by Tessa Candle
Tilly’s breath caught as the dress was unwrapped. She had forgotten how beautiful it was. Her mother’s design was rapturously lovely. And, when she was carefully cinched and draped into its silken folds, she beheld herself in the mirror with some satisfaction. It was not so much the swell of vanity, or of any romantic inclination that she had toward wedding dresses. It was the simple appreciation of the gown’s undeniable beauty, and how perfectly it suited her.
A knock came on the door.
Tilly was shocked to see her mother enter. She looked with hopeful eyes at that aloof figure of Tilly’s maternal dream, as though she were not a mere mortal, but a divine visitation.
Had she come to wish Tilly joy and to partake in it with her? Had she come to dispense some last minute counsel, as had passed from mothers to daughters on such occasions from time immemorial?
A little, painful “Oh” escaped her lips, as she realized that her mother only had eyes for the dress.
“Yes,” pronounced Mrs. Ravelsham with satisfaction. “It fits you almost perfectly.”
“Almost?” Tilly wished she could strip away the vulnerability, the desperate need for approval that clung to the word as it left her tongue.
The artist sighed and tilted her head thoughtfully. “The line is distorted just there.” She gestured. “The mid-section should not intrude itself upon the graceful drop of the fabric.”(Ooooooooo!!!)
Tilly was speechless. Was she trying to say that Tilly was fat? Had this woman roused herself from the ivory tower of dreamy maternal negligence only to admire her own work and insult her daughter? The merciful onslaught of anger drowned out the little spark of pain this comment had kindled in Tilly’s heart.
“Is that really all you have to say?”
Mrs. Ravelsham stretched, then shook her head in recollection. “Oh no, I got distracted and nearly forgot. I shan’t make it to the wedding today, I am afraid. I am working on—”
“A series of sketches?” Tilly supplied bitterly. “So I suppose father will not come either.”
Her mother smiled as though Tilly had made a jest and waved her hand in a self-indulgent gesture. “Oh, you know us both so well. But, indeed, he shall be there to give you away. For, as I told him, he is a crucial part of the display. The work must be seen in its proper context.”
The dress was nothing but a piece of art to her. The wedding was merely a theatrical pedestal upon which to install it, and the bride an imperfect model. Tilly supposed she should not be surprised.
Mrs. Ravelsham leaned in and kissed the air beside Tilly’s cheek. “Only he will not stay to breakfast, for he must come back and assist me. Have a lovely time. I shall get back to my work.”
And she was gone. Just like that, Tilly was an orphan again.
She returned her gaze to the mirror. At least she had inherited this beautiful dress. She remarked how the sadly downcast gaze of Browning contrasted with the oblivious grin of Marie.
“You look like a princess!” exclaimed the latter, clasping her hands together in rapture.
Tilly muttered, “A fat princess.” She made ready to leave.
Chapter 54
Rutherford had spent a sleepless night. He had sped back to London faster than was safe. Then, only stopping to change his horses, he proceeded on to check Tilly’s house.
He did not knock, for it was an indecent hour, and what could he possibly say? But he checked around the grounds. A likely looking urchin sighed sleepily in the shadows, but there was no sign of Delacroix. All seemed calm and undisturbed inside.
He then moved on, searching every second-rate club and third-rate hell where Delacroix might be found. But he was nowhere, and no one had seen him. If Delacroix was not out on the town, where might he be staying? There were thousands of places he could have taken a room. Rutherford could not check them all.
Then it occurred to him that Screwe may have given the little goblin shelter in his own home. They were a well-matched pair.
The streets were quiet as he came to Screwe’s house. Screwe was not an early riser, but candles were visible through the windows. The house servants were beginning their day’s work while it was still dark.
Rutherford rubbed his hand over the scratchy stubble forming on his chin. His stomach growled. There was no way of knowing if Delacroix was inside, but Screwe must certainly still be abed. What if Delacroix were not here? What if he were after Aldley’s family again?
He found a woman on the way to market with baking, and bought a sack of food from her, then rolled on to check in at the Aldleys’, just as the first rays of dawn were breaking.
He munched on a meat pie, wiping his hands on his burgundy pants negligently, as he surveyed the Aldley house. Again there were signs of servant activity, but all seemed otherwise quiet. The only person watching was him.
He rubbed his eyes. Was he mad? Had he just lost his mind with grief and heartbreak, and dashed off to tilt at the first windmill that presented itself? Just because Delacroix was no longer in the nick, that did not mean that he had any more plans for evil. After all, further charges against him now would surely result in his never getting another bond. Self interest should compel him to behave himself.
But then why had Screwe mentioned it to him? Was he just trying to be menacing out of habit? Lord, perhaps Screwe only meant to drive Rutherford mad. That was probably the truth of it. And here he was, eating food on the street in yesterday’s clothing, spying upon everyone he could think of. This certainly had the appearance of madness.
He turned his thoughts reluctantly back to the torturous subject of Tilly. Surely that was who Screwe meant to punish, for whatever misappropriation his diseased mind lay at her feet. But Rutherford had already checked her home. There was only one other logical place where Delacroix might accost her. And it was the last place, the last event, that Rutherford had any wish to see.
But he had to put his own feelings aside. Tilly was in danger. He could feel it. He could do this one last thing for her, before he relinquished her to another man’s care. He had to make sure she was safe, and then he had to let her go be happy with another.
He cursed as he watched the ash-man roll his cart down the alley to the servants’ entrance. Rutherford squinted. Not Delacroix. No such luck. He had to go to the church, and he had best hurry, for these types of things were always abysmally early. With any luck he could intercept Delacroix lurking about ahead of time, and be conveniently out of the way before any of the wedding party made an appearance.
When he arrived at Saint Margaret, it was astoundingly quiet. His was the only equipage on the street outside. He searched the grounds and the surrounding alleys. No sign of Delacroix. He made to go inside, but the doors were not yet open. Surely Delacroix would have to enter at some point. He went back to wait in his carriage. He would watch the attendees arrive and make sure Delacroix was not among them.
He woke from a doze to the sound of keys jingling, and the great iron loop from which they hung banging against the oak door of the church. He wondered what time it might be. How long had he slept? What had he missed while he snoozed like a ruddy loafer?
He cursed himself, but took some comfort in the fact that, as the man was only now unlocking the building, Delacroix could not possibly be inside yet. He waited. It occurred to him, after half an hour of quietude, that it was odd that none of the wedding party had yet made an appearance. Surely the groom, at least, would be eager.
He decided to risk a foray into the church to make enquiries about the wedding.
The look of pity that the clergyman gave him told Rutherford how rough he must look.
“I am sorry to trouble you, but may I enquire at what hour the wedding is to occur?”
“The wedding?” The elderly man looked confused. “There is a christening, but no wedding here this morning.”
“No wedding?” Rutherford’s heart was buoyed up by a treacherous little wave of hope. “Are Miss Ravelsham and Mr. DeGroen not to be wed today?”
> “Ah.” The cloud of confusion lifted from the man’s face. “The DeGroen wedding. Yes, quite right, it is today. You see, they suddenly changed the date. The grandfather is quite ill, may the Lord bless him. But we could not accommodate the change, for we have the christening, you see, the Viscount Brynwark’s first s—”
“Do you know in which church the wedding is to be held?” Rutherford asked abruptly, before the priest could squander precious minutes congratulating himself on christening a future viscount. Why had he assumed it would be in the same church? Stupid, stupid error. And he had wasted all this time.
The cleric tapped his fingers on his lips and rolled his eyes upward.
Rutherford retrained himself from shaking the man. He already looked half mad. Assaulting a priest in his own church would put him well beyond the pale.
“I have the direction. I will copy it for you.”
Rutherford impatiently followed the plodding holy man into a small office with neatly arranged stacks of paper on a desk, surrounded on three sides by shelving lined with the treatises and books of devotion attending his profession.
Rutherford wished the man’s hand were faster and not half so neat, as the cleric copied out the direction. He snatched the paper from the priest, then recollected himself. “Thank you.” He dashed away.
Rutherford ruminated as his horses fleetly navigated the streets, and the patter of rain began to sound upon his carriage. It would take him at least half an hour to get there, assuming the lazy world of the rich did not wake up and take it into their heads to congest the streets with their carriages.
An ominous feeling clasped his spine with icy fingers of dread. What if he was too late? Surely the ceremony had already started.
He caught himself in the thought. Did he mean too late to intercept the hypothetical Mr. Delacroix, or too late to stop Tilly’s wedding by striding in looking like a homeless bounder who routinely washed in ditch water and had been forced by dire straits to eat his valet?
He pressed his hands to his face and tried to calm his mind. He would not interrupt the wedding if he could help it. But he would protect Tilly at all cost. He took a long swig from his silver flask. He was not sure the mixture did very much, but at least he was no longer plagued with headaches.
As he bolted from the still rolling vehicle and ran to the doors of the church, his stomach sank. There were no other people ascending those steps. He tried to pull the door softly open, but it seemed to his frayed nerves to be the loudest portal in London. Thankfully, there was an antechamber in the entry, whose wall blocked the sound, and Rutherford crept up to the intersection of the two hallways that led to the inner sanctuary.
He took the passage to the left and made his way to the very back of the church, where he might scan the attendees for any sign of Delacroix. Tilly was walking down the aisle with the man he supposed was her father, and it took every ounce of his determination not to gaze upon her beautiful back. Don’t look. Don’t look, you damned fool. You are here to find Delacroix.
There were not so many people. Rutherford felt certain that he would make out the somewhat hunched form of Delacroix, if he should be there. But he was not. Of course not. He would be concealed, not out in the open. However Rutherford started when he saw, not ten feet away from him, Lord Screwe.
The hairs stood up on his arms. There was no legitimate reason for this man to attend Tilly’s wedding. The lord’s wicked eye flicked in his direction. Had Screwe seen him? But the man’s gaze fixed itself on the front of the church.
He would deal with Screwe later. Delacroix had to be somewhere. He scanned the upper gallery, but was not satisfied with his view. The balcony was narrow, designed for the passage of one or two people, but someone could easily conceal themselves up there.
He swiftly returned to the outer entry to locate the passage to the upper gallery. There was a small door inside the hall he had entered through, he opened it and found the staircase.
The church acoustics carried the sound of the priest’s voice to him, as he rushed up the stairs as quietly as he could. The ceremony had started, and Rutherford suddenly felt he was running against the hourglass of the fates.
He scanned the enclave that housed the pipe-organ and saw only the organist, positioned sedately in his seat. Then suddenly Rutherford’s eye spied a shadowy figure, concealing himself next to the bulky stone statue of some saint.
As Rutherford crept closer to the man, he saw that it was, indeed, Delacroix. Then he saw the little turd raise a hunting rifle to his shoulder.
Rutherford abandoned all stealth and charged upon the man, grappling him in a blind fury, oblivious to the gasps from the sanctuary below.
Chapter 55
Tilly remarked, as she walked down the aisle, on the arm of her distracted father, that a surprising number of the invitees had shown up for this new date and location. They had to have it in a smaller chapel than originally planned, for they could not get the larger church on such short notice. Still, there was plenty of room. Most of the guests were DeGroen’s friends and members of his horrid family. She resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at the latter, as she passed them.
And there was her brother standing next to DeGroen, each of them staring at her with eyes full of love, admiration and gratitude. Her heart felt full. This was her family. She was doing the right thing.
She did not see, but sensed, the love of Lydia, who walked behind her. For Lydia to attend her meant a great deal to Tilly, especially given the recent scandal and the suggestion of some three way tryst with Rutherford that Screwe had insidiously been circulating.
She supposed that dispelling this rumour would be more practically accomplished by Lydia’s standing as her matron of honour. However, many a lady would shrink from the humiliation of it, and the short notice of the wedding would have been all the excuse that Lydia would need to extricate herself.
But Lydia stood by Tilly, despite everything, despite even the conviction that Tilly was supplying Aldley’s brother-in-law with his favourite poison. This was a true friend. She saw Aldley staring in admiration at his wife from the front pew. He diverted his gaze long enough to flash Tilly a grin.
Even Grandfather DeGroen, sitting in a wheelchair, away from the hard pews and covered in a warm blanket against the stony chill of the church, smiled and nodded at Tilly.
She was surrounded by love and good will. She really had nothing to complain about. True, she could not have Rutherford, and that hurt. True, her parents would spend all the rest of their days in the negligent fairy-realm of art. But she could still be content if she focussed on all the love that she did have—much of it undeserved. At that moment, she resolved to become a better person, so that she might be worthy of all the hearts that were so dedicated to her.
As she reached the front to stand before the priest, she stole a final glance at all her well-wishers. Her eye caught an unfriendly face at the back of the church.
Tilly was jarred from the moment of reflection upon her friends by the sudden appearance of her enemy. How had she not seen Screwe before?
DeGroen was smiling at her. The priest was clearing his throat. What could she possibly do—stop the ceremony and have him ejected from the church? Preposterous. She would have to endure his presence and hope that even he would not use the church as a venue for his malice.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony...”
Tilly recollected herself and remembered to look solemn. She supposed the nervousness would seem pretty authentic. They were really going to do this. She would not let Screwe ruin things for DeGroen.
“...And therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men's carnal lusts and appetites...”
Here Tilly felt a slight pang, not for guilt over her carnal lusts and appetites, which she lamentably was giving up in this
undertaking, but for the fact that she was not only taking this marriage lightly, as was DeGroen, but worse, using it as a subterfuge. She shuddered. Would God punish them all for this? Surely God was bigger than the church portrayed Him. Surely He would understand her heart.
“Like brute beasts that have no understanding...”
Suddenly Tilly was aware of sounds of a struggle somewhere at the back of the church and the rustling of heads turning. The look of horror on the face of the priest made her turn to look, just as a shot rang out and screams echoed amid the hallowed walls.
Chapter 56
Angry and shocked faces stared up at Rutherford from the sanctuary below. They could see the struggling form of Delacroix, but could they see that Delacroix held the gun that dangled over the edge of the balustrade? Rutherford was not certain. And he became suddenly aware that his presence there, especially imposed in such a conspicuous way, would ruin things for Tilly. It would certainly affirm the filthy rumours that Screwe had been circulating.
As quickly as the gazes had turned upon him, they turned back to the front, as cries of “We need a doctor! Someone fetch a doctor!” rang out in the otherworldly acoustics around the pulpit.
Rutherford looked about for Tilly. His eye caught side of her hurrying across the front of the sanctuary. She was not injured, thank God, nor was Lydia, who followed her as they rushed to attend to someone. He could not see who it was, for others had gathered closely around and blocked his view.
Feeling an apprehension that Aldley might have been hit, Rutherford leaned forward to see if it would afford him a better look.
Delacroix seized his chance, and swung the butt of the rifle at Rutherford. It was a weak blow, but it smacked his cheekbone painfully. Rutherford easily disarmed the cowardly little man and punched him hard enough to knock him out. It was tempting to tip him over the balcony, but there were people below.
