The smithy was dark, lit by the dull orange glow of the banked furnaces, and warm. The air was a soft embrace that took the chill from Charlotte that she had thought would never leave her. The smith, Mr. Edward Campbell, was joined by two witnesses, Mrs. Campbell and their son, Donald. Charlotte and Seth faced each other over the anvil, gleaming from the oil that Mr. Campbell wiped it down with.
They held each other's forearms, each holding an end of two long pieces of fabric. Charlotte was not familiar with the ritual, but Mrs. Campbell had called it handfasting and assured them both that it was perfectly common practice in Scotland. Before entwining the handfasting cloth around their arms, they had been given a wooden bowl with twin handles. Seth had been directed to tilt it in Charlotte’s direction to drink from gently. Then she had done the same. Mr. Campbell had filled it with whiskey and cold tea.
“Whisky for the lad, tea for the lass,” he’d said gruffly. “Mixed, like your blood’ll be, should the Lord see fit to bless ye wi’ bairns.”
Seth’s bemused smile said the ritual was just as alien to him, but he was careful to keep that expression out of Mr. Campbell’s sight. Charlotte felt as though she had stepped back in time. Perhaps these were rituals the Christians of Scotland had inherited from their pagan ancestors. Was this how Amelia and Luke had married?
Mr. Campbell performed a simple ceremony and then asked each of them to swear their vows before the final step.
“Right then—each o’ ye take hold o’ the handfastin’ cloth, and now step back from one another,” Mrs. Campbell instructed firmly.
They did so. The two previously separate strips of cloth pulled tight between them, miraculously tied in their middle, forming a saltire-shaped cross. Charlotte beamed at the obvious symbolism. Seth looked impressed and happy, his eyes going from the knotted cloth to Charlotte. They did not linger from Charlotte, nor did she want them to.
“Well, what are ye waiting for, laddie?” boomed Mr. Campbell, “kiss the lass!”
Seth moved toward Charlotte and embraced her. He kissed her, and she lost herself in her husband’s first kiss.
My husband! Mine! And I am his. His wife! Seth’s wife!
The thoughts flocked through her mind like darting swallows. She held onto him tightly, her knees feeling weak and her head spinning.
“Are you feeling well?” Seth asked as they broke apart, breathless and flushed. “There is sweat on your brow, and you are red as an apple.”
He put a hand to her forehead and sucked air between his teeth sharply.
“You’re burning up,” he said softly. “I should never have let us ride on through that storm.” He turned to Mr. Campbell. “May we ask the kindness of your hospitality? My…wife,” he hesitated, just a beat—letting the word settle like something precious. “…needs a doctor.”
“Aye, ye may, laddie. And we’ll send for the doctor from Annan. She’s been out in that weather, has she? Likely no more than a chill. A few days’ rest’ll see her right. Mrs. Campbell’ll have some broth on soon enough. Come on, I’ll show ye to your room.”
Charlotte felt the room begin to spin and swooned. The last thing she remembered was Seth catching her.
Charlotte awoke to the blessed feel of cool water on her forehead. She tried to open her eyes, but the light seemed excessively bright. She turned away from it, murmuring sleepily. Then, Seth’s soothing voice reached her.
“All is well,Lottie. Be easy. You are safe and sound.”
She felt his hand upon her brow and grew aware of his body sitting next to where she lay. She turned towards him, curving her body to encompass his where he reclined. His arms went around her, and Charlotte felt a sense of wellbeing.
“What happened?” she whispered distantly, “I had a dream in which we were married by a blacksmith, and...”
Her eyes opened wide as she remembered. Seth chuckled, stroking her hair.
“No dream, wife. We have been married for these past three days.”
Charlotte tried to sit up but felt as weak as a day-old kitten. Seth gently guided her back to the bed.
“Mrs. Campbell has provided a hearty broth and fresh-baked bread. You should eat something to recover your strength.”
“Why do I feel so weak and wrung out?” she asked, falling back among her pillows.
“You succumbed to a fever just after we tied the knot, as it were,” Seth explained, “it must have been creeping up on you as we traveled. You swooned into my arms and were unconscious since with occasional interludes of delirium.”
Charlotte looked at Seth and saw him for the first time. He wore a rough, cotton shirt covered in single marks and burns. His eyes followed hers, and he plucked at the coarse material.
“A lending from Mr. Campbell’s wardrobe. His son and apprentice, Donald, rode north to the nearest town to fetch a doctor. I agreed to take Donald’s place while he was away. I have not told either of our hosts that I am a Duke.”
His eyes sparkled with amusement. Charlotte frowned, feeling as though this must still be a fever dream.
“You have been blacksmithing?” she asked incredulously.
