by Annette Lyon
“And the people wanted to see him wed again?” Amelia asked.
“Something like that.” Stuart stepped forward, pulling her with him. They walked down the aisle, the elegant gown flowing behind her. With the silk swishing about her feet, Amelia grasped for the confidence she’d felt a short while ago, when the maids had stood her before the tall glass.
It had been years since she’d seen herself properly in a mirror, and having the first occasion be her wedding day— when she was done up in finery, hair arranged, Mother’s pearls at her neck— had been quite a shock. She hadn’t looked at all like she remembered, like the scrawny, freckled, straight-haired, puffy-eyed child who’d entered the abbey five years ago. Instead, a stranger, a woman had stared back from the glass.
Now Amelia held her head a little higher. If the people have come to see their lord and his new lady wed, then they shall. Two weeks ago, she might have been insignificant, a lone girl locked away in a nunnery for safekeeping. But today, she at least looked the part, looked worthy of this moment that likely many women in attendance would only dream of.
I am marrying well. Papa and Mama would be pleased. Stuart has kept his promise to care for me.
“Like a lamb to the slaughter, poor thing.”
“And giving his own sister.”
“Took her straight from the abbey, I heard.”
The whispered words reached Amelia as she passed the benches midway through the chapel, giving her fragile confidence a sudden dent. Much more than seeing their lord wed again had brought such a large congregation to the church.
“There’s such a thing as loyalty, but I’d never—”
Never what? she wondered as Stuart hurried her along.
“What must she be thinking right now?”
“Three wives dead before her.”
Three? Amelia felt suddenly faint. “Stuart,” she whispered urgently.
“Shhh.” He cut her off and continued towing her down the aisle.
Her steps grew heavy. Three. Three wives before me and all dead. Stuart had only told of Mary’s death. He’d never mentioned that Lord Moorleigh had been married more than once before.
Did they all die in childbirth? There was only one way to ensure she never suffered that fate, but Lord Moorleigh needed a male heir— likely the only reason he was marrying her.
Fear gripped Amelia as she grasped for understanding, for the calm she’d felt minutes ago. Hadn’t Stuart said that Lord Moorleigh still loved Mary? That he ignored his only child?
If so, perhaps he won’t care for me at all. Maybe he doesn’t really want an heir. Perhaps he’s marrying me as a favor to Stuart. With all of his estates to oversee, surely he would be gone much of the time. Let him go out of the country tomorrow. Let him be lost at sea. Let him…
“Bless her bravery,” someone near the front whispered.
Amelia didn’t feel brave at all. She stared straight ahead at Lord Moorleigh’s back. Through her veil she could tell that he was tall, his hair dark, and his bearing stiff.
They were nearly there, and he hadn’t yet turned to look at her. She took this as a good sign. If he’d really wanted to marry her, if he had the least bit of interest, he would have turned to her, wouldn’t he? She pulled her gaze to the priest, hoping to find comfort in a man of God, but his face was dark and solemn.
There is no joy in this occasion.
She thought of her yearnings while living at the abbey and remembered the abbess’s saying about another man’s field not being more plentiful than one’s own. Amelia had always felt differently. She’d been quite certain there was more joy and color to life outside the abbey walls.
Perhaps I was wrong.
Two steps more and she was at Lord Moorleigh’s side. What at first had seemed a daunting journey— passing all those people— was over quickly, and Stuart released her, depositing her at the side of the man who would now be her caretaker, the one she would have to listen to and obey.
A complete stranger.
Three dead wives.
What have I done?
The feeling she’d faint returned, and she swayed a little on her feet. Stuart grabbed her arm, and in a move likely not traditional ceremony, placed her hand into Ethan Moorleigh’s.
His palm was warm against her cold one. Surprisingly, he gave her a quick, reassuring squeeze. She glanced up at him. His face was still forward, eyes glued to the priest. But she’d felt his offer of comfort, and she accepted it as one would a lifeboat in the midst of a storm. So simple, yet somehow, it calmed her frantic heart.
She dared a squeeze back, a thank you. He turned to look at her, and in that brief second, his eyes were kind, if not sorrowful, and he was young— younger than Stuart even. Ethan Moorleigh didn’t look old enough to have had three wives already.
Nor old enough to cope with their loss.
Her heart softened, and instead of fear, she felt compassion for the man beside her who had suffered so much. What was it that Stuart had said at the abbey? You’re the only one who can heal him. He needs another tender heart.
How easily she’d dismissed that— the man she was to marry. Her thoughts had been all for his child. Amelia felt her face flush with guilt, and a second later, when she realized the priest had addressed her and she hadn’t responded, she felt even more abashed.
She gave her answer, acknowledging her name and the purpose for which she was here.
I am marrying Ethan Moorleigh. According to Stuart, he’d loved at least Mary dearly. Her brief glimpse into his eyes had confirmed that he was a man who could care. Minutes ago, she’d hoped he’d ignore her completely. But now, with her hand nestled in his warm one, her shoulder brushing his arm, she wasn’t so sure that she wanted to be ignored.
Her heart beat faster, but this time it wasn’t from fear. Warmth seemed to radiate from Lord Moorleigh’s hand to her own, up her arm and into her heart. Feelings she hadn’t at all anticipated took root.
There may be more to be gained from this arrangement than the opportunity to love a child. Perhaps— someday— he may care for me as well.
Her face had to be flaming now. She silently rebuked herself for such unholy thoughts about her marriage. How had she gone in a matter of days from preparing to take a vow that would keep her chaste forever, to giving herself to a man with something akin to eagerness?
The priest droned on. He seemed to be coming to the important part, so she refocused her attention. When she was called upon to speak her vows, her voice was loud and clear, so all the gossips in the pews could hear.
Three wives. Fear still nagged at her, but she pushed it away and faced her future squarely. When Lord Moorleigh’s turn came to answer, his voice was rich and melodic— and soothing, as his touch had been.
At last their vows were accomplished. They turned to face each other. He slipped a weighty band on her finger and gave another gentle squeeze to her fingertips. Then he released her and reached for her veil.
She stood perfectly still as the gauzy fabric lifted. Their eyes met, and she’d started to smile when he gasped. His eyes widened in shock, and his face drained of color. She might have reached out to steady him but for the spark of anger she glimpsed in the depths of his blue eyes. The veil fell back, and he turned away.
Amelia stood frozen in place, listening to the horrified whispers of the congregation as Ethan Moorleigh— her husband— rushed out the front doors of the church. Bells pealed wildly, signaling what was supposed to be a celebratory departure. To her they signaled disaster. Somehow, she’d ruined things already.
Chapter Four
Humiliation colored Amelia’s face, but utter panic made her tremble. She searched the front pew for Stuart and was further dismayed to see him running down the aisle after her husband. Amelia looked about for another exit and noticed a forlorn figure on the front bench, kicking her legs in and out, sucking her thumb and twisting in her seat, looking toward the back of the church.
There was no mistaking he
r cousin’s child. A riot of blonde curls adorned her head, and her large brown eyes looked just like Mary’s. Abandoned as I am.
Amelia lifted the veil from her face as she walked to the bench. She knelt before the child. “Lizbeth?”
The little girl looked at her curiously, and for a moment, Amelia feared that whatever flaw in her features had sent Ethan Moorleigh running would also frighten his child.
“Mama?”
Amelia smiled with relief. “Yes. I’m to be your new mother.”
The little girl threw her arms around Amelia’s neck, nearly sending them both sprawling backward. Only just managing to keep her balance while holding the child, Amelia stood, Lizbeth’s hands still clasped firmly around her.
“Papa’s gone.” Lizbeth’s tone was so forlorn that Amelia was reminded of the day her own father had disappeared. The terrifying feeling of being left behind wasn’t something she’d wish on any child.
“We shall go too.” She followed Lizbeth’s gaze toward the chapel doors— so far away now from this end of the aisle. There was no help for it; she’d have to walk past all the staring people again. She could only imagine what the gossips would whisper this time.
She hoisted Lizbeth to a more comfortable position and squared her shoulders. Head held high once more, she retraced her steps down the aisle, doing her best to ignore the stares and comments.
They were nearly to the doors when Lizbeth began to squirm. She arched her head back, looking up toward the ceiling. “Papa said the bells would play when we left.”
They already did. Amelia would not soon forget that burning moment of humiliation and panic, but she pushed her misery aside and thought of the little girl. She knew from experience how a father’s broken promise could hurt.
“Excuse me,” she said, addressing the priest standing near the doors. Apparently, he, too, had started after her husband. “Might you ring the bells once more? This little girl was promised they would ring upon her exit, and she shall be greatly disappointed if they do not.”
The solemn-looking priest paused a moment, likely taken aback by her forwardness, but finally nodded his acquiescence. Without a word, he turned away, disappearing through a side door.
“Now we’ve only to wait a minute,” Amelia said, hugging Lizbeth to her. A warm smile was her reward, and it seemed filled with such love and trust that for a fleeting second, Amelia felt true happiness.
Then she remembered the man who came along with the gift of this little girl. Perhaps Amelia’s first wish was being granted already— that he intended to leave her alone. Though she wouldn’t have wished him to leave her quite so fast.
He might have escorted me from the chapel, at least.
“Mistress Lizbeth!” An elderly woman with a severe bun and a reprimanding voice descended upon them. “You’ll be the death of me yet, you naughty girl, leaving your seat like that.”
“She is with me,” Amelia stated, offering no apology. By right of her vows, the child was hers.
“I am her governess,” the woman said, seeming not the least cowed by Amelia’s statement.
“Would you be so kind as to fetch Lizbeth’s cloak?” Amelia asked. “I’d hate for her to catch a chill before the festivities.” She had no idea what, if any, festivities were planned. She couldn’t imagine that a man marrying for the fourth time could be expected to celebrate the occasion.
The governess’s mouth opened and closed like a fish— wanting desperately to protest, Amelia guessed. At last the woman nodded curtly and turned away.
Governess, indeed. Those Amelia had growing up had been kind and gentle, characteristics she could already see lacking in that woman. No matter. Lizbeth no longer required a nanny. Henceforth, Amelia would see to her care. It was the least she could do to honor her cousin.
And to fill my lonely heart.
The bells rang once more. Amelia wrapped her arms tightly around Lizbeth and exited the church. Delighted by the sound, Lizbeth lifted her face to the gray skies and giggled.
Amelia looked around desperately. Neither Stuart nor Lord Moorleigh were anywhere to be seen, and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to be away from this place and the people spilling out behind her, looking forward— no doubt— to a continuation of the drama.
With brisk steps, she descended the stairs and marched down the walk toward a line of waiting carriages. She focused on the largest, sleekest, shiniest of the lot, guessing it must belong to her husband. When she was still a few paces away, the footman opened the door and put down the step.
Relief swept through her, but she worked hard to keep her face free of any emotion other than a commanding authority she didn’t quite feel.
“Thank you,” Amelia said as she marched past the footman and deposited Lizbeth inside the carriage. She followed quickly, seating herself and settling the child upon her lap before the door had fully closed.
“Will Lord Moorleigh be joining us?” the footman asked, staring at her in a manner that bordered on rudeness.
“He’ll be coming later,” Amelia said, wondering yet again what was so terribly wrong with her appearance. Truly, she’d felt most satisfied upon seeing her reflection this morning. But perhaps in the five years she’d spent in the abbey, fashion had changed. Perhaps the stain on her lips or the curls at the side of her face were dreadfully outdated and made her look a horrid old spinster.
She did her best to brush aside her insecurities. “Lord Moorleigh and my brother have some business to attend to,” she said, hoping the footman might find her words both believable and convincing.
“Very well.” He nodded and at last pried his gaze from her face. “Home, then?”
Amelia was struck with sudden inspiration. “There has been a change of plans.” She straightened her back and did her best to look authoritative. “We’ll be going to Lord Moorleigh’s estate in Bamburgh.”
Home. Five long years since I’ve been there.
“But milady—” The footman faltered, clearly struggling to keep his place. “It’s midday now. It would be well after nightfall before we arrived. His Lordship said—”
Amelia nodded. “I am aware of the distance. All the more reason not to dally. His Lordship will follow shortly.” She wasn’t exactly certain of this but guessed it was probable, as she was taking his daughter with her.
The footman hesitated a second more and then nodded. “Very well. We’ll be off at once.”
Amelia dismissed him with a nod. As she reached for a blanket folded on the seat opposite, she glanced out the window and spotted Lizbeth’s distraught governess on the top step of the church, scanning the crowd for her charge. Amelia slid to the far side of the carriage and pressed back into the seat.
Lizbeth squirmed, protesting her lost view of the bells.
The footman secured the door and mounted his perch, muttering, “Like seeing a ghost, his bride is.”
Amelia brought a hand to her cheek. Had the ordeal in the chapel caused her to look overly pale? She glanced at her hands, certain that fair skin hadn’t gone out of fashion. If anything, she had more color than most women, from her days spent laboring in the abbey gardens.
“Miss Lizbeth!” The governess’s screeching voice carried through the window at the same moment the carriage lurched forward.
Not a second too soon. Amelia dismissed her worries over her appearance and tucked the blanket around Lizbeth as the wheels turned, carrying them away toward her childhood home and her new life.
Chapter Five
Ethan walked briskly, placing a good amount of distance between himself and the church and the woman inside. Just thinking of her sent a jolt through him again, forcing him to stop. He placed a hand on one of the large oaks growing behind the church and leaned forward, breathing deeply, trying to steady himself as the second set of bells continued to ring and Stuart came up behind him.
“The devil take you,” Ethan said.
“Devil take me?” Stuart asked, his breathing labored from runnin
g to catch up. “You just walked out on my sister!”
Ethan turned to face him. “You might have mentioned beforehand that Amelia is the exact image of Mary.”
“She is?” Stuart’s brows drew together in consternation. “I hadn’t noticed. At the abbey she looked like all the other nuns, and it was dark when we traveled. I haven’t seen her the past few days, and this morning, her face was veiled.”
“Humph.” Ethan waved a hand dismissively. What did it matter now? Their vows were spoken. What was done was done. He had two choices: avoid his new wife completely or steel himself against the painful reminder of what he’d lost every time he looked at her. He was leaning toward the former. Amelia was his fourth wife; what expectations of their marriage could she possibly have, after all? He certainly had none.
His chest hurt when he recalled lifting her veil. Like Mary, she was so young— so innocent. Then she’d looked up at him with something between hope and promise in her big, brown eyes. It paralyzed him just thinking about it. Almost four years earlier, her cousin had looked at him in almost the same way.
Perhaps Amelia did have expectations.
“She’s not Mary,” Stuart said. “She’s nothing like Mary. Amelia’s practically been raised in a convent, for heaven’s sake.”
“Heaven’s sake, indeed,” Ethan muttered. She’d about sent him to heaven with the way she’d practically made his heart stop today, first squeezing his hand boldly, something so like his Mary. And then looking so much like her.
“What I meant,” Stuart said, “is that Amelia won’t behave at all like Mary. She’s been sheltered. She knows nothing of men. She’ll be neither bold nor forthcoming.”
“Really?” After two minutes of marriage, Ethan could tell that he knew more about Amelia than Stuart did after years as her brother.
“She’s timid,” Stuart said. “Right now she’s probably huddled on some bench inside the church, distraught and sobbing.” He turned back toward the building and was nearly bowled over by Lizbeth’s governess running toward them, waving her hands and trying to speak.
