Though this was not a surprising state in which to find one’s off-duty coachman on Christmas Eve, it left Jonathan in quite a conundrum.
He could fetch the license himself, of course. But that would mean canceling his midnight rendezvous with Claire. If his disappointment was a physical ache, imagining hers made him feel even worse.
Yet surely she’d be far more disappointed to postpone their wedding yet again?
If only he could ask her. But a long, uphill trudge separated them, and if he delayed his journey any longer it might be too late to begin. He would simply have to make a choice.
And pray it was the right one.
His decision made, he paused only to scrawl a note of apology and task the proprietor with its delivery (by way of a shilling). Then Jonathan made straight for the nearest stables, which luckily were directly behind the tavern.
At this point, his luck seemed to return. The weather remained clear, and the waxing moon gave a tolerable amount of light. He was able to procure (by way of far more than a shilling) the services of a hardy-looking groom along with the swiftest pair of horses in his charge. With the two men riding side-by-side, sharing the bearing of a lantern to further aid the horses’ footing, they made good time.
Still, as Jonathan stole into his dark and silent house, he could not quite shake a premonition of failure. What mischance would next arise to thwart him?
Might the archbishop have denied the license? Or had Andrews lost it on the journey? Or could maman’s coachman have cleverly nicked it while he and Andrews chatted?
But to Jonathan’s very great relief, his luck held. He found the license laid tidily upon his desk, just as expected. The first obstacle was surmounted.
They made even better time on the return journey, and Jonathan scraped a generous half hour’s sleep before the clanging of church bells roused him to face his second obstacle: Claire’s reaction.
Had he made the wrong choice? Had his apology note gone astray? Was she furious and bent on calling off the wedding?
But once again, his luck held…for the most part. Claire did not seem vexed when she greeted him over the breakfast table. She claimed to feel only relief at his safe return and sympathy for his sleepless night. And he could tell by the care with which she’d dressed and the elaborate styling of her hair that she still intended to marry him today.
But though she made a stunning bride, there was a drawn and weary look about her that worried him. She must have tossed and turned all night in suspense…
Over the uncertainty of their wedding plans?
Or had she feared he was deserting her again?
Perhaps she would never quite shake that fear. Though he knew their marriage would be a happy one, it pained him to think she might never have full faith in him. Whenever he left her side, would there always be some far-flung corner of her mind wondering if he’d return?
He hoped not. He hoped that over the coming months (or years, if necessary) he could prove she had nothing to fear.
The prospective bride and groom walked hand in hand to St. Michael’s, a place Jonathan remembered fondly. It was a typical country church drenched in charm, and today the picturesque scene was enhanced by the snow blanketing its sloped roof, the bells ringing out cheerily, and all the pink-cheeked parishioners turned out in their Christmas best.
But Jonathan cared nothing for any of that. His eyes were fixed upon the stout form of the Reverend Dr. Hanley: the third and final obstacle standing between him and wedded bliss.
Or so Jonathan believed. Until, upon settling himself in the plushly upholstered Chase family pew, he encountered a fourth and unexpected obstacle: exhaustion.
Jonathan was rather prone to dozing in church at the best of times, and the two nights he’d passed at Greystone—last night on a horse, his first night on a torture device masquerading as a settee—had rendered him well-nigh senseless. From the Christmas service’s first hymn to its final “amen,” Jonathan was dead to the world. And as he learned upon waking (cheek by jowl with an equally groggy Claire), his bride-to-be fared little better.
If not for Rachael’s quick thinking, all would surely have been lost. At the eleventh hour she swooped down upon the pair, and with a barrage of hissed invectives and vigorous shoulder-shaking, got them both sitting up unnaturally straight and unblinking just before Dr. Hanley processed by their pew.
Rachael overcame the final obstacle with similar aplomb (and not dissimilar tactics). Within ten minutes of ambushing the vicar in the churchyard, she had Claire and Jonathan installed before the altar and a resigned Dr. Hanley opening his Book of Common Prayer.
The ceremony was short, simple, and very nearly perfect. Whether because of her nap or the happy occasion, Claire appeared to be revived. The drawn look had vanished from her face. She seemed to stand straighter and feel lighter—not as light as she’d once been, perhaps, but far less subdued than yesterday. Her expression was adorable: an exhilarated sparkle in her eyes, brows arched, lips parted as though in astonishment.
Jonathan shared her exhilaration. He didn’t feel the least bit tired now. And if he felt the tiniest of pangs at his mother’s absence, he reminded himself she had buttered her own bread, and everyone else he’d grown to love was here.
Noah stood up as his best man, whilst Claire had her two sisters for bridesmaids and Griffin to give her away. She held a bouquet of Elizabeth’s dried flowers. Jonathan carried the ring.
It was over in a trice. Vows and ring were exchanged, the parish register signed, and they were married.
It had happened so fast that Jonathan felt it would be many hours before the reality truly sank in—and many weeks before he could begin to acclimate himself to so much happiness.
For her part, Claire was likewise in disbelief. She and Jonathan, married? Impossible! After such a run of bad luck as they had faced!
