutched at the bouquet in her other.

  She would almost believe she was like any other bride. But all the tradition, all the flowers in the world could not change the nature of this wedding.

  Her stepfather’s solid grasp held her back as she would have dashed down the aisle at a much quicker pace. Did she merely want to get this over with? If she rushed through all of it, she could then pretend it never happened. Mr. Scofield spoke quietly into her ear. “Be patient, Sophia. Your groom is not going anywhere. I told you this was what you wanted, my dear. You’ll do better to trust the men in your life.” And then he chuckled.

  That was the moment when she looked to the end of the aisle, to her groom she was walking toward.

  Lord Harold, dressed in a fine suit with lace at his wrists and a gloriously embroidered waistcoat, looked, it seemed, almost as though he were in pain.

  Beside him stood his brother, Lord St. John. Sophia glanced over the right side of the church.

  Captain Brookes sat three rows back. He was formally dressed, mostly in black, relieved only by a freshly pressed white cravat. His dark eyes tugged at her.

  “This is not what I want!” She wanted to scream at the congregation. “It is what all of you want!” And they were getting it!

  She held Devlin’s gaze with her own, and he must have noticed the panic in hers. For he lifted his chin and steeled his eyes. “Be strong,” he seemed to be telling her. “You can do this.”

  Sophia pushed back the tears that had sprung out of nowhere and nodded, such a small movement only he would see. And then, unless she was to crane her neck backwards in order to stare at the man she really wished to marry, she turned her head up to the altar where Harold stood.

  And then she was there.

  Beside him.

  Her groom.

  Mr. Scofield turned her slightly, so that she faced Lord Harold and the bishop.

  When the organ stopped playing, the only sounds in the building were the rustling of dresses and creaking wooden pews. This was a place of solemnity, of purity and tradition.

  “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” The priest addressed Mr. Scofield in a booming but solemn voice.

  Oh, no, my good sir, Sophia thought acidly. Who selleth her?

  “Her mother and I do,” her stepfather answered with great conviction. He then bent forward and awkwardly kissed her on the cheek.

  In a formal manner, Mr. Scofield lifted her hand to the bishop, and the bishop placed it in Lord Harold’s.

  She wondered, at that moment, if it was always thus so with her husband, his touching her only when absolutely necessary.

  The bishop recited a few prayers for all to be in agreement with and then turned his attention to the bride and groom.

  “Repeat after me, my lord.” The bishop bowed toward Lord Harold, who nodded and turned to face her. He echoed the bishop’s words dutifully. “I, Harold James Farnsworth Michael Brookes, take thee, Sophia Ann Babineaux, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…” He choked up a little, and Sophia wondered at the woman he did love. “…to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto, I plight thee my troth.”

  The minister than directed Sophia to take Harold’s hand and repeat the same. She stumbled a little at his name. She’d not known he had so many, although she ought to have assumed so as he was from such a dynastic family. She spoke the words flatly, woodenly, much as, she thought with an insane impulse to giggle, the way her mother had described some women lay on their wedding night.

  Which suddenly made the words hilariously funny.

  The image of a wooden woman lying beneath Lord Harold’s reluctant attentions took hold of her, the surreal nature of this moment notwithstanding.

  A giggle escaped her.

  The bishop looked at her in surprise, and then after a moment’s consideration, in admonishment.

  Lord Harold glanced at her as well, but his reaction was quite the opposite of the holy man’s.

  His lips twitched, and an unusual twinkle gleamed from behind his gaze.

  The absurdity of this moment was not unnoticed by him.

  When he compressed his own lips tightly together, it took all the focus Sophia could muster to keep her demeanor in check. She forced herself to stare solemnly at their hands together, repressing any further giggles.

  Except…

  The harder she dwelled on the inappropriateness of her hilarity, the greater the urge became.

  Harold’s hand clasped hers lightly, as though he were giving her one last chance to break free and run away. She pictured this scenario in her mind as well.

  How she would love to take that mad dash.

  This moment was not of solemnity and love.

  It was a farce.

  More pressure built inside her.

  Oh, God, please don’t let me laugh, please don’t let me laugh… She chanted the words in her mind over and over again.

  The priest turned again toward Harold.

  Lord St. John had handed a ring to his brother, and Harold nearly dropped it. Sophia noticed his shoulders begin to shake unmistakably until St. John elbowed him.

  Appearing overly solemn and serious, he slid the ring upon her third finger, fumbling as he did so. His discomfort with her was obvious. Why had she not noticed this when he proposed?

  Again, reciting after the priest, Harold began to speak, his voice shaking. Peeking up, he surprisingly met her gaze. The shimmer in his eyes confirmed that he was struggling as much as she.

  None of this was remotely funny.

  It was tragic, in fact.

  And yet, here they stood.

  Sophia had to cover her mouth and push down another most inappropriate giggle.

  “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body—”

  He whimpered a bit, but Sophia knew it had been going to come out as a chortle of laughter.

  “—I thee worship, and with all, with all, with all of my wohor — whor — orldly goods, I thee endow…” Red-faced, Lord Harold finished reciting the vows more confidently. “…in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  He appeared greatly relieved to have gotten all of that out.

  Scowling, the bishop turned and ordered them both to kneel before the altar.

  “Let us pray,” he ordered them austerely. And he went on and on and on.

  Sophia could feel Lord Harold shaking beside her. And she turned a few of her own giggles into what she hoped sounded like sobs of sentimentality.

  The bishop placed both of his hands upon theirs together
. “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  He gave one last stern look and then turned to the congregation. “Forasmuch as Lord Harold James Farnsworth—” more hilarity from Sophia. “—Michael Brookes and Miss Sophia Ann Babineaux have consented together in holy wedlock and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to the other, and have declared…” On and on and on he droned. “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Sophia said firmly. She could not do this much longer. Either she was going to burst into uncontrollable laughter, or she would burst into tears.

  Focus, she chanted. Focus on the floor. On the frayed edge of the carpet. Thank heavens. Her heart was slowing. Lord Harold must do the same, however, or most assuredly, one of them was going to lose control completely.

  “Amen.” She heard him say beside her.

  The rest of the ceremony was spent in rather dry, familiar prayer.

  They both managed to endure it without embarrassing themselves further. It was the closest she’d ever felt to him. Even closer than when he’d proposed marriage.

  He did not attempt to kiss her in the end, but he did take her hand and smile.

  They could be friends, perhaps.

  When Lord Harold assisted her down the steps of the altar, Sophia glanced at Captain Brookes. Unashamedly, he brushed tears of unleashed laughter from his own eyes. He was shaking his head at them both.

  Sophia covered her mouth. Beneath it, she allowed some of the mirth she’d suppressed during the ceremony to escape. As the music rose, she, Harold, and Brookes could contain themselves no longer. All of them laughed out loud.

  As did Rhoda,

  And even, surprisingly enough, did St. John.

  Chapter 11

  Nobody mentioned the bride and groom’s loss of composure at the altar, as friends and family of both sat down for the elaborate breakfast that followed. Sophia wondered if people merely had not noticed or if they were being polite. The breakfast was to be the final celebration to commemorate the launching of hers and Lord Harold’s connubial bliss.